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Agonizing screams reached his ears as he turned and twisted, kicked and hit, screamed and fell. He stumbled back to his feet, didn’t stop with his brutal strokes, fell enemy after enemy. It wasn’t rage that filled his blood but determination to save the ones he loved. He wouldn’t allow that anything could happen to them.
Blood spattered and mud filled his shoes. He didn’t notice the cuts and bruises underneath his uniform, but he surely would in a few hours when the adrenaline has left his body. But not now. Now there was no pain and no thoughts. It was only to survive and to fight.
And that’s what he did. Until his mind seemed to play a trick with him.

He believed to have seen a familiar face between the Spanish men. He shook his head to get rid of the image and killed an upcoming opponent, but then he saw the face again. He stopped, only for a second, but it seemed like hours to him as he stared at the man. It wasn’t an illusion, this was real.

Only a few feet away, brown leather boots searched for purchase between dead bodies that surrounded the man. Blood dripped down from the blade, sweat from his beard and hair. There were so many things that didn’t make sense. The man stood in between Frenchmen, dead ones. He wasn’t supposed to kill them, he was french himself. Neither did he wore the fleur de lis, but the blazon of the Spanish troops. He screamed for someone, but not for the observer. A strange name, a spanish one obviously, left his lips in a rough shout.

He was disturbed in his observations as another opponent ran towards him, sword raised high. He parried the stroke with ease and pushed his dagger in the man’s stomach, just to return his attention towards the familiar face in the strange uniform.

The man had vanished from his life three years ago. He was supposed to be in a monastery praying and singing. He was supposed be save. In France. He wasn’t supposed to be standing on this battlefield, fighting for the enemy, slaughtering his own landsmen.
Porthos didn’t understand, his muddled mind couldn’t make any sense of what he saw. He had to return to the battle to stay alive, but every now and then his gaze slipped towards the man, who once had been his friend. He looked somehow different and somehow the same. His hair was longer now, almost reached his shoulders as it had did in his youth. He had become more muscular, his back broader and arms bigger. Still, he was as agile and fast as ever. His sword sliced through throats as if they were nothing but water. He turned around, swung his swords as if all of this was just a dance, well practiced and smooth. A dance to which Porthos knew the choreography just well enough, but could never have dreamt of doing it by himself.
As Porthos was able to turn his attention back to the man once again, his heart skipped a beat. The soldier was dangerous close to d’Artagnan, who had his back turned to him. D’Artagnan was too enclosed in his own battle that he did not notice the soldier creeping up to his back.

The familiar man killed another Frenchman and was now right behind d’Artagnan, lifting his sword to make the deathly stroke.
Porthos screamed. Panic rose in his chest, dulling out all the sounds of the battle and his field of vision reduced to the two soldiers.
The Gascon did not hear his shouts and was still busy to fight off his other opponent – Porthos was too far away to help.
Porthos could only watch how the spanish soldier (oh this was so wrong, so confusingly wrong) swung his sword. And missed. Only a few inches and he would have sliced d’Artagnan’s back. But with a smooth movement, not at all looking as if it was uncontrolled, he missed and turned around, killing another Frenchman. But not d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan was still alive. Porthos gulped, still not making any sense out of what he had seen.

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From the first minute into the battle, Aramis had searched for Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan. Not to meet them again, but to avoid them as long as possible. The moment he had seen that musketeers were involved in the battle, his heart dropped. He didn’t know what he would do if he met them, he didn’t know how they would react – and truly didn’t want to experience it. He could well imagine what they had to think about him. Traitor, deserteur. It wasn’t important that he wasn’t, that everything was far more complicated – it was what they would think of him. But soon, it was almost impossible to stay apart. The battlefield was surrounded by forests, making it quite narrow.
He had already seen Porthos and Athos, noticed the eyes of the first man on him but ignored the tingling feeling on his neck. He couldn’t allow to let the façade slip. There was too much at stake to just risk it for his own good. By now he was too deep into all this anyways. There was no way back, no place to hide, he had to keep running, even if he did not know what would come behind the next corner.
And then, he had already feared that the boy was dead, he stood right behind him. He noticed just in time and turned around, slicing another man to not have to kill his own brother. He hoped none of the Spanish had seen the moment of fear as the tip of his sword scratched at the leather of d’Artagnan’s back.

The battle was over as fast as it had begun as the French troops drew back, having lost half of their army throughout the past battles.
Aramis let his sword fall to the ground as he watched them retreat, feeling as if a heavy weight was lifted from his shoulders. He felt the strain in his arms, the burning in his shoulders and the pain in his fingers from holding the weapon for such a long time. But nothing of it mattered as he caught the eyes of his friends for a short moment. Was he even still allowed to call them friends?
All he saw was confusion, fury and disgust in their eyes, before they turned their backs to him.

And the heavy weight was suddenly back. Pulling him downwards a spiral of feelings he had tried to avoid for the past years. He’d never allowed himself to think too much, to get too deep in thoughts, because he knew he could not live with the feelings he would experience – and now, he was dangerously close to the high wall he’d built, it’s stones crumpling.

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Athos closed the curtain behind him, his gaze falling onto his two brothers, who took the only chairs in the tent. He stripped from his bloody doublet, following their example. Porthos poured some wine into three cups and handed them over to his brothers.
“It was truly him.” D’Artagnan then said what was on everyone’s mind. The confusion and disbelief openly shown on his young face.
“I thought he was still in Douai.” Porthos added and gulped down the content of his cup.
“I don’t get it. What is he doing on the enemy’s side?”

“He’s just as much a Spaniard as a Frenchman.” Athos answered drily as he tried puzzle all this together. He tried to look at this from the most neutral point of view that was possible for him.
“Do you mean he decided to trait us for the Spanish?” D’Artagnan asked shocked, even though he himself had thought about this. What else was Aramis doing in the Spanish army?
“But he’d always felt more french. He was nothing but loyal!” Porthos filled his cup anew. He didn’t know how to work with the mixture of feelings burbling in his chest.
“Maybe he is a spy? A mission we don’t know about?” D’Artagnan suggested, unable to believe that Aramis was supposed to be a traitor.

“He killed our men. His own landsman. No spy would go this far. Moreover I suppose I would know about such a mission. Treville wouldn’t hold this back from me.” Athos sat down on his bed, his eyes fixed on his brothers as he went on. “I want to believe that he has a good reason just as you do, I really do. I don’t want him to be a traitor, nor can I imagine this. But it’s the only possibility. And we all knew that Aramis had more secrets than we knew about; that he had his dark sides just as any man has. I don’t know what had made him do this – but this is high-treason, not only against France or the king, but against us. He killed Musketeers without flinching. Michel and Girard lost their lifes to his blade! And who know who else.” Athos hated to speak this words. He wished to be able to think as naïve and hopeful as d’Artagnan, but someone had to see reason. Michel and Girard had been good men, skilled soldiers and loyal to the crown. Something that, apparently, couldn’t be said about Aramis anymore. It pained him to accuse Aramis of such an awful crime, but it hurt just as much to bury another men from his command. And it teared him apart to know that they had been killed by someone he’d dared to call brother for so many years. Someone he had trusted and loved. Both things he did not easily, and this was another example why he had always been so careful. But obviously carefulness was not enough. He had been deceived again.

“The other Captains and Generals are discussing over the next battle. I will join them and come back as soon as possible. Rest as long as you can, I suppose we will go into battle soon enough again.” Athos stood up and left his brothers in stunned silence.

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“Necesitamos más información!”

General Hernandez slammed his fist onto the table, causing the cups to vibrate and spill some of the red wine onto the brown surface. Aramis didn’t look at the man. Instead he watched the liquid slowly spreading around the cups and hoped that someone else would come up with an idea. His mind was still not focused on the task at hand, but with his brothers. He was glad to have seen them alive, but he doubted that he would ever be able to forget the look in their eyes. His stomach twisted as he remembered that he would have to fight against them soon again.

“Un espía.”

It was Raùl who had made the suggestion. A young but clever soldier, and with a little bit more experience he would be one of the best. He was a cheerful man and Aramis liked him from the start. He remembered him of d’Artagnan.
But in this moment, Aramis could have strangled him. All eyes landed on him as they all knew of the French blood in him and that he knew the language.

“Podrían haberme visto en el campo de batalla y reconocerme.”

Unfortunately, Raúl was clever. He may have agreed with Aramis that it would be too dangerous to send him as a Frenchman to them, but then suggested that Aramis could let himself being taken hostage. They would surely think that he wasn’t able to understand them and spill some secrets in front of him. And after a few days, Aramis would be freed by the Spanish troops. Aramis wasn’t very fond of this idea but there weren’t many arguments that he could make against it. He couldn’t tell them that he knew some of the French soldiers, as he had always told them that he lived on the border to spain as a farmboy his whole life.

So, not very enthusiasticly, he returned to his tent.
He took some more or less clean clothes and went over to the river that flowed through the forest near their camp. He stripped from his bloody clothes and walked into the cold water. He scrubbed mercilessly on his skin until it was raw and clean from the blood of his own landsman but red and burning from his own hand. He was disgusted by himself once he had dressed again in his clean clothes with the Spanish blazon on them. After all this time it still felt so wrong to not have his pauldron wrapped around shoulder or wear the familiar blue of the Musketeers.

He washed his other clothes before he returned to the camp. He won’t ever get the bloodstains of the Frenchmen he had killed out of them. And even if the red fainted with the time, he could still see it as clearly as if it had been a new stain. It was not only imprinted on the material but also on his mind, burning where the images replayed again and again. The first times, he’d felt so sick that he had emptied his stomach after the battle, his hand had shaken so bad that he couldn’t clean his musket anymore. He wouldn’t have dared to say that it had gotten easier, but he had somehow learned how to life with the ever growing burden.

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The next week came way too fast and the next battle with it. Both armies were much smaller than to the beginning of the war, but just as determined to win. Aramis had never been anxious before a battle, but today was different. So many things could go wrong.
The battle was fast and bloody. Aramis had worked his way through the French fast and was now quite close to their defence line. Until now everything went as planned. He felt the look of General Hernandez on him as he fought. The tiny hairs on his neck prickled at the knowledge that any wron move or gaze could danger not only him but the whole mission.
As the fight slowly came to an end he prepared to fake unconsciousness in hope that the French would not take the opportunity to kill him but take him hostage.
What hadn’t been planned was that a French soldier had taken his short span of distraction as possibility to hit him with the hilt of sword. As pain exploded in his head, his vision become dark around the edges until he fell to the ground uncon trolled. After that, everything was blank. Now he was truly at their mercy.

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He lifted his head again, forcing it to stay upright and to put a bloody smirk on his bruised face. The world around him spun, the words that were shouted at him were nothing but a muddled mess as his head throbbed merciless. He needed to blink a few times to clear his vision, but this caused his head to hurt even more, making him nauseous.
He didn’t quite know how long they had assaulted him. Had it been days or maybe only a few hours? He wasn’t sure, but from the thirst he felt and his stomach grumbling he guessed that it had to be almost two days. Years of experience and way too many times he had been kidnapped, made him somehow able to guess the time at least.
Another fist collided with his jaw, forcing his head to be thrown to the side. He spit the blood that gathered in his mouth in front of the feet of the General. The smirk on his lips faltered only for a second, returning immediately once the ringing in his ears had stopped. He was determined to not give the French General the satisfaction in showing his pain.

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“Girard! Why didn’t you tell me that you got a prisoner?”
Athos stormed into the tent, furious that the General hadn’t informed him about the Spanish prisoner. For a few battles now, they’d tried to get one as they needed some kind of information about the Spanish strategies to have a small chance to win this war. Athos didn’t like it, but he also knew that this was the only way they stood a chance.

“Because MY men caught him and I will interrogate him.”

Girard turned his back to his prisoner as he eyed Athos. The musketeer glanced over Girard’s shoulder to see a slumped form on a chair, the ropes seemed to be the only thing to keep the man upright. Sweaty strains of hair hung in the man’s face, his arms were bound behind his back, his ankles had been bound to the legs of the chair. What looked like a usual way of securing a prisoner was, Athos knew from personal experience, a quit uncomfortable and painful position to be hold for in for several days. The shoulders would start to burn after a few hours, the legs would get restful and the knees would soon get numb from being bent the whole time. All this often came with the loss of feeling in hands and feet and raw, if not bloody, places beneath the rough rope.
One short gaze at the prisoner was enough for Athos to recognize him. As a man who had his emotions under control, he got quite distracted by the mix of feelings that rose in him. But somehow he still managed to keep a straight face.

“Nevertheless is this OUR war. My men are dying just as yours and we should work together and not keep secrets. Not such important ones like this.”

“He won’t talk anyway. Moreover it had been only two days and I am not forced to inform you of a prisoner of war.”

It was as if Athos tried to stare the man in front of him down, but the General didn’t care about the icy look and turned back to his prisoner to slap him against the cheek to rouse him.
Aramis blinked dizzily. Confused about when he had closed his eyes, he lifted his heavy head.
For a short moment his eyes fell on a second man in the room, one he hadn’t noticed before. As he noticed Athos staring him down, he avoided his gaze and returned his attention to the General. He couldn’t allow to let his guard down.

“And he had said nothing? Not a single word?”
Athos double checked as he took in the sight in front of him, and didn’t miss how Aramis tried to avoid his gaze. He still tried to understand this confusing mess of a situation, tried to see all the possibilities and the reasons behind this. While his brain screamed ‘traitor’, his heart could not agree. There hadn’t been many times Athos had listened to his heart, but this time it arched so hard he couldn’t ignore it. He could not – didn’t want to believe that his former brother had left them for the Spanish, to kill his own landsmen.
On the other side: Who had ever really known Aramis?

As openly he had always seemed, he had more secrets than most of them. He was an actor, a charming one – but an actor nevertheless. He had lied to them several times, had worked behind their backs. He had committed high treason as he had slept with the Queen and had got them all into danger. Because then, he had only cared for his own feelings.
Athos wondered if he should tell Girard all of this, if he should reveal Aramis’ identity. But as long as there was a small sparkle of hope that Aramis had a good reason, he didn’t want to get him into any more danger than necessary. As long as he didn’t know what was behind all of this he hadn’t the right to risk anything.

“Some insults, nothing more.” Girard shrugged and watched how Aramis’ head fell down to his chest once again. Athos frowned.

“You said you had him two days? And you still got nothing out of him?”

“He’s loyal and well trained, it seems. Unfortunately loyal to the wrong ones.” Girard spit the words and kicked against the prisoners leg, which caused him to look up again wearily. There was a deep exhaustion written in Aramis’ eyes, tight lines around them tell telling for Athos to the pain he was in. But his lips were still formed into a slight grin, desperate to not show the General any of this.
It was something Athos had always respected and hated on Aramis at the same time. Sometimes his big mouth and many words, his arrogant aura and charming smiles, had saved them. He’d charmed his way out of more dangerous situation than Athos can remember. But all of this had brought him into equally many threats to his life as well.

“Give him to my men, we will get the information we need if he has any. And if he doesn’t know anything, we will get rid of him.”

Aramis’ eyes flashed over to Athos for a short moment, just as curious about the man’s motives as the other way around. He didn’t know what his brothers thought of him now, didn’t know what they would do to him and he wasn’t quite sure if it wasn’t saver to stay with Girard. Moreover he was scared that they would reveal him and spill his secret.
And besides that, they knew that he understood French and wouldn’t let any important information close to him. With nothing in his hands to return with to the Spanish army, he was lost. They could kill him right away, it would be better than to return with empty hands.

“Didn’t you hear what I said in the beginning? He’s my prisoner. You can try to get something out of him when I’m done.”

Athos shrugged as he put on a stoic mask.

“Just leave something for me to question. Dead he’s worth nothing to us.” With that, he left the tent to share the news with Porthos and d’Artagnan. Sooner or later they would get Aramis into their part of the camp and have their time alone with him to get behind this muddled mess.
Till then, Aramis was Girard’s prisoner of war and at the man’s mercy. There was nothing left for Athos to do for him than wait.

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It was the afternoon of an unknown day as he was dragged across the camp. The insults reached his ears but not his mind, as his feet scraped through the muddy ground. His muscles burned against the rough treatment, after having been held in the same position for so long. He tried to keep his head but it just felt so heavy.
After a few minutes he was pushed to the ground roughly and just then he noticed that they now were inside a tent, the ground dry and the air warm. He hadn’t noticed that he’d shivered until now. His bones arched and muscles burned as he pressed his knees onto the ground and forced his wobbly legs to cooperate.
He was surprised that no one kept him down as he stood up slowly and took in the place around him. The guards that had dragged him there were gone, probably waiting outside. There was only him, but he knew they wouldn’t let him escape.
As he had checked that there was no immediate danger he carefully walked towards the table, which was set with goblets of water and a plate full of bread and cheese. He gulped down the water without thinking – if they wanted to kill him they would not poison him. Also, he didn’t care about how dirty or bloody his hands were as he grabbed some of the food and ate it as fast as possible.
Aramis stopped once he heard voices coming closer, steps and then the rustling of a curtain. He retreated from the table, suddenly ashamed of his weakness and stood as upright as possible in the tent. He thought he did a good job but you could see him wavering and his legs shake. Days of sitting, being beaten and denied to properly eat or drink took their toll on him.
And as three well known men entered the tent, first Porthos with Athos and d’Artagnan right behind him, all air seemed to be knocked out of his lungs just like after a punch of Girard. He should have known that this would happen, but he had prayed that it wouldn’t. He suddenly felt sick, but forced himself to maintain his calm look.
Porthos normally so shining eyes didn’t show any of his thoughts or emotions as he took in the miserable shape Aramis was in.
“Sit.” Athos commanded and pointed at the chair in the middle of the room, but Aramis couldn’t stop staring at his brothers. So many thoughts ran through his mind, making it impossible to form one straight one. He wasn’t sure how to react, what to say, if he should say anything. What were they thinking about him? Did they know? Would they ever forgive him?
But all these thoughts and all these confusing feelings did not matter now. His own personal fate did not matter. Only the others, the mission.
“If you haven forgotten: We know that you understand us.” Porthos added, fury lacing his voice. Aramis gulped but did as he was commanded - he didn’t think that he was able to stand any longer anyway.
Against what he had thought, he wasn’t tide to the chair again. The three men stood in front of him, looked down on him. He avoided their gazes, searched for something to concentrate on. Something but them.
“What’s all of this about?” Porthos demanded, his hands clenched to fists. “Are you a traitor?”
Aramis bit onto his lip but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.
“What did they give you? Was it money? Women?” D’Artagnan’s eyes screamed of pain and disappointment as Aramis looked up to him. But he stayed silent.

Athos sighed and knelt down. He still kept some distance between them as he didn’t know what Aramis was capable of now – he had already killed Frenchmen. They did not know where he would stop. And this was what disturbed Athos most, that he didn’t know if to hate or love this man, if he could trust him or if he should get a noose for him right away.
“There’s no one else who can hear us, all the guards are far away. So, if you want to tell us something, if you’re on a mission we didn’t know about – now is the right moment to tell us.”
For a while they all prayed that he would open his mouth, tell them that this was a secret mission, that he could now go home. But Aramis kept his mouth shut.
“You’re save, Aramis.” D’Artagnan tried again, not able to give up his hope.
But Aramis stayed silent as he stared at Athos, eyes full of stubbornness.
Porthos started pacing through the tent, unable to keep his emotions in any longer. If Aramis wouldn’t be able to explain them that he wasn’t a traitor, that he still worked for France, there was no way they could protect him. And Porthos was unsure if he wanted to protect him. He didn’t want to believe that his brother was a traitor, but if he truly was one, Porthos won’t protect him. If Aramis really had betrayed France, he had also betrayed them. Maybe everything had just been an act? Had he ever been loyal? Porthos didn’t want to have to think about these kind of possibilities, but he had to.
“It’s your last chance, Aramis. Tell us or we won’t be able to save you from the usual procedure for prisoners.”

Aramis didn’t answer, instead he spit some of the blood that had gathered in his mouth on to the floor beside Athos. The Captain stood up, the softness gone from his eyes.
“Make sure he won’t escape. We will discuss what to do with him outside.”
After Athos had left the tent, Porthos and d’Artagnan took some rope. It felt so wrong to tie up their friend – but that probably was the wrong word to call him now.
Through the whole process of his hands being tucked behind his back and his ankles being bound together, Aramis kept silent and cooperative. There was no chance to escape this tent without help anyway. He had to hope that the Spanish would send some soldiers or he would be at the mercy of the French. And knowing how prisoners of war were treated, he hoped to be freed soon.
Porthos and d’Artagnan left without another word.

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“And now?” D’Artagnan sat down on the ground beside their Captain, watching the fire flicker in the wind.

“We need the information. We have to question him and hope that he gives us what we need.”

“And if not?” Porthos crouched down on the other side of the fire.

“We will question him more… insistently.”

Athos didn’t like the thought of torturing their former brother, but war had his own rules. Aramis was now a prisoner of war and to win it they needed these information. He would be treated like any other prisoner would have been, there was nothing he could do now to save him. The only person who could save him now, was he self. And if he decided to remain stubborn, he would have to deal with the consequences. Whether they liked it or not.

“This is so wrong.” D’Artagnan sighed, fiddling with a branch. “He’s our brother. There has to be more behind all of this than him being a traitor. We can’t risk that anything happens to him if he’s still on our side. Maybe there is a reason he can’t tell us?”

“I know, mon ami. I’ve had the same thoughts as you. But what are we supposed to do when he doesn’t want to tell us? We can’t risk to let him go should he really be a traitor.”
“You know what’s strange?” Porthos asks after a few moments of silence, causing the others to glance over to him. “Aramis has fought in a war before and is a quite experienced soldier. Why was he all alone and unprotected between our defence lines? Even recruits know that this is a save way to die. He wouldn’t be so stupid to get so close to our camp if he hadn’t a good reason to.”

Athos eyes widened as he started to understand. “He wanted to be caught. But why?”

“Maybe he tried to get back to France? Get help or something?” D’Artagnan suggested.

“Or he had been ordered to by the Spanish.” Porthos sighed. If Aramis would only tell them what’s going on. All this thinking that he could be a traitor but also wanting to believe that he is not was tearing him apart. He needed answers.

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Porthos stormed into the tent, the curtain almost crushing back into d’Artagnan’s face who followed closely. As Athos entered, Porthos had Aramis already grabbed by his collar, forcing the marksman to look him into the face and uncomfortably upright. He could not stand as his hands and feet were still bound, but Porthos lifted him high enough that Aramis had to lift slightly from the seat, his back arching.

“Why did you want to get caught? Tell me!” Porthos shook him furiously, but even though the hard motions caused his vision to get blurry, Aramis stayed silent. His eyes fell from Porthos to something to his right, only for a second as he made sure that his ears hadn’t betrayed him. But he had been right. Underneath the side wall of the tent he could clearly see shadows hushing by.

In his fury, Porthos didn’t notice but kept his grip tight, not yet choking him but making it harder to breathe.

“If you’ve let yourself be caught to get help – here it is! But you have to talk, for God’s sake.”
Frustration grew in Porthos and he pushed Aramis back into the chairbefore he took a step back. He scowled down at his former friend, frustration and uncertainty making him itchy.
“Or did the spanish order you to? GOD DAMMIT CAN’T YOU SAY ANYTHING?!” D’Artagnan and Athos were there just in time to hold him back, before Porthos could have punched Aramis in the face. Their fingertips gripped tightly into the leather as the tall man breathed heavily in his anger. He struggled slightly in their grip but not whole hearty enough to truly get free.

“No sé de qué estás hablando. No te diré nada.” (I don’t know what you’re talking about. I won’t tell you anything.)

“SPEAK FRENCH, YOU-“

“Enough!” Athos pushed Porthos back to silence him, then turned towards their prisoner.

“We’ve always known that you’re stubborn. We will give you the night to think about it. If you’re not talking tomorrow Girard will want you back. There’s nothing we can do for you then.”

It needed both d’Artagnan and Athos to get Porthos out of the tent who muttered curses under his breath, that neither of them would ever want to repeat.

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He didn’t know how many hours had passed since he had last seen the musketeers, but by now it was cold and dark in the tent.
Exhausted and in pain he tried to rest, but the shivering kept him always in a half awake state of mind. He felt every fiber of his body, his muscles arching and only wishing for a little movement. As there was no way that he could really sleep, he did not miss the squeaking of leather on mud moments before the rustling of curtains. In the darkness he couldn’t see more than a shadow-like silhouette coming in.

He tensed as the figure walked closer, cautious to make no loud sounds. It was a man, obviously, clothed in a simple dark leather jacket and trousers. A just as dark hat sat on his head, and only slightly brighter pupils were seen before black silk covered his mouth and nose.

“Have you told them anything?” The man hissed as he kept his voice low.

Aramis wanted to answer out of reflex but was able to hold back just in time and stared at him coldly. There was no accent in the man’s voice as he spoke French fluently. No indication on his clothes made it possible to see to which side he belonged. He decided that it was best to not let his cover drop.

“¿Dijiste algo?” The man repeated his question in not quite perfect Spanish.

Aramis now shook his head, still trying to make out if he could trust this man or not. But whom could he truly trust now?

“Bien. Espera. En el momento en que tengas alguna información, puedes volver.“ (Good. Hold on. The moment you’ve got some information, you can go back.)
So the man was his friend, sent from the spanish. As much as he could call any spanish ally a friend. As fast the man had come he had vanished again, making Aramis wonder if all of this was just a dream.

But it wasn’t and the moment the man had vanished, he put one and one together.
Everything he had worked for, the reason for every life he had taken, he had been right in front of him and was now out there in the camp.
“Merde!” Aramis struggled against the rope but it didn’t want to give in. Instead it grew tighter and rubbed his skin raw. He hissed before he stopped as an idea came to his mind. As much as the restraints allowed it he stood up, which forced him to stand in a strange crouched position, as his shins and body were still bound to the chair. He threw himself against a post in the middle of the tent, which was supposed to hold the tarpaulin up. The chair crashed into it’s remains, the ropes loosened. He didn’t think long about the arches this action had caused in his body but scrambled to his feet immediately. His muscles burned at the sudden movement but there was no time for pain right now.

He could end all this charade once and for all.

He ran out of the tent, but the man was already gone. There was no moment to react before Aramis was crashed down by something heavy. He felt the air rush out his lungs as his body made impact with the ground. No. No, he couldn’t lose now. He’d come so far. So incredible close.
His hands were bound roughly on his back before he managed to understand that it was a soldier sitting on his back.

“Thought you could escape, hugh? The Captain and General won’t be pleased.” The soldier muttered and pushed Aramis back into the tent. This time he bound him right to the post, making sure that the ropes were too tight. There was no way Aramis could open the ropes now, the fabric burning on his already raw skin and every inch he tried to move send new pain through his limbs. With an resigned sigh, he let his fall back against the post.

He’d been so close.

Chapter Text

“Captain! Captain!”

Athos looked up from the fire as a young soldier came up running to him. The soldier – who looked more like a farm boy than a man who’d fought in war- was out of breath as he came to a halt beside his Captain. Athos rose warily as the boy had finally reached him.

“The prisoner-“ the boy gasped for air after his run from the tent through the whole camp, “the prisoner tried to escape. We’ve caught him. The General had been informed also.”

“You’ve informed Girard?” Athos didn’t raise his voice, but the icy look in his eyes was enough to force the soldier a step back. He gulped as his eyes darted from one place to another nervously.

“Weren’t we supposed to? I’m sorry, Captain. We thought –“ Athos lifted his hand to signal the soldier to stop talking as he sighed.

“It’s okay. Dismissed.”

The soldier ran off as fast as possible, glad to have escaped a tirade from the Captain.

D’Artagnan and Porthos, who had listened to the conversation from where they sat around the fire, stood up and followed Athos, who had already taken off towards where they held Aramis.

“What did he think?” He muttered, angrily. He really did not understand his former friend anymore. His fury grew stronger as he saw Girard entering the tent only moments before they reached it. Athos’ hands tightened to fists as he tried to contain his anger at Aramis / the General / the war / this whole fucked up situation.

Once inside, they found Aramis sitting on the floor, bound and struggling. Athos frowned. Aramis hadn’t tried to escape before, didn’t even seem to think about it. Why now? Why so suddenly?
The marksman’s eyes were wild and sweat glistened on his skin – if from his tried break out or sickness, Athos could not tell. He didn’t seem to care how pathetic he looked, neither that the ropes must have been cutting his skin around his wrists raw. All Athos could see in Aramis’ face was desperation.

Girard had crouched before the prisoner, asking him questions the others couldn’t hear. But as before – Aramis stayed silent, even though he didn’t seem as composed as before. He groaned in frustration as he noticed that his ropes wouldn’t give in but as much attention he gave to his bounds,  he did not gave Girard a single spark of it. There was something more important on his mind.

And Athos wanted to know what. No matter what Aramis had done, what motive he has had to change sides, why he had let himself been captured so easily – no matter what had happened, Athos still thought to know what kind of man Aramis was inside. He may didn’t know his motives, thoughts or emotions anymore, or maybe he had never known them, but he was sure that Aramis was still the same proud, strong man he had known for years. And something dire must have happened to let him wiggle on the floor like a fish on the hook.

However, Athos was ripped out of his musings as Girard stood up and turned towards him.

“I will take him back to my men. Yours don’t seem capable of guarding him.”

Athos heard Porthos growl behind him but didn’t pay it much attention as he turned his focus towards Girard.

“I will make sure to find the ones responsible for this, but the prisoner will stay here. We will place more guards around the tent and two men will always be with him.”

“He’s still my prisoner, Captain Athos. I already did you a favour as I allowed you to take him. As we saw, it was a mistake to trust you or your ‘musketeers’.”

He signalled the soldiers, that had came with him, to take Aramis. Athos shot a short glance towards the prisoner, as he was freed from the post and secured between the soldiers. Aramis struggled again. As he noticed that he wouldn’t get free any time soon, he sighed. For one moment Athos caught the man’s eyes and believed to have seen something in them, as if Aramis was begging him to do something. He frowned, still unsure what was going on in the Spaniards mind but he decided to give him one more chance – he still wanted to know what the man’s plans were.

“I said: He stays.” Athos repeated, and to underline his words, d’Artagnan and Porthos took a step forward – ready to take Aramis from the other men’s grips.

“Why are you so interested in this man, Captain?” Girard now asked, his voice laced with distrust.

“We’ve found a musketeer who speaks some spanish. He’s on patrol right now but will come back in a few hours. I don’t believe to have heard of any spanish speaking soldiers under your command, if I remember correctly, General. So, if you want answers and information, he stays with us. You can join the interrogation if you like.”

Athos didn’t miss the hateful look Girard shot him, but actually didn’t care about it much. It was a satisfying feeling as the General was defeated, Athos’ reasoning was flawless. Even if it was lie. But even noble men sometimes had to do un-noble deeds to get by.

“Fine. I will visit you this evening and hope that your man has returned from patrol until then.”

“He will.” Athos assured and watched the General leave before he turned to Aramis who now stood in the tent, hands still bound behind his back.

“You owe me something.” Athos growled, as Porthos and d’Artagnan secured Aramis again to the post.

“Of whom did you speak Athos? The spanish speaking musketeer?” Porthos asked interested, as he didn’t know of a man like this.

“We have none.” At this Porthos and d’Artagnan shared a short confused glance, before a small grin at Athos’ cheekiness crossed Porthos’ face.

Meanwhile the Captain had crouched down before Aramis, starring him down with a icy look that could even get the King to fidget. But Aramis knew Athos and his gazes and just let his head fall to his chest in exhaustion. The marksman had never been one to get nervous around Athos or who truly felt the wrath of the older man. Then – before this terrible confusing situation – Aramis had always grinned at Athos, when he had looked at him like this. He’d then said something about wrinkles that would let him age faster if he did not smile more often. And Athos, no matter how angry he had been with Aramis, had always felt his lips twitch at the humor.

But now things were different. They were different. And Athos really had to hold himself back to not slap him to get his attention.

“Now talk. Why did you try to escape? Why now?”

Aramis opened his mouth, ready to answer – he had to tell them now if he wanted his plan to succeed, he knew. But then he closed his mouth again, shaking his head. He still heard guards talking outside, and as long he was able to hear them, they could hear him too.

“Talk.” Athos hissed and grabbed him by the collar, forcing Aramis to lift his head. His patience was at it’s end. “Talk or I will send you to Girard immediately.”

And Aramis really wanted to, but he couldn’t risk anything. He looked around the room, as he searched for a save way, until he saw paper and a feather lying on the table. He nodded towards it.  “Free his hand.” The first who understood, d’Artagnan fetched the writing materials. Athos had done as told as d’Artagnan kneeled beside him and gave Aramis the utensils.

‘I’ll talk when we’re all alone.’

Athos showed the paper to the others before he cut the ropes around the post.

“If this is a trick, I swear I will kill you.” He warned and there was no doubt that he didn’t mean it. Aramis nodded, before he was manhandled by Porthos and d’Artagnan. Once outside the tent they pushed him forwards roughly.

Aramis stumbled a few times as he was lead through the camp, feeling the eyes of the soldiers on him. They brought him into the forest, a mile away from the camp.

“Now talk.” Athos didn’t even think on freeing the man from the ropes around his wrists, as long as he couldn’t be sure on which side Aramis was. At least Porthos and d’Artagnan loosened their grips, letting Aramis relax a little bit.

The Spaniard took a look around, just to be sure that they were alone before he let out a long breath.

“It’s complicated and I can’t tell you everything.”

“Just tell us everything you can.”

Aramis huffed at that. Actually he should not tell them anything. But he had no other choice.

“There’s a spanish spy between our – between your rows.”

The three men exchanged a short, surprised look but didn’t interrupt Aramis.

“It was at the beginning of the war, as the king summoned me into the palace.”

He couldn’t deny the feeling of unease – even fear – that took over his body, as he walked along the endless seeming corridor. His leathered boots on the marble ground, the screeching of the tall doors as they were opened, sounds that were so familiar after years in the service of France, but now they seemed different – frightening.

The moment the message had reached him, his stomach had twisted and his mind couldn’t stop turning around all the reasons why the king wanted to see him alone. He gulped as he walked into the throne room, seeing the King looking at him with an icy stare. Only once before he had been summoned to the King on his own. It had been after Savoy as the King and the Cardinal had wanted to make sure that Aramis could truly not remember enough of the attack to understand the intrigue that stood behind it – of course he had not known the true reason then. But short after the massacre he hadn’t known much else netiher.

“Your Majesty.” Aramis bowed, deep and long, before he dared to straighten back up and looked at the king.

“Musketeer Aramis.” Louis tipped his fingers on the armrest while his eyes roamed over the soldier. Endless seconds until he waved Aramis to come closer.

Carefully Aramis stepped closer, only a few steps. He gulped again, as blood rushed through his ears. What was all of this about?

“I’ve seen the looks. Between the Queen and you. Don’t you think I’m a fool, I know you’ve betrayed me.”

Aramis opened his mouth, he felt as if he should say something to defend himself, but no words left his dry tongue. There wasn’t anything he could have said in his defence.
His mind was empty as the king rose and walked down the three steps to look him right into the eyes.

“I should hang you. No. This wouldn’t be painful enough. I should strip you to the wheel. Let her watch, while her champion screams. Yes, I should do that.”

Frantically Aramis searched for arguments, for reasons, for words – but there were none. The king was right, but he couldn’t allow it to happen.

He felt as if his heart would jump out of his chest any moment and was sure that the King heard it too, the pounding, the fear. Louis grinned, in a way that let Aramis’ blood freeze.

“But I won’t. Not yet.”

“Your Majesty-“ He thought he HAD to say something, anything. But Louis raised his hand to silence him.

“I need a heir and Louis will be my son. Not yours, never. He’s mine, just as Anne is mine and mine alone. I can’t let anybody doubt his parentage. So I will let you live as long as you’re of use.”

“I will always be your loyal servant.” Aramis bowed his head slightly.

“Oh, you have no other choice, do you?” The King turned around and sat back down on his throne, watching Aramis from above.

“I have a mission for you, Musketeer Aramis. You speak spanish, don’t you? You at least look like a spanish rat.” Aramis gulped, but nodded slowly.

“My mother had spanish blood.” He answered truthfully.

“Good. Before I tell you about the details of the mission, you should know that you have no choice. Either you will do it or I will let you die on the wheel for treason. And I will find a way for your friends to follow you. If you disobey my orders or tell anyone from this, you and all of those you love, will be eliminated.”

Aramis nodded, as he waited for the King to continue. He felt the icy grip of fear and  presentiment close around his chest, taking away his  air.

“No one can know about this. We know that there’s a spy in between the Regiments. It will be your mission to find out who he is. As our investigators in France were unsuccessful, you will have to infiltrate the Spanish. Get the information we need, and I will acquit you from your crimes. If not – you already know what will happen. Don’t tell anyone about this, as every Musketeer and every other soldier from the Paris’ regiments is under suspicion. Even your friends. Especially this farm boy. We’ve heard some rumours about him. One of my men will give you more information once you’re on your way. Meet him in Toulouse in four days.”

“So you didn’t tell us anything because you thought we could be spies?” Porthos spat as he crossed his arms. “You really needed a proof that we’re innocent before you trusted us with this?”

Aramis sighed and let his head drop to his chest. ‘Of course not!’ he wanted to scream, but he didn’t. Because somehow he did, somehow Porthos was right. And he felt awful for it. For even considering such traitorous thoughts. But after everything the King and his contact in Toulouse had told him, his mind had been a mess, not knowing anything anymore.

“I couldn’t risk anything, Porthos. It was too much at risk.”

“You did what you had to do.” Athos answered, understandingly. Ever the captain. He was good a politics, Aramis thought. Athos understood. And Aramis felt a heavy burden lift form his shoulders. But as his gaze found his other two brothers (did they still wanted to be called like this?) he felt the tons of guilt still lingering on his back.

“He could have told us!” Porthos turned to his Captain, fury laced his voice at the betrayal of his brother.

“Porthos-“ Aramis tried again, but was silenced as the big man shoved him against a nearby tree, forcing the air out of his lungs. “You lied to us. Told us you would become a monk. You distrusted us, betrayed us.”

“I only wanted-“

“You only wanted what was best for you. I know. It’s always about what you want.”

Porthos pressed his arm harder against Aramis’ chest before he let go and strode back towards Athos and d’Artagnan.

“What do we do now?” The Gascon asked, unsure if he should take sides – if he had to make a decision of how he thought about this. It seemed like Athos and Porthos knew exactly what they had to think, to feel. But he was torn. His head told him to forgive, because Aramis had only done what any good soldier would do. But his heart, it screamed and bled at the betrayal and lies, at being left out of so important decisions.

‘Head over heart’ Athos once had said and d’Artagnan always tried to follow his advice. But d’Artagnan would not have been d’Artagnan if he wasn’t a good mixture of all three Musketeers. He’d learned from the best and still kept learning every day. And neither Porthos nor Aramis were very fond of the ‘head over heart’ motto. They both were intelligent men, but they were lead by their emotions, about what they felt was right or wrong.

But now was not the time to dwell on thoughts like this. Athos reminded them that they had to act soon, that they could not hide in the forest for forever.

And of course Aramis already had a plan, and Athos had one too.

Neither Porthos, nor d’Artagnan were amused.

Chapter Text

“That’s a stupid plan.” Porthos muttered but didn’t loosen his grip around Aramis arm as he dragged him with him. He hadn’t missed how the man stumbled every now and then, the days of imprisonment had definitely taken their toll on him. Porthos may was angry at him for lying and distrusting them, but Aramis was still his brother. So he couldn’t help to worry about the outcome of this really stupid, idiotic, suicidal plan. If Aramis had been healthy and fit, Porthos may would have agreed with the plan – even though he would have hated it nevertheless. But he really doubted that Aramis should have to endure anymore.
“I don’t like it either, but do you have a better one?” Athos raised a brow, causing Porthos to sigh in defeat. Of course Athos was right. He was always right.
“You’re both insane.” D’Artagnan shook his head at Athos’ and Aramis’ plan, but just as Porthos he knew that it was their only option now. They needed a plan fast and this had been the only thing they came up with – so this was what they had to do now. Liking it or not.
Aramis wanted to say something soothing, but they had already reached the camp again.
He put back on the mask of a spanish prisoner as he was dragged and pushed through the camp. He knew Porthos was still careful to not really hurt him, but every now and then he twisted his ankle or nearly fell. At least it looked convincingly.
They reached Athos’ tent a few minutes later, where General Girard already waited for the interrogation to start. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, as he raised his brows questioningly at Athos.
“Where’s the spanish speaking soldier you have told me about?”
“He was ordered to survey a troop of spanish soldiers a few miles in the south – unfortunately he and his comrades were found and killed.”
Girard observed him for a few moments, as if he tried to make out if Athos told the truth or not, but then he actually didn’t care much about it. There was only one thing he was interested in and under this circumstances he was sure he would get it.
“So there is no reason for the prisoner to stay with you, Captain Athos.”
An ugly grin spread over the General’s face, showing his yellow teeth.
“I still think we would be more successful with the interrogation than you.”
“Unfortunately we will never find out. You’ve had your chance. You know the rules: We’ve imprisoned him, so he’s our prisoner.”

Athos sighed and nodded in defeat. “He’s yours.”
Porthos pushed Aramis into the waiting arms of Girard’s men. He wanted to shoot his brother one more apologetic look, but he couldn’t dare to raise suspicions. Besides, Aramis didn’t look at either of them before he was dragged out of Athos’ tent and towards the Generals camp.
D’Artagnan let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as only the three of them were left.

“It’s still a stupid idea. We won’t be able to control anything now! What if Girard gets frustrated and kills him?”
“He won’t.” Athos assured and poured wine into three glasses, handing one to each of his brothers.
“He’s not that stupid. If he has no use for Aramis he at least will want to make an prisoner exchange.”
Porthos gulped down the content of his glass before refilling it. He leant against the post in the middle of the tent.
“And who can guarantee us that Aramis can play along long enough for the spy to meet him again?”

“No one.” Athos answered drily, but he had no doubt that Aramis would make it. But for what price?
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He was pushed onto a chair and bound to it tightly, the ropes rubbing against the already wound spots on his wrists and ankles but Aramis was determined to not show his discomfort as his sore muscles were placed back into the same posture he had to be in for days already.
“The Captain had been way too nice to scum like you.” Girard muttered and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I always knew that Musketeers are weak.”
Aramis just stared at him, not showing any sign of understanding.
“But don’t worry, I will speak a language you will definitely understand.”
The first punch against his jaw caught him with surprise, sending his head flying to the side.
Before he could readjust, the fist collided again with his face, causing his nose to bleed.
After some time the familiar taste of iron spread in his mouth. The skin in his face throbbed and the pain radiated from the skin through muscles towards the bone.

TRAITORTRAITORTRAITOR

D’Artagnan ripped the bread apart, putting one of the pieces into his mouth, grimacing at how dry it was. Wordlessly a skin of wine was passed to him from his left. He drank greedily, his eyes never leaving the tent which stood a good hundred meters away from them.
“I hate observations.” He muttered as sweat dropped down his neck and into his leathers.
He was sure he could have been swimming in the liquids caught in his clothes. Only a few hours earlier, Porthos had praised the weather. The sun giving them an excuse to sit outside their tents and pulling their hats low. D’Artagnan had frowned at his brother earlier, already guessing that it would be an unpleasant experience. And as it seemed, Porthos thought so now too. The tall man had unwound his scarf from his hair to wipe away the sweat from his face very few minutes.

“How long can this spy take? Word had spread through the camp hours ago.”

Athos, seemingly untouched by the heat, shrugged.
“He will take his time. Would want to be careful to not be caught.”
After Aramis had been brought to Girard three days ago, not much had reached the musketeers ears for some time. Until yesterday, where the rumours started. Some soldiers had told that the spanish prisoner had died, others said he had escaped, some more explained that he was still being questioned – rumours that were just normal to come up when a prisoner was held.
But then in the morning a medic was seen entering the tent where Aramis had been held and leaving an hour later. Since then the musketeers had taken their place, keeping an eye on the tent. When they had heard of this, the spy would have probably known as well. It would only a matter of time that he would meet Aramis again. Either to free him, know if he had given out any information or – in the worst case scenario – kill him, before Aramis would betray spanish secrects.

TRAITORTRAITORTRAITOR

“There.” D’Artagnan whispered and punched Porthos, who had dozed off, against the arm. The three of them squinted through the dark, noticing a figure coming closer to the tent.
“If this is just another false alarm…” Porthos muttered, but sittint up straighter nevertheless. Over the day there had been several occasions where one of them believed to have found their spy, but it always turned out it wasn’t.
“Stay low.” Athos ordered, following the figure with his eyes, while his body was still turned to the side.
The soldier had reached the tent by now, looking around shortly before slipping into it.
In an instant the Musketeers were on their feet, running as silently as possible over to the tent.
Athos, who had reached the tent first stopped in front of the entrance, holding his hand up to signal the others to wait. They all held their breaths as low voices reached them, trying to make out the words.
“Spanish.” Porthos announced once he was able to hear enough words to make out the language.
Athos nodded his agreement, his still upraised hand counted off three.
As he had counted down to the last finger and had made a fist, he opened the tent.
D’Artagnan and Porthos stormed in first, their muskets raised at the spy.
“Drop the weapons.” Athos ordered, pointing at the weapon belt around the man’s waist.
The spy had still turned his back to them, facing Aramis, as the order came. Slowly, hands raised, he turned around, assessing the situation. His eyes flickered from one musket to another.
Porthos thought he saw resignation on the young face. Too young for his liking. The man /boy/, couldn’t be older than d’Artagnan as he had first met them a few years ago.

D’Artagnan tried to peek around the lad to get a view on Aramis, who had been untypically silent, but the spy blocked the view.
“Down with the weapons.” He repeated Athos’ order.
His movements slow and careful, the lad lowered his hands to get to his weapon belt.
It was Porthos who reacted first, as the boy suddenly pulled the musket out of the belt and raised it at Athos. Two shots rang out. One ripped through the wall of the tent, alarming the whole camp that something was going on. The other one hit the lad into the chest, causing him to stumble backwards and then collapse to the ground.

“NO!” Athos rushed towards the spy, pressing his jacket onto the bullet wound.
“What do you know?” He urged. “What did you tell spain?” While his left hand still tried to slow down the blood floss, he slightly slept the lad into the face. But the shot had been precise and Athos too late. The spy was dead and his blood was oozing through Athos’ leathered fingers.
Athos breathed out audible before getting back to his feet and turning to Porthos.
“What did you think you’re doing?!”

“He was about to shoot you.” Porthos stood his ground. He didn’t want to kill the spy neither and wished to be able to still question him – but he wouldn’t apologize for saving his brother.

“We needed answers! And he won’t be able to give them now that he’s dead.” Athos growled, stepping closer to Porthos. They had one plan, only a few simple rules to follow.
Do not disturb Aramis’ interrogation before the spy arrives. Get to the spy before Girard notices. Do not kill the spy.
Three rules and Porthos managed to break one of them.

D’Artagnan, who had assessed Aramis condition in the meanwhile turned towards his friends furiously.
“Could you stop arguing for just a second?! We have more urgent problems now.”
The Gascon pointed towards the marksman, who sat slumped in the chair unconsciously.
Porthos gulped and nodded, before heading towards Aramis. As d’Artagnan had already cut his ropes, Aramis was on Porthos’ shoulder a few seconds later.

“Let’s get him home.” He muttered and carried his precious burden outside, not caring about all the curious soldiers that had reached the tent by now. Some had drawn their muskets and swords at the sound of the gunshots, but Athos had followed Porthos and had commanded them to leave swiftly.
Until word had reached Girard, the tent was, except for a corpse of a spanish spy, empty and the musketeers and Aramis back in their part of the camp.
Porthos laid Aramis down on a cot in his and d’Artagnan’s tent. The marksman hadn’t made a sound since they got him, raising the worry of all of them.
“I will get the doctor.” D’Artagnan announced and hurried outside.

“I will have some explaining to do to General Girard.” Athos muttered, leaving Porthos and Aramis alone.
“Girard will surely miss you by now.” Porthos tried to laugh, but it came out more like a growl as he started to undress Aramis and assess his wounds.
There was no place in his face which wasn’t covered in bruises and blood and his neck showed the ugly evidence of being choked with a rope. Cuts and dark spots on his torso indicated that it hadn’t fared better than his face.
At least his legs seemed somehow unhurt, but Porthos feared the injuries most he couldn’t find now. Maybe there were some broken bones he didn’t know about. He sighed, pushing the sweaty hair from his friends face.
“I’m sorry you had to endure all of this, mon ami. And most importantly, I’m sorry I had treated you so wrong. Should have known you would never betray us…”

Chapter Text

As Porthos heard steps approaching the tent, he sighed with relief, while wiping some of the blood from the body of his still unconscious brother.
“You hear that? The doctor’s coming. You will be fit again in no time.”

He tried to not let the worry dominate his voice, but Porthos knew if his friend would have conscious he would have heard it nevertheless. But Aramis wasn’t conscious and this was what was driving him mad even more. Without him telling them what or where it hurt, it was hard to really know how bad he was injured. They could only tell the obvious wounds. Who knew what was going on inside his body.
Porthos hoped that the doctor could find out more about the condition of Aramis than they could.
As the tent flattered open, Porthos didn’t turn around to face d’Artagnan and the doctor. Instead he kept a worried glance on the bruised face in front of him.

“Took you long enough to come, doctor. He hasn’t woken yet.” He explained to the two men he had awaited dearly.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t them.

The voice that answered him belonged to someone else, causing Porthos’ heart to miss a beat and turn around now. Girard.

“I am not sure if he deserves to be treated by a medic.”

Behind Girard Athos stepped into the tent, brow creased in fury and worry. At Porthos’ questioning glance, he explained.

“General Girard still believes Aramis is a spy – or worse now: a traitor. He may believe us that he once was a musketeer but is sure that Aramis has changed sides. With the real spy dead – we have no evidence.”

A spark of guilt erupted in Porthos’ chest. He shouldn’t have killed the spy, he’d ruined everything. Aramis had given so much for this mission to succeed and with a single shot, he’d ruined it. They may have managed to find and eliminate the thread to France but to what price? If Girard would get his way, the consequences for Aramis would be fatal.
Girard folded his arms in front of his chest, watching the three men with something in his eyes that came close to amusement.

“I fear, I will have to take the prisoner back. And imprison you-“ he pointed at Porthos disinterested, “for high-treason as you have murdered a French soldier.”

Porthos just stared at the General, unable to really comprehend all this. They’ve done exactly what the King wanted, they’ve kept the French secrets save. And this was the was Girard was thanking them?

“You can’t do this, Girard. You know that we speak the truth, you just want to let your wrath against the musketeers out on us.”

Athos stepped forward, between Porthos and Girard, in hope to prevent the worst. Porthos has left his place by the side of his still unconscious brother to stand up and tower of Girard, showing him his whole strength and height. He would not come with him easily, that was for sure.

Girard grinned smugly. “Unfortunately, dear Athos, as long as you have no proof that my assumptions are wrong, I will have to make sure that these two men won’t flee.”

“If you don’t believe us – would you believe the King?” Porthos asked, knowing that his Majesty was now their only way out of this dire situation.
Girard cocked his head slightly to the side, raising one of his eyebrows.

“Of course I would believe the King.” What else could he have said? No one could question the words of the King, even though they wanted to sometimes.
“Then ask him. He has commanded the mission.”

Girard frowned, not liking where this was going. As much as he hated the musketeers, he knew that they probably didn’t lie – and especially wouldn’t lie with matters of the King. On the other side, he couldn’t give in now.

Meanwhile Athos and Porthos shared a look, knowing that they got Girard to the point where they wanted him. At least they thought so.

“If it’s like this… I will send a messenger to ask the King about this affair. But until thenI can’t risk anything. I will have to arrest the both of you anyways.”

“You won’t.” Athos protested, stepping in front of Porthos to prevent the large man from ripping Girard apart. That, would really do no good in their matter right now.

“Even if he wanted – what he most certainly won’t – Aramis is in no condition to flee. There is no reason to imprison him. You took care of it yourself. And Porthos, he only killed a man who had trained a weapon on me. Even if the man was no spy but a loyal French soldier, he had threatened the Captain of the Musketeers. Porthos only did his service as a soldier and protected his Captain.”
Athos didn’t pull rank often, and he really did not enjoy doing so, but if it could prevent his brothers from further harm, he would do so again and again.

Girard huffed, but Athos’ arguments were good.

“I still won’t risk anything. I will place my soldiers around this tent. None of these men is allowed to leave until we have certitude.”

Athos nodded slowly. It was the best they could get in this moment. It maybe wasn’t enjoyable but at least they could stay together and he could watch out for his brothers. And in a few days, the messenger will confirm their statements and everything will work out from then on.

With that, Girard left and only a few minutes later four of his men were positioned outside.
D’Artagnan and the medic came to them a little bit later.
While Aramis was treated and Porthos took his place by his brother’s side again, Athos explained to d’Artagnan what had happened.

“I want you to follow the messenger, d’Artagnan. To make sure he truly makes the journey and talks with the King. Girard won’t allow you to accompany his man, so you will have to stay hidden. Make sure you also hear what he tells the King – I don’t want any false information to reach the King’s ears.”

D’Artagnan frowned and glanced towards his unconscious brother. He didn’t want to leave him now that they got him back after all this time. However, Athos seemed to read his mind.

“I wouldn’t send you if I could send another man. But I don’t want to pull more musketeers into this than necessary. Moreover I have to send someone I trust completely. I would do it myself, but my absence would be questioned.”

D’Artagnan sighed but agreed. Athos was right.

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D’Artagnan had bid his goodbyes a few hours later, following the traces of Girard’s messenger easily as long as the sun still shone.
Now, a few days later, they finally reached Paris and he still hadn’t been detected. Everything went as planned and d’Artagnan was pleased to see that the messenger hurried to the palace directly and didn’t stop in an Inn or somewhere else to rest. He wanted to clear his brother’s name as soon as possible.

Earlier in the morning, d’Artagnan had known that they probably would reach Paris this day, he dressed in his Musketeer uniform instead of comfortable travel-clothes. Like this he hadn’t any problem to rush into the palace just before the messenger reached it and slipped into the great hall of the palace – relieving another Musketeer of his guard duty. He placed a hat on his head and pulled it as deep as possible, hiding his face just the moment the messenger hurried into the hall.

The King sat up more straight in his throne, watching the man with interest. On the place beside him sat the Queen, looking as gracefully as ever.
D’Artagnan watched the on goings carefully.
Girard’s man was out of breath as he finally reached their majesties and bowed low.

“Your majesties,” he greeted them both, still catching his breath.
“I’m here in a matter of great importance. General Girard had sent me from the front to discuss a sensitive topic with you.” He looked around, noticing the many people in the hall. “A matter, which not everyone should hear about.”

The King understood and dismissed the servants and noblemen that were scattered in the room. D’Artagnan sighed in relief, as the guards were allowed to stay. Of course, the King would not doubt the loyalty of his Musketeers. Not as long as Treville was his First Minister.

“So what is this urgent matter?” Louis asked, leaning forward in anticipation.

“There was this spanish prisoner of war we had captured a while ago. He didn’t give us any valuable information, neither General Girard nor Captain Athos from the Musketeers. However, a few days ago, we found the three Musketeer Athos, Porthos and d’Atagnan in the tent with our prisoner. Porthos had shot another french soldier, who died instantly. The Musketeers claimed that the prisoner is Aramis of the King’s Musketeers, who was sent on a mission from you to spy in the spanish army. The dead soldier is supposed to be a spanish spy. General Girard would like to have the confirmation from you about this mission.”

Louis listened intensive. Of course he remembered that mission. But he also remembered why he had sent the Musketeer Aramis on it in the first place. He hadn’t missed how Anne’s eyes widened and almost gasped aloud as the man’s name was mentioned. She had still believed him to live peacefully in some monastery. Women were all so gullible these days.
Now, he could confirm that he had commanded this mission. Save Musketeer Aramis from being executed for high treason and save this Porthos for overtaking the same fate.
From what he knew it was quite possible that the dead soldier was truly the spanish spy they had searched for. So apparently Aramis had accomplished his mission. This was good. They could not have risked to let any secrets spill over to spain.

Nevertheless, Louis sighed. Even though it had been from high importance to find this spy – he had somehow hoped that Aramis would die during this mission. This would have made things easier. Aramis could have died honourable and he would have been rid of him forever without having to really do something for it.
Denying the mission would mean he could get what he had intended. But this Porthos would also be executed. He believed to remember this man, who had protected him many times. He had no issue with him and couldn’t really afford to lose more good men – he had already lost so many to the war.
But if he confirmed the mission, Aramis would also be acquitted and maybe even be celebrated for his accomplished mission. He really didn’t like this thought.
Moreover Anne would be angry with him for withholding this information from him – even though she really couldn’t do anything against it though. But he didn’t enjoy an angry Anne.
He still could let Aramis be executed for his affair with Anne – but this was something Louis really wanted to avoid. Even though he didn’t like what happened, he couldn’t afford to lose Anne to this. Not in times of war. The country was unstable enough.

Moreover – with the affair being public, it wouldn’t take long until the parentage of the Dauphin would be questioned. That was something he couldn’t afford to happen neither. He needed an heir, and the Dauphin was the only one to take this place.
It was a difficult decision to make.

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“I hate this. Sitting around and waiting uselessly.”

Porthos grumbled as he shuffled his deck of cards for what felt like the hundreds time. But what else was he supposed to do? Aramis had been treated by the doctor, and this morning they had changed the bandages and cleaned off the last of the dirt that had lingered on his skin. He still had to regain consciousness though. He had woken up a few times over the past days, but he was never lucid enough to speak or recognize where he was. At least they had gotten a few sips of water into his dehydrated body.
Athos had been away most of the time, discussing important Captain business – leaving Porthos alone and bored.

“D’Artagnan and the messenger will surely return soon.”

Athos had brought some chicken stew and bread with a bottle of wine on a tray, setting it down on the only table of the tent. Hungrily as ever, Porthos grabbed his bowl of stew, spooning it into his mouth fast.

“We have to get something into him too. He needs sustenance.” Athos spoke worriedly, the feelings open to be seen in his eyes – something only few people were allowed to ever witness. Porthos sighed, putting down his own bowl.

“We need him to get more lucid the next time he awakes.”

Porthos poured them both a glass of wine, gulping down it’s contents in a second.
Placing a gentle hand on his brother’s arm, Athos took place beside Aramis.

“You hear us, mon ami? You need to wake up. I didn’t send d’Artagnan on the mission for nothing. I want you awake and healthy once he comes back.”
There was no reaction from Aramis and Athos sighed frustrated. What had he hoped for? That a few gentle words and a whole-hearted wish would just heal his brother after everything he had went through?

“We can’t lose you now that we’ve got you back.” He murmured, gently stroking away some sweated hair from Aramis’ face.
Porthos had went silent, not wanting to disturb this heart breaking but rare moment of Athos really speaking out his affection. People who knew him could see the love he had for his brothers in his eyes, could read the gentle touches and slightly smirk on his lips. But even for his brothers in arms it wasn’t often that Athos spoke out what he thought or felt.

“Don’t you dare die on us now, Aramis.”

His voice got a little harsher now, more into a commanding tone as frustration overcame Athos.
“You haven’t lived through the last years - completely alone – for nothing. You have given up everything, now wake up and take it back!” Athos hissed the last words, before hitting his fist onto the table – causing the tray on it to shake dangerously. Porthos first saved the stew from falling before he grasped the hand of Athos, gently squeezing it.

“Calm down ‘Thos. You don’t want him to wake to an angry voice – do you?”

Athos shook his head, letting it fall to his chest. “I’m sorry. It’s just so…”

“Frustrating. Unfair. Hurtful?” Porthos nodded in understanding, placing his hand now on Athos shoulder to ground him.
“Give it time. D’Artagnan will come back with good news and Aramis will be ack to duty in no time. He just needs to sleep it off.”

None of them really believed Porthos’ words, but they shared an agreeing look – both desperately wanting that it happens just like this.

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Besides the few guards, the messenger and their majesties was the great hall of the palace still deserted. D’Artagnan’s heart pounded in his chest as the King stood up, ready to make his statement.

“I confirm that there was a mission for the Musketeer named Aramis. He was supposed to find a spanish spy in between our rows.”

The messenger nodded, even though he didn’t seem pleased with the answer he had gotten. He surely had hoped for the King to deny the mission and to condemn Aramis and Porthos with that.

“But,” the King strode closer to the messenger, walking down the stairs and frowned.

“Why was he found as a spanish soldier? This was an action I haven’t permitted. With joining the Spaniards, Musketeer Aramis has committed high-treason, as he acted against my direct orders. Musketeer Porthos will not suffer under any punishment as he served our country well and killed the Spanish Spy. Aramis, on the other side, will have to face trial here in Paris.”

There was a shocked gasp from the Queen, who caught herself quickly again. The guards in the room – mostly Musketeers – stared at each other in disbelief. D’Artagnan on the other side decided that he needed to act. He stepped forward, taking off the hat that had shielded his face until now.

“Your majesty,” he approached the King and bowed deeply.
“May I speak?”

The King raised a brow as he walked back to his throne.
“What is it, Musketeer?”

“I’ve been on the front too, your majesty. Fought for France since the beginning. As it happens, Aramis had been a friend of mine for some years. He hadn’t come with us – telling us that he would leave the soldiering life behind to live in a monastery. We’ve met him again as he was taken as a prisoner of war. He had told us over his mission – told us that he was ordered to join the spanish army to gain their trust and find the spy.”

“Are you saying that I lied to you?”

The King asked in an outburst of fury. D’Artagnan shook his head, unconsciously taking a step back.
“No, your majesty. I would never think of anything like that. What I meant is, that someone HAS ordered Aramis to join the Spanish. I do not know who, but he surely has gotten more information about the mission from someone different than you, didn’t he? Maybe there was a misunderstanding. What I actually want to say is, that Aramis was and still is a loyal Frenchman and would never betray his country or act against orders of his King.”

The King sighed annoyed.
“I fear, Musketeer, that nice words from you won’t be enough proof Aramis’ innocence. I want him for trial here as soon as possible. THEN, you will have the chance to stand up for your friend.”

With a wave of his hand, King Louis dismissed d’Artagnan and the messenger.

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“He is in no state to travel and certainly not to face a trial!”
Porthos raged, the fury lacing his voice like poison. It took all his strength to keep his angry rants as quiet as possible, to not to wake their brother who slept inside the tent, while they stood in front of it.
D’Artagnan had just arrived, not even bothered to change from his wet clothes into fresh ones as he had ran towards the tent he knew his brothers would wait for him in. He had not waisted any time to explain the matter. But even though he has had several days to come to terms with the situation, not even he was able to hold back his anger.
Aramis was supposed to face trial for a crime he had not committed. After years of giving up his own life, living as someone he was not and spying for his fatherland, after all this time, he should now end in prison. Or worse, on the noose? And why? Because the man who could decide over life and death was a stubborn, infantile, jealous, selfish man. It may was treason to think like this about his king, but d’Artagnan really couldn’t care at all. Wasn’t it also treason that a honorable and loyal musketeer should face trial out of revenge?

This was not right.

Aramis had risked everything to save the country and the ones he loved, and now – after he had succeeded – he was supposed to lose everything nevertheless?

“We will not let them go through with it, will we?” The Gascon asked, his eyes shining with the fear for his brother.
Athos scrunched his face and sighed.

“We will do everything we can to save him.” But I am not sure if we’re able to save him this time.

He kept the words of uncertainty to himself, nevertheless the others seemed to have heard them.
Porthos, stepping closer to both of them and laying one of his bulky hands on each’s shoulder, squeezed them gently.
“We will make it. We always did.”
He reassured as he blended out all his own worries and fears. This time, their enemy was far greater than ever before.
They could not just kill the King. They would need a lot of luck this time.
The sound of a low moan brought them back to the present. Someone had to tell Aramis.
The three musketeers exchanged short glances, each one more unwillingly than the other.
Together they strode back into the tent just to find Aramis sitting upright, face drawn in pain while his left arm was wrapped protectively around his torso.

“You idiot, you should lie down.”
Porthos muttered, not able to keep his mother-hen instincts in check as he hurried over and tried to ease Aramis back down. However, the marksman had different plans and slapped his helping hands away. With eyes full of regret and pain, he then faced his brothers.

“I’ve heard you. The King wants me to face trial?”
Silence followed as no one dared to answer, until Athos finally had mercy with the injured man. Aramis had to know what would happen. He sat down beside his brother, their shoulders brushing against each other. Athos wasn’t quite sure if he did it for Aramis’ or his own comfort, or just to not have to look him in the eyes.

“He lied. Denying that he ever sent you on the mission. They want to bring you to justice for high-treason.”
Athos tongue suddenly felt way too heavy as he waited for Aramis’ reaction. The marksman fell silent, comprehending the words before he fisted his hands into the bedsheets beneath him.
“He’s the King. Whatever he says will be counted as the truth. My words – the real truth – will be worth nothing.”
He whispered, eyes fixed on the ground.
Everything he had done, he had done for nothing.
In the end he would die on the wheel nevertheless and the King would be finally rid of him.

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The travel had felt endless for Aramis and still it had been too short. He had dreaded the day they would reach the familiar walls of Paris, the day he would be put in front of the King.
More than once his brothers had made the offer to help him escape. There were only six more soldiers with them, it wouldn’t have been too hard to get Aramis out of their reach by night. But Aramis was stubborn, has always been. He would not run like a coward or like the criminal the King wanted him to look like. No. He would face trial with pride and strength. He would clear his name and get the honour back he deserved.

But no matter how hopeful he had been, his chest tightened the moment he was able to see the towers of Notre dame and the walls surrounding the city that once had been his home. It had been too many years since he had been there.
And now, it didn’t feel like coming home at all.
Porthos, d’Artagnan and Athos flanked him on his sides, faces drawn into tight lines of worry and anxiety. Even though they understood Aramis’ scruple to flee, they wished he would have accepted their help. They could have faked his death, making sure no one would search for him ever again. He could have lived.
But that wasn’t what Aramis had wanted. He didn’t want to live if it meant a life without honour, always on the run, pretending to be someone he was not. He had enough of this. He wanted his life back, the rank in the Musketeers, his brothers. Running would have meant being alone again and that was something he wasn’t ready to face.
Instead he now had to face trial.
He was guided directly into the Louvre, with no chance to change into clean clothes or wash the dirt of the road off himself. Unkempt and exhausted he was brought right to the King, who had awaited him with a grim face.
Aramis made sure to bow low as he approached the monarch, but then he straightened his arching shoulders and stood his ground.

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Louis couldn’t hold back a victorious grin as this pathetic attempt of a Musketeer walked into the room. The man looked ragged, dirty, exhausted. There were bandages sticking out of his clothes, showing that he was anything but fit. And Louis would make sure he would never be fit again.
He had made sure that all the members of the court would be assembled, so they could start the trial right away. He saw no reason to give this traitor any time to rest or go to his family, if he even had any. And most importantly: He would not give him the opportunity to reach out to Anne, to force himself on her ever again. Anne was his and no one else’s. He should have had this scum be hanged long ago, but he had needed him as a spy. This need had – fortunately – ended once the Spy of the Spanish had been found.
Aramis was now useless to him and would finally get what he deserved.

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It was harder than thought to stay composed as her champion staggered towards the throne. Anne had had enough time to ready herself for this day, but it was never enough. She had hoped that all these years apart would help to hold back her feelings, but it only seemed harder. As she took in the man in front of her, this one fateful night seemed like it had been decades ago.
The war and his mission had taken it’s toll on Aramis. Beside the injuries he had earned, he had lost a great amount of weight. His hair was now reaching his chin and his beard had grown too. She wondered how handsome he would look once he was bathed and his hair brushed. She smiled weakly at the image. Aramis was such a beautiful man. But not only on the outside.
She admired the strength that shone in his eyes and was seen in his posture as he stared Louis down.
After all these years apart, she didn’t want anything more than to reach out to him, take him in her arms and feel his calloused hands on her skin. She yearned for his touch and his lips on hers. Oh, what would she give, just to hear his voice whispering sweet nothings into her ear again?
It broke her heart apart and crushed her lungs to know that she would never be able to do so again. That her husband will probably sign his death today and she could do nothing to stop it.
Louis and Anne had fought many times over the past days, crying and shouting at each other. But the King would not back down.
She may was the Queen but she was still as helpless as every other woman in this country.

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It felt like a scene, badly written and even worse played in one of these theatre plays on the market.
Nothing made sense, people shouted and discussed. There were too many emotions in one room to be real. Everything just washed over them.
None of them had noticed how they had walked closer to the centre of the room, hands on their weapons. Ready to strike. But whom would they fight? The King? It would get them nowhere.
The words vanished once they were spoken, spit flew, a feather scraped over paper endlessly.
They spoke, each in a turn. Stated what had truly happened. Porthos was called a liar. D’Artagnan a young lunatic, who was too confused by the war. And at Athos they laughed.
No shouting and now reasoning was enough.
Aramis, who had everything let wash over him like he wasn’t part of the play, still stood his ground. His shoulders were still broad and his head held high as the King announced the outcome of the trial, which hadn’t been a trial at all.

Once the words were spoken, all hell broke loose.
Not only Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan, but also the other Musketeers who had accompanied them, rushed forward. They didn’t draw their weapons – they may were reckless but not foolish. They tried to reach Aramis but the wall of Guards was just too strong.
Aramis didn’t fight as his hands were pulled roughly behind his back. But he didn’t make it easy for the Guards either. He remained strained, his eyes searching for familiar faces in the crowd.
As he finally caught their eyes, he smiled. It wasn’t a true Aramis smile, that could lighten up the darkest nights. No, when had he last smiled like that?
It was the smile of a defended man, who knew when his end had come. His eyes were too shiny, the smile not broad enough to show his teeth.
The three Musketeers stopped in their tracks, gazing at their friend, who was guided outside the room.
“Hold on!” Porthos said. Pleaded. He didn’t know for what Aramis was supposed to hold on, but he knew he had. He couldn’t lose his brother. He wouldn’t.
A deathly silence then fell over the room until the King ordered the Musketeers to leave.
They walked out, no one daring to talk until the doors was closed behind them.

“He won’t die a traitor.”

The voice - though familiar – was a surprise. It wasn’t loud enough for the other men to hear, but enough that the three friends turned around to the corner. A figure stood there, half hidden by the dark and walls shielded him from the view from the other soldiers.

“Treville.” D’artagnan breathed.

There was still hope.

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Ever since he had been a man of action. Stillness or helplessness were feelings he couldn’t cope well with. Not that he had experienced them often. It just felt wrong to sit around and wait for the inevitable to happen. Out of habit he had tried to pick the locks on the chains, but only managed to scruff his wrists raw and bloody. His legs arched from having to stand for such a long period but with his hands attached to the wall near his head he had no chance to sit. Once in a time he would bend his knees until his thighs trembled from the effort and he had to straighten them again. In the dark cell he had no way of knowing how many hours or days had passed. He had been given some water twice and a hard, old piece of bread once.

It hadn’t been enough to still his hunger but enough to prevent him from starving or dying of thirst. Still, his mouth was dry and his tongue felt way thicker than it should. He tried to swallow his spit to wet his burning throat, but there wasn’t anything to swallow.

His hands had gone numb long ago, leaving only a burning ache in his biceps and shoulders as well as his neck. A glance to his pale and somewhat blueish hands made his heart clench and fearing for his body parts. This short moment of absurd fear caused him to chuckle. He would soon be bound to a giant wheel to shatter his bones while he was still alive and his biggest fear was that his hands would die off.

He wasn’t scared off the death that awaited him though. Death was something he had grown used to to live with and he wasn’t afraid to be judged by God himself. He was sure that God would forgive him for his sins.
He was scared of the moments of pain though. Not because of the pain itself. But he was scared that he would not be able to stay strong through the procedure, that he would give in at some point and show his weakness.

“Never show anyone when you’re hurt.” The words of his father echoed through his head, being hammered into it since he was a child. He feared to not be able to withstand the pain. He promised himself not to scream, but deep down he knew that he would at some point. But he could not. Couldn’t give the King this satisfaction. And couldn’t do it to his brothers, Constance an Anne, or his son (he hoped he would not see it). Oh, sweet Anne. She would be there, he knew. She would watch. He wished she wouldn’t have to see this.
Didn’t want her to be haunted by the pictures. The least he could do was to stay strong, so his screams would not follow her as well.
Oh, sweet Anne, what did she have to endure now? He had seen the pain in her eyes back in the courtroom. He knew that she had fought for him as best as she could. He knew that she hadn’t forgotten their night at the convent and hopefully never would.

His thoughts drifted off to his brothers, who would be there too. He knew it. They would not leave him in times of trouble. But they would be just as helpless as he was. They would have to watch and he feared that they would do something stupid. Attack the guards, yell at the King… he shuddered at the thought that they might be bound to the wheel right after him. No, they could not.
He wished he could talk to them one last time.
All these years he had served his country as a spy in between the spanish, he had missed them. And now, after such a short reunion, they had to separate again. But there were still so many things he wanted to say to them. He wanted to tell d’Artagnan how proud he was of him. That he had become a great man and soldier in the years they had been separated. That he should look out for Constance, even though he knew that Constance was well capable of looking after herself. She would probably slap him when she heard him say it to d’Artagnan. He wished he could hold her in his arms one more time. Tell her that she was one of the strongest women he knew and that he loved her like a sister. After all Constance was a Musketeer in all but name.

He wanted to tell Athos that he was good in what he was doing. That he was a great Captain and even better brother. He wanted to plead him to not go back to the bottle. Not to feel guilty for what had happened to him.
And he wanted to ask Porthos to not mourn for too long. After all he had to look after the reckless d’Artagnan and the suicidal Athos. Someone had to stay sane.
Aramis leaned his head back against the cold wall, that seemed to rob him off his last reserves of body heat with each passing moment. But it was the only way to get some pressure from his weary muscles.
And then, he started to pray. Not for him. No, he hadn’t sunk down so far. He prayed for his loved ones, for the family he had built himself. Prayed that they would stay save once he was gone, prayed that they would be fine, prayed that they did not any extremely stupid reckless foolishness to try to save him.

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“That’s the most reckless, stupid and foolish plan I’ve ever heard.” D’Artagnan huffed.

He would never have thought that he would be the one telling this, and he would have even less thought that it would be his former Captain, now First Minister of War, Treville, he told it.
On the other hand, this wasn’t a situation he would have thought to ever get into either.
Who could have guessed that it would be the Musketeers and the First Minister who would plan an act against the King himself? All of this was so far away from sanity that it seemed like some kind of horrible hallucination.

How had they come to this in such a short time? It felt like yesterday that they’ve found Aramis in Girard’s tent. And like an hour ago, that they had reunited, forgiven all the pain and sorrow.
D’Artagnan caught Porthos’ frown. The taller man tried to stay composed, arms crossed over his chest, but failed miserably. D’Artagnan could see that the man was ready to burst any moment, a ticking bomb who would smash anyone’s head who dared to stay in his way.

“Do you have a better idea, Whelp?”

Porthos asked, fury and annoyance lacing his words as he stared the younger man down. Porthos was angrier as d’Artagnan has ever seen. Angry at the King, that he defrauded Aramis like this. Angry that Aramis was supposed to suffer in such an inhuman way. Angry at Aramis that he had allowed this to happen (). Angry at himself that he hasn’t forgiven Aramis entirely yet.
D’Artagnan shook his head and raised his hands in a surrendering gesture.

“So, any more objections?”

Athos then asked from his place behind the Captain’s desk in the Musketeer Garrison. They had thought it the safest place to discuss such matters. Treville leaned against the same desk, the one that once had been his. His eyes roamed over the assembled men and as after a few moments no one spoke up, he clapped into his hands once.

“Then, what are we waiting for? Let’s prepare.”

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Aramis didn’t stop praying as he heard footsteps in the hallway. Instead the latin words left his lips even faster, with each step that echoed through the prison, his time was running away more and more.
He was just ending one prayer and wanted to start with the next one as he heard a key slipping into the lock. He didn’t want to stop, but the anticipation of who would enter and what was to come took away his breath. Was his earthly time already running out?

He gulped as the door screeched open, revealing two grim looking guards and a third man behind them. Aramis didn’t recognise him, but the way he dressed spoke of royalty. There was no priest with them, so there was still a little bit of hope in Aramis left that his last hours hadn’t begun yet. On the other hand he hadn’t exactly been treated like prisoners normally were. Normally, they would have been told when they would be executed. Normally, prisoners would not be chained like he was inside the cell. They would get a little bit of room to move around, to be able to reach a bucket if they needed to or lie down on a thin mattress of straw. He had no luxury like this.

“Who dares to disturb me? I was just in the midst of an important meeting.”

Aramis spoke, a cheapish grin on his lips. It was nothing but a mask, but he couldn’t help himself. Taking off his mask would show them his real face, the fear in his eyes and he could not allow this to happen.

“I don’t think it would be of any use to tell you my name. After all there’s not much time for you to remember it.”

“So the time has come?” Aramis asked, trying to keep his voice composed. The man grinned darkly as he shook his head.

“Not yet. But soon enough. First, I will make sure you’ll be presented as the King wished to.”

Aramis frowned at this. This could not mean any good.
The Noble stepped forward, a knife now shining in his hand.
Aramis bit his tongue to not make the situation any worse with his sharp comments, but it was a hard fight against himself. On the other hand he wondered what should happen, if he made it worse. The King would surely want him alive to bind him against the wheel. So, the noble man would not kill him. This realization was not as reassuring as he had hoped.
A second later he found the man’s hand on his chin, nails pressing hard into his skin. Aramis could not see the knife now, but only the shining blue eyes of the man. He tensed as he felt something cold meet his cheek and then scraped across his skin. He wanted to draw away but found that he could not because of the tight grip. He soon felt the cold air brush against his skin, where once his beard been. The Noble did not take much time to shave off his facial hair, having him cut several times in doing so.

“What’s this about?”

Aramis asked, openly confused. He felt strangely exposed without his beard.
But before he got an answer, the Noble made short work of his hair, cutting it so short that it was only a few centimetres long. Aramis watched his hair fall to the ground with a sick feeling.

“What this is about? Oh, you will find out soon enough.” The Noble answered, the Knife now ripping open Aramis’ shirt.

Once the fabric fell open and revealed the fading bruises on Aramis’ skin, the noble whistled.

“I guess no one likes traitors, do they?” He grinned wickedly, as he noticed Aramis tensing up at the accusation.

“I’ve never been anything but loyal to my country.”

Aramis hissed between gritted teeth, fury boiling up in him. He shouldn’t be here. All of this was wrong and unfair but there was nothing he could do against it. He had made the King his own personal enemy and now he would pay for it.

“And which country is this, hm?”

The Noble asked, the tip of the knife roaming over Aramis’ exposed chest, causing his muscles to tense up in order to keep still.

“I’m French. I’ve been born and raised in France, why on earth should I betray my country?!”
Aramis almost shouted, straining against his chains and for the first time he spoke out what he thought and let his feelings out. Back in the trial he hadn’t tried to defend him once he noticed that the King turned and twisted his words like he wanted to. So he had kept silent then, let the false accusations and insults to his honour wash over him.
But now there was no reason to hold back anymore. He had nothing to fear anymore. His fate had been settled.

“Oh, don’t understand me wrong. I don’t think you’ve been a traitor from the start. But I know how persuasive the Spanish can be from my own personal experience.”

Aramis frowned, taking in the man in front of him in a more detailed manner than before. If a Noble had been tortured or abducted from the Spanish, he surely would have heard from it.
And then, as his thoughts raced through his head, and he desperately searched for something, anything to give him a hint, it stroke him like a lightning.

“Comte de Rochefort.”

He breathed. The Noble, Rochefort, grinned as he nodded.
It had been at the beginning of Aramis’ career within the Musketeers that he had heard the news of a Comte being abducted and held for interrogation by the Spanish. He had never heard of his release, merely thought the man dead.

“The one and only.”

Rochefort bowed in a mocking gesture, the knife extended from his outspread arm.

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“You don’t have to do this, Constance. We still can search for someone else.”

Porthos offered, pity in his eyes.

“No, you can not and you know that.”

The woman straightened her back, her head held high as she walked past Porthos and towards the front door of her house.

“What are you waiting for, Gentleman?”

She asked, the door held open. She smiled at the three men gathered in her kitchen, lips tight but eyes determined.
She would have laughed at the thought of her neighbour, Marie-Anne, and what the young woman would tell her friends at the market the next day if she saw three men leaving her house - non of them her husband. But the life of one of her brothers was in danger and she didn’t feel like laughing at all. Moreover, she couldn’t care less about any rumours Marie-Anne and her friends spread.

“You’re an angel sent from God himself.”

Treville muttered, placing a gentle kiss on her hand before rushing out of the house first. He had vanished around the next corner in the split of a second.
Athos, Porthos and Constance waited a few moments before following him outside, but took the streets leading into the opposite direction. D’Artagnan was probably already waiting for them.

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Rochefort hadn’t graced him with his presence much longer. The man had been fast and effective in his work but not without taking some sick pleasure from it.
After the Comte had left him alone in his dark cell again, Aramis had sacked into his chains exhausted.
He has had worse. Far worse. Rochefort had merely kicked against his ankle and knee, making sure they were twisted or sprained. It wasn’t as painful as a fracture, but enough to make standing painful. And after all the time he had already spent standing and tiring out his muscles, his legs just didn’t hold on any longer.
All his weight was now on his shoulders, sending a burning pain through his upper body but he could not find the will to get back to his feet.
Alone and in the darkness of his cell, he had lost any sense of time.

There hadn’t been any more visits in his time being imprisoned. He could only guess the time from the empty feeling in his stomach and the arche in his throat or the times he had relieve himself. Being bound like he was, it was an act of deep humiliation. He was somehow glad that he hadn’t eaten or drank in a while, so he hadn’t to dirty himself too much. Still, the smell stung in his nose and he wished for nothing else than a bath.

By the time steps echoed again through the corridor, he felt parched and dizzy from the lack of food and water. He gulped down the bile that rose in his throat as the door opened. There still was no priest in sight to grand him absolution. But Rochefort wasn’t there either.

It were merely two guards coming for him.
One opened the chains that secured him to the wall. His arms fell down heavily to his side, his shoulders screaming in protest. Under normal circumstances, he would have fought his way out now easily. The guards were barely armed and now his hands were only secured with manacles and a short chain in between. He still had enough freedom in his movements to fight. But he had lost any feeling in his arms long ago, so they hang uselessly to his side. He could not lift them even if he wanted to.
Without the chains holding him upright all his weight was put on his twisted knee and sprained ankle. He would have fallen to the ground and hit it face first, if the Guards hadn’t had a strong grip around his arms – not that he felt their fingertips digging into his skin. But it was enough to hold him upright.
Aramis took a deep breath to settle his stomach as he was dragged towards the corridor.

“Is it today?”

He asked. Shocked from the roughness of his voice he cleared his throat but it was of no use.
One Guard grunted his agreement, dragging him further through the prison.
Aramis closed his eyes at that for a short moment of weakness. Only for a second the feeling of dread overwhelmed him. He caught himself fast enough, trying to straighten as much as possible and slow down his racing heart.
As much as he tried to, he wasn’t able to stay on his own feet as he was pulled towards the exit.

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She had squeezed and twisted her fingers for such a long time that they were red and swollen, the rings pinching into her skin. But this small discomfort was nothing against the corset that seemed to close even tighter with each dreadful second they waited. She wished she wouldn’t have to see this but she could not leave. It was the least she could do. Let him see her one last time.
And a little bit, she had to admit, Anne was doing this for herself. See him one more time. Try to soothe her guilt, which was eating her up slowly and painfully.
She was glad that Constance was with her, a constant present by her side. The young woman smiled at her weakly, sad. But there was something in her eyes, shining bright. Hope and strength.
Anne admired her, she had done so from the very first day they had met. Constance had never shown any weakness or fear, no matter how dire the situation.
Anne tried to be like her and lifted her head high and proud as Louis took place beside her. She didn’t return the squeeze of her hand he gave her, instead she watched down into the courtyard as the doors opened with a thud.

Between two Guards a man was dragged inside. She gasped, couldn’t hold it back as realization hit her.
This man was Aramis. Gone was his long hair and well kempt beard. He looked dishevelled, his shirt torn and open, revealing almost everything of his upper body. Only half clothed, naked feet scraping along the floor, he was carried into the middle of the yard. As the Guards stopped and turned to Louis and her, Aramis tried to find his footing again.
He seemed to manage somehow, swaying dangerously as he looked up.

She caught his eyes, brown and shining. Then, there was a twitch of his lips, almost resembling a smile – weren’t it for the bitterness in his eyes. She knitted her fingers again, lips pressing on each other hard. But she didn’t look away. She gulped, trying not to let the tears fall – they could not see, no one could know. She took a deep breath, caging her feelings back inside. A comforting hand was laid on her shoulder and as she looked to the side, she found Constance there, having crept closer to offer comfort.

As she looked back down to Aramis, his attention had already divided to something else. His eyes were searching the cheering crowd. Anne looked out too, sure to find the familiar faces of her Musketeers there.
There were some she recognized but not the ones she had searched for. Had they truly left Aramis in his last minutes?
The words Louis spoke about honour and justice washed over her in a daze and suddenly it was silent.
Aramis was pushed by one of the Guards to walk towards the horrendous wheel. He staggered, lost his balance and fell gracelessly to the ground. As he tried to catch himself, his arm gave in beneath him, sending him face first to the ground.

The crowd cheered, laughed. The guards couldn’t hold back either as they pulled him upwards roughly.
A fire was enflamed in Anne. What had they done to him? Why did they have to humiliate him in his last seconds? She did not see any honour in letting a man die like this.

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As he was strapped to the wheel he felt like he would vomit any moment. The wood pierced into his skin like needles and the manacles were closed so tightly, so they cut into his flesh.
He gulped as he looked into the crowd again, somehow hoping to find his brothers now and praying at the same time that he didn’t. He didn’t want them to see him like this. But he wanted to see them one last time. All this time he had hoped for a miracle. He had wished that they would visit him in his cell, that at least this small comfort would be granted. But it wasn’t.
And now, he would die alone.

Once the Guards also secured the manacles around his ankles, he felt all hope leave his body and the end coming close. It was somehow like in a battle. Like the moment when you’ve lost your weapon and saw a wave of enemies run towards you. But in difference to the battles, he was alone now. There wasn’t Porthos who would throw an opponent through the air or Athos who would stab him for him. Or d’Artagnan, who would have his back. Now, he was completely exposed. Half naked, strapped to a wooden wheel that soon would crush his bones into a thousand pieces.
Strapped like he was, there was not much he could see anymore. But he could still look upwards and see Anne, his beloved Anne, sitting on the balcony. Beside her the child that called himself King.

“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing” Aramis spoke, eyes never leaving the two figures above him – hovering over him like Gods. But as much as Louis thought he was a God, he was just a pathetic poor man, who knew nothing of forgiveness or mercy. If he was anything biblical, he was the devil himself. And Anne, always proud and strong, but still powerless. No God would have been as helpless as her. No, she was just a human.

In the end, they were all only human. Shells of flesh and skin, tearing apart as easily as anything else on this world. Bones, that broke just as easily as a branch. Hearts, that shattered and souls that got lost on their way. In the end, they all died and God would judge them. Only God.
Aramis found comfort in this. It didn’t matter for what he was executed, important was the truth and he was sure that God knew it. The thought that even Louis, the oh so almighty King, would stand in front of the same God sometime and would be judged like anyone else, satisfied him. Aramis’ God would not forgive Louis his sins and this monster would burn in hell – while Anne would be finally his.
They would meet again. He would wait. For her, his son, for Constance and his brothers.
He only hoped that he would have to wait a long time – that they would live a fulfilled and long life to tell stories about later.

Still he couldn’t help but to feel a tinge of disappointment.
He hadn’t been able to find his brothers in the crowd – divided into two sides. The one cheering and insulting, only there to watch some stranger die for their entertainment. The other side composed, silent. Musketeers and even some Ladies he had swooned, the people who knew him.
But nowhere they were to be seen. This alone wasn’t what was disappointing him. It had brought him a little bit of hope even. Because he had thought that when they weren’t in the crowd, watching, they would be out there somewhere, rescuing him. It felt wrong to still hope, to lie to himself. His end was sealed and there was nothing they could have done. But he wanted to believe – in God’s mercy and his brother’s ability so save him nevertheless.

But they could not. And he knew it the moment the wheel started to shift. He gulped down the bile that rose in his throat as the ground came dangerously close to his feet, the wheel not stopping.
They still had time to save him – he thought. Prayed. His eyes hushed over the crowd, only stopping for a second on Anne and Constance, not really seeing.
They weren’t there.

And neither was the sound of gunfire or swords, no fight, no horses.

He was alone.

The little spark of hope he had left burned out as his feet were caught between wood and the stony ground.
He bit on his lips to not let sounds of pain leave his lips as the wheel kept turning, burying his feet underneath it – crushing them.
He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. All his strength was required to keep silent – to not give the King his satisfaction. If he had been able to look up, he would have seen the toothy smile disappear from the King’s face as he noticed that Aramis would not break easily – not as easily as his bones did. He would have seen Anne, her nails digging deeply into Constance’s hand, eyes shining too bright for a Queen.

He would have seen Constance, her eyes darting around nervously.

But he could not.

Chapter Text

Finally.

Constance sent a brief prayer upwards, before springing into action.

“Please excuse me, Your Majesty.”

She muttered, entwining her hand from Anne’s, while making sure to let her words come out slurred. Anne, too shocked by what was happening in the Courtyard, did not react.
Constance made sure to trip over her feet once while she darted towards the entrance before stopping and making a show of holding herself upright on the railing of the balcony.
It was one of the Red Guards who noticed it first, stepping out of line with a hint of worry.

“Are you alright, Madame?”

Constance nodded, lips tightly pressed on each other.

“I’m not used to such… shows.”

She breathed before taking another wobbly step as if she would want to leave the scene. But before she could come far, she let out an exaggerated breath and let herself fall forward – right onto the feet of the King.
The Red Guard had not reacted fast enough to catch the swooning woman, causing the King to jump up in frustration.

“Get her away from me!”

He screeched as he tried to get his feet from underneath Constance, who stayed stubbornly still.
The unrest upon the balcony earned the attention of most of the crowd as well as the Guards who were with their Majesties. The men who turned the wheel stopped to look what all the shouting was about, leaving Aramis panting and confused. Not that he really noticed what was happening around him as pain shot through his legs.
This was enough for chaos to erupt.

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Four shots echoed through the courtyard simultaneously.
Before anyone could react, the two men on the Wheel as well the two closest Guards to it, were down.
Several things happened at the same time.

Constance, who was slumped between two Red Guards on the balcony, slipped the hidden knives out of her sleeves, stabbing the men before they knew what was happening. Blood splattered on her dress, the blue one she once had been gifted by the Queen. But she couldn’t care less.
Constance huffed about the thought that she should be a Damsel in distress.
In the meanwhile Porthos had found his way towards the balcony, rushing through the door, sword drawn. With the two Guards already down, it was almost too easy to struck down the other two with the pommel of his sword as he ushered Constance away.

He shot an apologetic gaze towards the Queen, only to see that she was – even if she was openly shocked – relieved.
It was the King who was panicking, screaming like a little child as he was left defenceless without his Guards. The self-centred man probably thought he would be killed just like his Guards. Porthos could do it, of course. It would be easy to kill the monarch now, without his guards and power. But, of course, this was not part of their plan. They did not want to put a whole country into war and panic. They just wanted to save one of their own.

So Porthos ran after Constance, hurrying down the steps until they stood in the Courtyard.
A large part of the crowd had disappeared, only a few brave ones still were there as they wanted to know what would happen next.

While Constance and Porthos had made short work of the Guards on the balcony, Athos and d’Artagnan had swiftly dispatched the ones in the courtyard. Meanwhile Treville had ran towards the wheel, turning it into the opposite direction as it had been done before. Aramis moaned pitifully as his broken feet were released. Treville hushed some reassuring words to him but was not sure if the man really noticed that he was bound loose. That it was over.

Constance had already run towards the gates, where they had secured their horses and lead them inside, now that there was no immediate danger to them. At least for now. They had to flee fast before more Guards would come.
Until now they had been lucky. The gathered Musketeers stood at the side, watching the proceedings with uncertainty. The King screamed at them to move – to kill the traitors. But they could – would not- kill their First Minister, founder of the regiment, nor their current Captain or his brothers. And most importantly they would not be the reason Aramis died. So, they did nothing, except for fidgeting nervously.

“Help me get him up.”

Treville ordered as he dragged a barely conscious Aramis towards a horse. Porthos was there immediately. He waited for Treville to mount, before pushing Aramis onto the beasts back. Treville made sure to hold on tight before galloping out of the Courtyard, knowing that the others would follow.
They rode as fast and hard as possible, forcing people to jump out of the way as the beasts raced through the narrow streets. It didn’t take long for the first Red Guards to follow, shooting aimlessly at the riders.

D’Artagnan and Athos at the back turned around as best as possible, shooting back while Constance reloaded for them. Porthos was now in front of Treville and Aramis, making sure that no one would attack from the front.
It was at one of the many crossroads as Porthos was forced to stop his horse in a sickening severity, causing the poor animal almost to stumble. The beast whinnied and Porthos made a mental note to apologies to it later. But for now, there was nothing he could have done. Some Guards had cut off their path, blocking the way they had wanted to take to leave the city. The first were already shooting – but they were still too far away to be a real danger yet. He looked to the right and the left. If they rode to the right, they would come closer to the centre of the city – exactly where they did not wanted to go.

But the left path seemed so obvious. There could be more Guards waiting for them.
He cursed and then yanked at the reins, causing the horse to turn right. The others followed him without hesitation, trusting Porthos’ instincts and knowledge of the streets enough.
He pushed his horse further and further, making a few hard turns to take some secret paths that would lead them back to the gates of the city, as he heard the doomed shout of Athos.

“They’re coming too close!”

And he was right. As Porthos turned his head, he saw the Red Guards dangerous close to Athos and d’Artagnan, who had fallen behind a bit. They could not ride as fast as Porthos and fight at the same time.

“We split up!”

Porthos decided and nodded towards Treville his encouragement. The older man seemed uncertain, not wanting to leave his men behind. But he had some precious charge and everything would have been for nothing if Aramis was taken back by the Guards. So Treville spurred his horse further, passing Porthos. On Porthos order, Constance followed on Treville’s heels.

“We can’t kill them all.”

D’Artagnan suddenly stated, before sending another bullet through a man’s chest. And he was right. They were just too many. Moreover, they weren’t the true enemy and they didn’t want to massacre innocent soldiers.

“We just have to distract them long enough and then flee unnoticed.”

Porthos argued, turning his horse into the opposite direction as Treville had rode.
Athos and d’Artagnan followed him, only shooting once in a while when a Guard would come too close.

“And how are we supposed to do it?”

Athos asked over the sound of bullets whistling through the air, his head ducked so it would not be such an easy target.
Porthos only grinned, urging his horse to be a little bit faster. He had recognized a familiar bakery and knew that they weren’t far away from his destination.
Once the first half-build, half broken-down houses appeared, Athos and d’Artagnan also understood what he was planning to do. Porthos was leading them into the Court of Miracles.
The moment they were in there, earning curious glances from it’s habitants Porthos pointed behind him.
“Red Guards are coming. Want to take the whole place apart.”
He warned, acting a little panicked to have the wanted reaction. At this moment they were all glad that they had taken their uniforms off.
The three men rode off as fast as they had come, searching their way through the narrow streets of the Court. They did not see the Red Guards being attacked by the residents, but they did hear the shouts and screams, grinning.

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//Before…//

They knew they could not just walk into the courtyard.
The Red Guards knew them too well and would have had a sharp eye on them. Being seen too early could have taken all the advantage of surprise that they had.
So, while the people rushed through the gates to watch the execution of their brother, they sneaked through the servants’ entrance. They were lucky that most servants had already left, leaving the kitchen that they passed through first, unaccompanied.

Unluckily, not all Guards were as punctually as the servants – or maybe not as eager to see a man being executed in such a cruel way. Either way, there were still Guards roaming through the corridors, making it harder to get into the courtyard unnoticed than thought.
Treville and Athos had waited around one corner, taking out two wandering guards silently, as they clubbed them down with the hilts of their rapiers. Porthos was already on his way towards the stairs to come to Constance’s aid when it was needed.
Speaking of Constance. D’Artagnan tried to communicate to Treville and Athos that they had to be faster. After all their plan had been that Constance would start with her distraction once she got a signal that they were there and ready to fight. If she would act too early and they weren’t there the momentum of surprise would not be on their side. Which they needed once they were terribly outnumbered.
There were still a few more corners to round and more Guards to bring down silently – they could not afford a fight and the risk to being overheard now.
As they had finally reached the corridor that lead outside, d’Artagnan peered through a window – gasping.

“Hurry! Athos!”

He hissed, already seeing Aramis being crushed by the wheel. They were too late.
Athos took out the little mirror he had hidden in his pocket and steered the sunlight so that it would fall into Constance’s direction.
D’Artagnan waited, long horrible seconds in which Aramis fought against the pain and Constance started her act.
The moment Constance had managed to gather some of the Guards around her, close enough to strike – he gave the signal to fire.

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Aramis was not aware of much of what was happening around him. But he had noticed that the cheering of the crowd had stopped, changed into screams of fear. And even over the blood rushing through his ears he could hear the four gunshots going off. He felt that the wheel had stopped moving, leaving him hanging from it, panting. He would have thought that it would be a comfort once the wheel had stopped, but it was not. His feet were still tripped beneath it, the pain like fire in his legs.
There were more shouts and he felt the urge to find out what was happening. Why had the wheel been stopped? Did the King want to let him be tortured even longer than necessary? He gulped at the thought. He wanted this to be over. One way or another.
Then, in between the thick cloud of pain that dazed his mind, he managed a rational thought.
If there were shots, someone had to shoot.
And as long as there wasn’t a rebellion against the crown happening right now – there weren’t many reasons why someone would shoot in this courtyard now. His heart raced at the thought, hope inflaming in his chest.
He barely dared to force his eyes open, too scared to be disappointed again. But he did it anyway. His vision was blurry and there was not much he could make out but some random shapes. He blinked a few times, lonely tears leaving his eyes and clearing his view.
He almost broke out in hysterical laughter at the thought.
They were there.

Chapter Text

Present…

Between Constance and himself they managed to get Aramis down from the horse and settled against a nearby tree.
During the hard ride through the Parisian streets, Aramis had fallen unconscious every now and then before waking up again, too confused to know what was happening or in too much pain to care. The soldier had gratefully sacked in Treville’s grip, knowing well that the man would not let him fall. That he was save in his arms.
Now, outside of the gates of the city and hidden in the first forest that they could reach, Constance was looking after the horses as Treville knelt down beside the injured Musketeer.

“I’m sorry, we’ve been to late.”

Treville sighed, his eyes falling on the ripped trousers of his soldier and the disformed feet.
He roamed through the saddlebag he had taken with him from the horse and which Constance had packed thoughtfully before they had left for the rescuing mission.

“This is going to hurt, my son.”

Treville warned, even though Aramis didn’t seem conscious enough right now to care or answer. It was probably the best like this.
Sitting in front of the injured limbs, Treville was unsure where to start. The bones had to be set, but there were also gaping wounds on Aramis’ feet, that should be cleaned and stitched.
First thing first.
Treville breathed in deeply, his fingers carefully roaming over the feet and ankles where most of the damages were done. He thought he could fix this. He had feared that the bones would be too shattered to be put back in their rightful place, but as much as he could tell, the damage was not irreparable.

“Constance? Could you hold him down?”

Treville asked without looking up, knowing that the woman would not have gone too far.
He heard her light voice agree, followed by the rustling of skirts. Moments later Constance knelt by the other side of Aramis, hands pressed down on his thighs with as much strength she could muster.

“One, two-“

Treville’s hands pulled, until he felt the bones shifting beneath the skin. In the same moment Aramis decided to come back to consciousness, a raw – uncontrolled scream tore from his throat.
After the first seconds of shock, he fell back against the tree, glassy eyes falling on the two familiar faces in front of him.
Treville saw him frown in confusion and decided to force himself to a reassuring smile.

“We’re out of Paris. In safety. The others will find us soon.”

He explained, not sure what of their travel Aramis had really been aware of.

“Where? The others?”

Aramis rasped, a shaking hand trying to push him more upright. Constance was there immediately, helping him to sit up straighter against the trunk.

“On their way.”

She assured without explaining more. The Musketeer was definitely not up to long stories now and she could not allow him to worry now. She did that enough for two of them.

“We still have to set your other leg.”

Treville then spoke, wanting to distract Aramis from his brothers and not wait any longer with the inevitable.
Aramis gulped but nodded.

“Do it.” He closed his eyes, hands gripping tightly into the earth beneath him.
This time Treville didn’t bother to count. Most times the anticipation of pain was worse than the pain itself. Instead he made sure to make fast movements without much hesitation.
Aramis buckled beneath him but held back a scream this time.
The act left the injured Musketeer panting, eyes closed tightly as he tried to fight against the pain radiating through his limbs.

“Drink something.” Constance offered, holding a skin to his lips and Aramis drank greedily as if he hadn’t had anything for days. Which, Treville thought, was actually likely.

“Not too much at once.”
Constance warned and took the skin away, leaving Aramis whimpering for more.

“Later.” She assured, patting his knee carefully.

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“I think we’ve lost them.”

D’Artangan exclaimed as he looked back to the gates of the city one more time. Athos nodded his agreement, but his face was set into a grim mask. They had won this battle for now, but the war was still going strong. They haven’t reached Treville, Aramis and Constance yet – didn’t even know if they had made it out of the city. All they could do was keep riding and hope that they would be at their meeting point. If not… For once he didn’t have a plan for that. They would return to Paris and try to find them, of course they would. But he wasn’t sure if they would be able to succeed a second time. So, he did something he hadn’t done in so many years.
He prayed. He didn’t clasp his hands or mouthed the reassuring latin words, but his thoughts thought out some almighty creature, asking it for help.

“They will be fine.”

Porthos suddenly said into the tensed silence, apparently able to read minds. Athos nodded, but his fingers were still curled too tightly around the reigns and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I hope you are right, mon ami.”

Athos admitted, spurring his horse further on. They should reach the others in a few minutes. ‘If they even made it’ his treacherous mind called out.

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Constance and Treville had gone out of Aramis’ earshot once the exhausted man had gone limp against the trunk he was leaning against. If he was asleep or unconscious they couldn’t tell, but either way they did not want to disturb his rest. Treville was eyeing their surroundings with suspicion, his pistol and sword clasped tightly in his hands. Constance had grabbed her pistol and dagger as well, anxiously awaiting someone to find them. She hoped it would be Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan but she knew the chances stood better that it would be the Red Guards, following their obvious trail. There hadn’t been time to hide the horses’ hove prints or any other traces they had caused. If the others hadn’t been able to distract the Red Guards long enough, they would be presented on a silver plate.
The urge to keep going, to take Aramis and ride far away was burning in her chest. But they couldn’t. D’Artagnan was still out there and she would not leave before she felt his steady presence by her side again. She needed him. They needed him.

And she knew just as well that Treville would not leave his three best men behind. Even though she did not miss the concerned gaze the older man shot towards Aramis every now and then, or the protective way he had carried Aramis on his horse. Or the fatherly affectionate way he had calmed Aramis after they had set his bones. She had always known that the four Musketeers were the First Minister’s, more or less secret, favourites. But now it became apparent to her that Aramis was more to Treville than just one of his best men. She knew that the marksman had been one of the first men ever joining the Musketeers but she had been oblivious to the strong bond connecting the former Captain and his soldier.

She was ripped out of her thoughts as the sound of hooves was carried towards them. Treville spun around immediately, his pistol aimed at whoever might disturb them. Constance followed his lead, determined to not let any more harm come towards Aramis who was seated savely behind them.
So distracted by the possible upcoming enemy, they did not notice Aramis stirring awake. Instinct had kicked in, overwhelming his exhaustion and forcing his eyes open as he noticed the obvious tension in their small camp. His blood rushed through his ears, blocking out most of the sounds for a few seconds. Just as the world had stopped spinning around him, the rush seemed to calm down and he finally heard the horses too. He gulped, his fingers reaching to where his weapons belt once had been and grasping air.

“A weapon.” He rasped, voice rough and barely carrying over to Constance and Treville, who stood in front of him, back turned to him.
They both swirled around in surprise, eyeing him with concern.

“My feet are broken, not my hands.”

He rasped as he held out a shaky hand. Constance sighed but handed him the second pistol she had hidden beneath her skirt, earning a short look of surprise from Treville. She just shrugged, placed the weapon in Aramis’ hand and fixed her skirt.

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Not having thought about announcing themselves, pure worry causing them to be reckless, the three Musketeers rushed towards the meeting point just to be greeted by three pistols aimed at them.

“Whoa, it’s us!”

Porthos shouted, having raised his hands in a mock display of innocence. The three pistols were lowered with a relieved sigh.

The Musketeers dismounted hastily. D’Artagnan ran towards Constance, hugging her tightly and pressing a kiss onto her head.

“You’re save.” Both of them muttered with relieve, before grinning at each other for thinking exactly the same thing.
Porthos and Athos hugged Treville shortly, giving him a clap on his shoulder while doing so, before hurrying over to Aramis who had let the pistol fall beside him once he knew there was no threat. Glassy eyes danced from Porthos’ face to Athos’ while a weak smile was on his lips.

“Thank you, mon amis.” Aramis breathed.

TRAITORTRAITOR

"What now?"

Aramis asked, leaning heavily against the tree, which was the only thing holding him upright at the moment. His feet were throbbing painfully, and almost as bad was his head. The days without a decent meal or enough water were taking it's toll on the marksman. Constance had placed a water skin by his side, but once he started to drink to stem the awful thirst, his stomach rebelled.
He just wished he could lie down and sleep. But he knew he couldn't. Even though they weren't in Paris anymore they were still far too close for comfort.
The others, after having him checked over for the thousands time, had sat down in a half circle around him. Constance was elegantly seated on a horse blanket d'Artagnan had given her, even though she had protested against it.

Taking them in, Aramis wondered if he could look even worse than them. All of them had dark, tired circles beneath the eyes. They were covered in dust and blood, while their hair was wet from sweat and clinged to their brows. Even the beautiful, graceful Constance looked wracked. Her hair was a mess, falling out of the ponytail she must have had earlier. Her dress was dirty and creased.

"Do you feel up to riding?" Athos asked, brows furrowed.

Aramis knew it was more a rhetorical question, really. There was no way they would be able to stay here. Even if he wasn't feeling like sitting on a horse for hours - which he really wasn't - it would change nothing. If they had to, they would drag his unconscious body behind them. This small inconvenience that riding was, was still much better than staying were they were.

So Aramis nodded his head and put a playful smile on his lips.

"Of course. I'm fine."

He could almost hear the suppressed groan from the others, Porthos even rolled his eyes at this. They all knew he wasn't fine. His brothers had climbed over the wall he had careful built up over his earlier years. And Constance and Treville had never taken any of what he said for real.
Still, he wasn't ready to let the wall crumble for earnest. Instead he placed a few more brinks on it, hoping that it would hold a little while longer. He wasn't ready to see what was laying behind it.

"Then let's go. You will be riding with Constance, she is the lightest and the horse will not tire that fast." Treville announced and got to his feet.
Aramis knew better than to argue. After all, Treville was right. Even though it hurt his pride to having to rely on someone else while riding - especially a woman. Not that he didn't think that Constance was capable to ride with him, but it should be the other way around. He, on the back of a horse, carrying a damsel in distress in front of him.
Now he had to wait for Porthos and Athos to help him get up. He bit back a moan as his feet scraped over the ground as his brothers slung their arms around him.

"Sorry."

Porthos muttered, concentrated to not hurt his friend any more than necessary. Between the two of them, they got Aramis carried over to the horses without further incidents. Constance already sat on top and scurried further to the head of the animal so Aramis could sit behind her.
Porthos had to lift Aramis on his waist, so he would not have to use his feet while mounting up. He thought he really could not think further until he had to scoop his arms around Constance for support.

“What if they track our traces?”

Aramis then asked, worry glancing in his eyes. He definitely didn’t want to risk getting caught again. And even more he didn’t want to take the risk that his brothers, Treville or Constance would be caught. There were even more questions running through his mind, like what will become of them. He didn’t worry about himself though. Being alive was enough for him, even if it would mean living life in the Exile. But there was no way that the others hadn’t been recognized as they saved him. They would have to be as careful as he. He didn’t want that – never did. Knowing that all these people had given up the life they had known, just to safe him. To be traitors to their own King and Country just for his damned sake. He was not entirely sure if or how he could ever live with a burden like this. But he kept his mouth shut – for now. There were more urgent matters for now and he could worry and ask questions once they were all safe.

TRATORTRAITOR

Before…

The small room, which served as a kitchen, dining and living room in one, was way too crowded. The three chairs that were placed around the table were already taken, so d’Artagnan and Porthos resigned to lean against the wall. D’Artagnan had taken his usual spot by the fireplace, while Porthos stood by the window. Constance, Treville and Athos were leaning over the table to look at the map that was spread in front of them, while Porthos and d’Artagnan could glance above their backs on it.

“Assumed we truly make it into the courtyard undetected, Constance manages to attract enough attention for us to strike, we are perfectly on time, get Aramis free and flee out of the Courtyard without any losses…”

Athos went through their plan, obviously not content with it. But as long as he didn’t have a better one, they would have no choice than to take this one.

“Don’t say it in such a negative way.”

Porthos muttered from the place by the window, hands running through his beard as his thoughts raced. Athos was right. Of course. Athos was never wrong. Athos knew that the plan would not succeed, that something would go wrong. It always did. There were too many risks, too many options left open. But it was the best they had. He wished he knew something better, but he didn’t. And their time was running thin.
Athos sighed, pointing with his finger to the spot where the execution would be planned to take place.

“Assumed we get out of here. What then? We’ll have to flee through the streets, hoping that the horses won’t spook when we ride through crowds.”

“We split up. Treville, Constance and Aramis will take the fastest way out of the city. We will be at their backs and in the front as long as possible – if the Red Guards should catch up we will split up and distract them.”

D’Artagnan said as if it was the most obvious thing to do. Maybe it was. But the thought to leave Aramis behind again… Neither of them liked it. Not that they didn’t trust Constance or Treville, but they weren’t them.
Nevertheless Athos nodded his agreement before Treville’s finger pointed at a small forest just outside the city gates.

“We will meet there if we should have to split up.”

“And then what? They will follow us, track our traces. We can’t outrun them forever. The horses will be tired by then.”

Constance frowned. She didn’t like any of this. Fighting against the King, being a traitor, running away, leaving everything she knew behind. But it was the right thing to do. They would save Aramis from an unjustified agonizing death and Queen Anne from so much pain.
If the life of one of the men she saw as a brother meant to leave Paris behind – she would do it over again. But if she did this, she needed it to work. She didn’t want to risk everything and then loose it all.

“We’ll split up again.” D’Artagnan spoke, coming closer to the table, his fingers tracing two roads on the map to a point where they met again.

“Athos will ride on the southern road while I take the western one. Constance, Treville and Aramis will keep going straight through the forests and fields.”

Porthos frowned. “And where am I in all of this?”

“You, mon ami” d’Artagnan clasped his hand on the broader man’s back “will follow Treville and Constance and cover theirs and your tracks. The Guards shall follow Athos and me. Once we reach the place the roads are furthest apart-“ d’Artagnan pointed at two villages “we will start covering our traces too. We should have gotten enough distance between us and the Guards until then. Then we can come together again.”

D’Artagnan pointed at the first city he had searched out where both roads crossed again.

“I don’t like all this splitting up.” Porthos muttered.

“Do you have another idea?” D’Artagnan challenged, arms crossed in front of his chest. Porthos shook his head, no.

“Athos and I should switch places. I’m a better rider than he and he a better swordsman.” Treville then spoke earning uncertain glances form the others.

The others exchanged a few uncertain glances, before agreeing. Treville had a point there.

“Then it’s settled.”

TRAITORTRAITOR

Present…

“Don’t your worry ‘Mis, it’s all planned out. We will meet up again in Troyes.”

Porthos assured with a tight smile. As Treville and d’Artagnan steered their horses in different directions understanding doomed into Aramis’ eyes.

“You’ll be on your own?” He asked, shocked. “No I can’t let you do this. If they get you-“

“Aramis, calm down. They won’t get us.” D’Artagnan hushed.

“Not as long as we leave now. We shouldn’t wait any longer though.” Treville added.

Aramis gulped but he had to trust in his brothers’ plan – even if he didn’t like it at all.

“God’s speed, d’Artagnan, Minister.” He cocked his head towards them with a tight smile which they returned before spurring their horses into a gallop.

“I’m right behind you.” Porthos then assured as Athos and Constance spurred their horses on as well, taking Aramis with them unwillingly. The marksman looked back as long as possible to where Porthos kept behind until he vanished from his sight.

“He will cover our traces and then catch up with us eventually.” Athos explained as he noticed the pure worry on the injured man’s face.

“Was this your plan, Athos?” Aramis then asked, a frown forming on his face.

He could have sworn to see Athos’ lips twitch to something like a smile as he shook his head.

“D’Artagnan’s. Do you really think I would come up with something as reckless as this? This plan sounds even more like it could be yours, as suicidal as it is.”

Aramis huffed out a laugh and nodded his agreement.

“Will it work?” He then asked, quiter. There was an unnerving silence as Athos thought.

“Until now nothing went wrong.” He then decided to say instead of answering Aramis’ question. But the marksman could answer it himself.

“There’s always something that goes wrong when it comes to our plans.”

And when it hadn’t happened yet, it would happen soon enough.

Chapter Text

At first, Porthos made sure to cover any trace that could lead into the direction Athos and the others had taken. Blurring the tracks of the horses and covering them up with leaves, getting rid of broken branches. He feared that he wouldn’t have much time left as it was necessary, so he only covered the traces for a good hundred feet – praying that the Red Guards would be too lazy to search further away.

Then, he rushed back to the camp, climbing through the trees to not make any traces himself, towards where his horse still waited patiently. He risked a glance towards Paris, cursing that he hadn’t Aramis’ sharp eyes. He didn’t see anyone yet – but that didn’t mean anything. The high walls of the town were nothing but a blur to his eyes and he couldn’t be sure to not mistake a person with a tree.
But even if he did see correctly and there were no one following them until now, it didn’t mean they would not come soon enough. He hurriedly mounted his horse and followed Treville’s traces, pushing his horse to it’s limits. He rode on until they were about twenty minutes away from the camp before deciding that it was far enough for the start. He then lead the animal back into the forest, covering their tracks behind them. He needed twice the time to get back.

Back at their camp he once again looked out for the Guards and wasn’t disappointed now. Of course they had found their tracks, following them directly towards their camp – the place he was right now. They weren’t that far away anymore, maybe fifteen minutes behind. He cursed. He needed more time, but it was running thin.
He turned his horse around harshly, now following d’Artagnan’s path. It was harder this time as he had to make sure that he couldn’t be seen but at the same moment he had to make sure that there were two well-visible tracks into d’Artagnan’s direction.
The Guards had to think that they’ve split up into two groups instead of three in order to keep Aramis safe. Porthos just hoped that the Guards were stupid enough to follow the tracks and to not search for more once his own tracks got lost.

The Red Guards HAD to get suspicious once there was only one track left in each direction. After all, horses didn’t just vanish. But they had to hope that they would have gotte enough distance between them and the Guards by then.
He followed d’Artagnan’s trace before turning back around. He had to follow Athos, Constance and Aramis now. Making sure that there were no traces to be found at all and covering their backs. It would have been so easy to get back undetected hadn’t it been for his horse. It was one thing for a human to climb through a forest without leaving any traces. But it was a completely different challenge for a horse. He had to lead the animal and stop every few metres to go back and cover their tracks.
It was slow work.

-----

Somewhere southern from Paris
D’Artagnan spurred Justine on and on. Her fur was sweat soaked and glistened in the afternoon sun. He barely heard the puffing breaths of the animal over the sound of his own panting. D’Artagnan’s hair was, just as the fur of the horse, wet and stuck to his brows, leaving him to wipe a drop away every few minutes to stop it from falling into his eyes. He glanced back too often, making the horse skittish. D’Artagnan cursed himself, he knew better than to make animals nervous. Especially the animal his and his brother’s life’s depended on. But he couldn’t stop looking back, searching for the Red Guards he knew would be coming after him. Porthos would make sure they did. Except something happened to Porthos… except he was seen… No. D’Artagnan shook his head to clear the dark thoughts from his mind. He would not dare to think like this.

They’ve come so far, they couldn’t – would not stop now. They would make it. All of them.
He slowed down his horse a little as he noticed how it got weaker with each passing minute.
“Hold on, beauty. Just a little bit longer.”
He assured gently, patting the neck of Justine. She was a fine horse for sure, well trained, fast and strong. But racing for such a long distance would have taken it’s toll on every horse. Justine was no exception.
D’Artagnan’s heart arched as he thought of what he may have to do. Give her up to some random farmer to change to a new, fresh horse. But if they didn’t get enough distance between Paris and themselves soon he would have to leave her behind. And as their plan didn’t involve to ever return to Paris, he would not be able to get her back. Such a fine horse given away to some lonely farmer. It would be a shame.

-----

Somewhere eastern from Paris.

Treville had just passed Noisy-le-Grand, making sure to not take a road too close to the village and instead rode a big curve around it. The village was one of the last ones before Paris and so was a common place for travellers if they knew they would not make it till Paris before the sun set. And a place common for travellers was a place common for soldiers, Red Guards or Musketeers to gather when they returned from a mission. He could not risk meeting anyone of these kinds yet.
He knew that it would be inevitable that Red Guards would cross their way sometime. He was not a stupid man, even liked to think of himself as intelligent when it came to military knowledge. And so he was not gullible enough to think that their plan would work without any sacrifices. It was the real reason why he had offered himself to ride instead of Athos. He knew he could not save everyone and he dearly hoped that d’Artagnan would be fine – but he at least tried. And when he could at least safe dear Athos, he would do it. Not that d’Artagnan wasn’t as dearly to him as Athos, oh he loved each of these men, but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. D’Artagnan was their best horseman, without any concurrence close by and so it wasn’t even debatable if he would ride or not. But Athos, Athos he could safe.

Treville has not ridden as hard or fast as possible. His horse sweating, but still far away from being too exhausted to keep going. He told himself that he wanted to keep it going as long as possible, told himself that he wasn’t giving up, but deep down, buried in his heart, he knew. He would rather give himself up than these four men he called sons (of course he only called them this in his thoughts, in his heart. He would never dare to say this out aloud, but he guessed they knew it nevertheless. He hoped they did. Aramis surely knew. Had known at least – many years ago, before Savoy ripped them apart. He hoped Aramis still knew.).

The Minister had no doubt in Porthos ability to cover up Aramis’, Athos’ and Constance’s traces. After all he was the best of them to read tracks, so he was the best choice to cover them as well. Neither he doubted Porthos ability to stay hidden. But what he doubted was d’Artagnan’s luck. The boy was a magnet for trouble and Treville feared that the Red Guards would rather follow d’Artagnan than himself. And then he feared for Porthos too. Because if the man saw the Red Guards following d’Artagnan, noticed them coming too close – because they would eventually – he would endanger himself. Porthos would not let d’Artagnan fight this battle alone, of course he would not. None of them would. So all he could do was to pray that the Red Guards would find his tracks better, follow him rather than d’Artagnan.

Treville wasn’t scared of what could happen if they got to him. Not because he was the First Minister (he was damn sure he had lost this title anyway), but because he was ready to give himself up for his Musketeers, the sons he never had. It didn’t matter if the Guards would kill him right away or interrogate him more forcefully than necessary or drag him back until he kneeled in front of the feet of the King. It didn’t matter what happened to him as long as the others were safe. And it would not matter what they did to him. He would just grin and wait, wait till it’s over. Knowing that he had done the only right thing. That he had done something right for once.

----

Somewhere southeastern from Paris.

Athos frowned at the sky as if it was insulting him personally. The sun was setting, turning the blue into an orange shade and threatened to wrap them in darkness too soon. They hadn’t gotten as far as hoped. Constance’s horse had soon shown signs of tiring, taking two passengers with it showed to be too much for the animal. So they had swapped horses but didn’t dare to ride as fast as before so that the other horse would hold out longer. Aramis had fallen asleep – or unconsciousness (who really knew?) soon after their departure, being a dead weight behind Constance since the beginning. They had soon transferred him to the front of the saddle, so Constance could hold him upright easier. Even though she was one of the strongest women Athos knew, he soon noticed signs of exhaustion written in tight lines on her face. But they could only switch when it really didn’t work like this any longer, they had to keep the horses as fresh as possible. The many pauses to switch horses and replace Aramis had taken too much time.

Athos didn’t doubt that Porthos had done a good job with covering their tracks, but still it was best to get as much distance as possible between them and Paris.

“We will have to search for place to rest soon.”

He announced, noticing how a floc of birds flew towards a nearby forest, probably returning to their nests for the night.
Constance nodded while readjusting her grip on Aramis who had once again slipped further down.
“We have to look after his injuries as well.” Athos agreed before spurring his horse on a little bit more. If they would rest soon anyway there was no reason to why not ride a little faster for a while longer.
He knew Constance followed his example by the sound of the hooves hammering against the dirt beneath them.
Searching for a place to sleep, he hoped that they would get through the night without further incidents.

TRAITORTRAITORTRAITOR

To be honest he had been surprised as they finally came. He wasn’t too surprised to not be ready but surprised enough to look twice if it truly could be them. At noon on the second day of being on the road he had started to cover his tracks, just as they had planned out. They had hoped that the Red Guards would stop their search once they wouldn’t be able to find any tracks. Apparently they hadn’t stopped. Or he hadn’t been as careful as he had thought he was. Either way, the Red Guards had somehow found him. Their horses whirled up brown clouds of dust, covering the grey shade of the sky. It would soon enough rain, the water washing away all their tracks and the dust from their skins. He hoped the rain would make it impossible for the Guards to follow the others, if they even had searched for them. But as far as he could see, there were only four men coming up to him, so the chances were high that they had split up earlier.
He decided to stay where he was as long as possible. Hidden beneath thick bushes, his horse a good hundred feet away, resting on a small creak. Maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t seen him yet and would not notice the sticks he had accidently crumpled while walking towards his hideaway. Maybe they would just keep on riding, missing him by just a few feet and never be able to find him again.
But, he knew, there were just too many maybes in this hope to full fill itself.

So, he kept still and held his breath once they came closer. He ducked as deep as possible, his eyes watching them from between a gap in the thicket.
He watched them passing him, not shooting a second glance into his direction. Until the last of the men passed his hiding place, his eyes narrowing on the small forest. Probably thinking that it would be a great place for a break – or to hide. He gulped, his pulse pounding in his throat and the blood rushing through his ears as he tried to calm his heartbeat. He had the feeling the Red Guard had to hear his heart hammering in his chest, even though he knew it was impossible.
The fourth man slowed down his horse, eyes still taking in the trees and bushes, while his comrades had already ridden further.

___

Troyes

She had watched Athos run the room up and down for most of the morning. Then watched him clean their weapons one too many times, his eyes never on the weapon in his hands but on the window. By noon he had given up his work just to sit by the bed and to start change Aramis’ bandages – which she had changed just a few hours before. She had said nothing all day, even though she had wanted to from the first minute he had walked up and down through their room. His nervous tells made her even more itchy than she already was. She tried to supress it nevertheless. Busying her hands with repairing the holes in their uniforms, going to the market and finding new clothes for Aramis, looking after the horses. They had agreed that it would be best if Athos and Aramis stayed in the room as much as possible. She would be less suspicious than two battle-worn men. She didn’t like that they stayed at an Inn at all. She would have liked to stay outside of the city, make a camp somewhere and wait there. But she saw the sense in giving Aramis a real bed for at least a night to rest in and a warm meal. Moreover they needed more food and Aramis needed new clothes. They would have had to visit a city anyways.

Constance finally snapped at Athos as he controlled Aramis’ bandages for the third time this day, causing the marksman’s eyes to flutter open at the prodding.

“Will you stop it, Athos?! His wounds are healing just fine, no need to wake him every few minutes.”

Athos pulled his hands away immediately, shooting a short, apologizing glance towards Constance before turning back to the now wakening Aramis.
The marksman tried to sit up, almost collapsing back to the bed, weren’t it for Athos to steady him and help him lean against the wall.

“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.”

Constance greeted the marksman, a gentle smile caressing her lips as she stood up from her place by the fire and brought over a bowl of soup.

“Hungry?”

Aramis still looked a little bit groggy but nodded nevertheless. He was always hungry. But each time he started to eat he felt sick after just a few spoons. His stomach had to get used to food again.
He thanked Constance with a smile as he took the bowl, taking a few spoons of the soup.

“When are we expecting the others to reach us?” He then asked the burning question.

Athos sighed, looking out of the window again.

“Porthos should reach us by nightfall. D’Artagnan and Treville will need until the next morning to catch up with us.”

Aramis hummed, following Athos’ gaze through the window before placing his hand on Athos’ shoulder.

“They will make it.”

Chapter Text

Marigny-le-Châtel, an hour away from Troyes

He growled as his sword connected with the weapon of his opponent with such a force that his arm arched. Sweat was running down his skin, causing his shirt to cling to him in an unpleasant way. He looked around shortly, making sure that the other three men were still out cold. He hadn’t got the time to look at them too closely, but he didn’t see anyone swinging down a sword onto him – so that was a win. He had to return his attention back to the man in front of him – even taller than him and just as broad – a sight to behold. Porthos grunted as it took all of his strength to block the Red Guard’s strikes without stumbling further back. His feet were already soaked through from the water he stood in.
He tried to use his agility against the colossus, dancing from one leg to the other just like d’Artagnan always did to not be forced deeper into the lake. With a graceful jump that he had copied from Aramis, he sprang out of the water and to the side of the bulk. A fast strike forced his sword in between the ribs of the man, causing him to howl out in pain. Porthos jumped back just as fast, ripping his weapon back out of the skin with a thickening sound.
He raised his sword, ready to land the fatal blow as something hit his back. He hauled, stumbling forward as the blade cut through his leathers and skin.
Porthos caught himself and swirled around to face the skinny man he had knocked out earlier.
“Shouldn’t have woken up again.” He growled, pounding on the man with fast and hard strokes, forcing him further backwards. He noticed the Red Guard’s eyes opening wide in fear, his blade impaling itself in his chest.
Unfortunately it got stuck there and the Red Guard took it with him as he fell into the raging lake lifelessly. Porthos turned around, the colossus had apparently recovered from the still bleeding wound to his side. Grinning wildly he ran towards the unarmed Porthos.

---

Just another road

“Faster. C’mon, I know you can be faster.” He pleaded, his heels kicking maybe a little too hard into the flanks of the horse.
The animal was on it’s limits, he knew. He wished he could stop, give it a pause.
Unfortunately that would have meant to fall right into the hands of the four Guardsmen following them closely. He heard them shout, felt their bullets fly past him. He had leant forward as much as possible, leading the animal away from the road and towards the forest. It was a dangerous maneuver. The horse could fall and break something – break him. But he had no chance if he stayed on the road. Sooner or later the Guards would get to him. He had to loose them.
He made sure to ride further away from Troyes, not daring to lead them any closer towards the others. He thought about stopping and fighting them, but they had him severely outnumbered and he only would fight them if it truly was necessary.
So he spurred his horse into the thicket, sticks snapping against his head and arms, thorns ripping open his trousers as he kept riding on. The path he took was so narrow that barely one horse fit through it, forcing the Red Guards to ride behind each other. A small triumph for ones.
The Guards had stopped shooting, too. With all the trees and curves it would have been close to the impossible to hit him.
He lead his horse downhills, made it jump over a narrow creak and then turned sharply to the left. As he looked back, he couldn’t see the Red Guards anymore. But their shouts were still heard easily. He decided to risk it all, now.
He slowed down his horse as much as he dared before jumping from it’s back and gripping right onto a branch. He gave the horse a light kick, causing it to keep on running. He heaved himself upwards from where he was dangling on the branch, just in time. He managed to climb the tree upwards and laid down on a thick branch just as the Red Guards rode down through the path beneath him, following his horse.
Now, he had to wait and hope.

Troyes

He felt his heart hammering against his constricting chest. He breathed faster and faster, but there was no oxygen entering his burning lungs. Cold sweat was trickling down his skin, soaking through the thin shirt, clanging to his body and causing him to shiver. His hands scratched on the floor, the walls, the door. Nails on stone – the sound screeching and causing his teeth to arche. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He scratched and scratched until his fingernails were nothing but bloody stubbles, the skin on his tips raw and red. A low, broken whine left his dry mouth, sending waves of agony through his body.
And then, as he was crumbling on the floor, knees drawn to his chest and head bowed, he recognized the sound of a wooden wheel being turned and turned and turned. He couldn’t hold back the bile and retched right beside him – too exhausted to move away from the mess.

“No. No.”

He sobbed without tears – there was no water left in his body to shed. He placed his hands over his ears, desperately trying to block out the sounds but it was of no use. He could still hear the scratching of wood against stone, the rattling. And then there were footsteps. Coming to get him.
The door, marred by his scratches, was ripped open. Instead of the Guards he had expected, there were other men in the door. He felt his lungs constrict as he recognized their faces. Rochefort, Louis, General Hernandez and Girard. Behind them he noticed more figures standing, watching him with disgust. Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan – their eyes showing open disgust. Anne, sweet Anne, crying while hate glistening in her eyes. Louis grinned, wickedly as he took in the shell of the man before him.
General Hernandez truly looked disappointed. Aramis knew that the spanish General had always held enough of him, wanted him to reach a higher rank in the spanish army – but after all Aramis was nothing but a miserable, disgusting traitor. To both France and spain.
Rochefort was the first to move, way too excited and happy with what was about to happen. Between him and Girard they hauled Aramis to his naked feet. He wanted to stand on his own legs, but they would not cooperate. So the last spark of dignity was lost as he was dragged outside.
He gulped as he took in the scene in front of him. The courtyard was a horrifying mixture of white, grey and red. Snow covered the tiles on the ground, while the sky was grey and clouded not letting a hint of sunshine through. On the snow he found familiar faces – lifeless, judging eyes staring up at him and letting the blood ins his veins freeze. The blood of twenty innocent soaked through the white of the snow. Uncaringly of the corpses scattered around their feet, Girard and Rochefort pulled Aramis forward. His naked feed froze as they were dragged through the snow. He was too weak to lift them the times they passed a body – so his feet were carelessly dragged over the dead ones.
An infinite long time later they had reached the wheel. He was hauled onto it, bound too tightly against the wood.
There were no last words, only gazes of disgust from the people he had once called family. Laughter from the ones who wanted to see him dead.
Then, the wheel started turning. He felt his feet crunch beneath it’s weight – fire consuming his body.

“Aramis! Aramis wake up!”

And angelic voice came through the heavy clouds in his ears. His eyes snapped open, air filling his lungs as he gasped audible.
The snow was gone, replaced by brown, muddy walls. Instead of the wheel there was something soft beneath him. A bed, he recognized.
“Aramis.” He felt a gentle, warm touch on his arm. He flinched back at the unexpected touch, wild eyes snapping to his side to find the owner of the angelic voice by his side. Constance sat beside his bed, her brow furrowed in concern, a small hand hovering just by his arm, not really touching it anymore but reluctant to move it away completely.
“Constance.” Aramis breathed as if he had to confirm it to himself that she was there – real and alive.
He looked around the room they were in, recognizing it as the Inn they had found shelter in. Right, the Inn. They were waiting for the others to return. They were safe.
Constance smile was strained, her hand now touching his arm again. This time Aramis didn’t flinch but leaned into the touch until Constance had him in a tight embrace pressed against her chest.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked carefully, as not to frighten a dear. Aramis gulped, shaking his head. He had never been the one to speak about his troubles. Never had bothered anyone with his nightmares, his constant companion since many years. He would not start now.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Constance.” He forced himself to let go of the hug and sat up straighter in the bed.
The woman frowned but didn’t dare to argue with him.
Aramis looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed for the open display of weakness from him. As he stared out of the window and noticed how the sun stood high on the sky his heart skipped a beat.
“It’s already noon? Where are the others? They should have arrived by now. And Porthos? He should have come yesterday evening.”
He felt something painfully constricting in his chest as worry laid it’s heavy cloak around him.
Constance looked away, afraid. He noticed how her hands fumbled with each other nervously and her gaze drifted to the window, searching for something but finding nothing.
“Athos has left two hours ago to find them. None of them have reached us yet.”

Chapter Text

A few hours before…

It was comfortably warm in the small room the three shared, as the sun shone through the lonely window and heated up the stone walls. Aramis was still asleep, as he had been for most of the time. Meanwhile Athos and Constance had become more and more nervous with each hour passing. Neither Treville nor Porthos or d'Artagnan had arrived yet.

At least Porthos should have reached them already. Something was not right, Athos concluded. Being done with sitting around, waiting and being a nursemaid, he stood up from the chair he had occupied since yesterday evening.

"I'm going to find them." He announced into the oppressing silence, grabbing his weapons belt and pistol as Constance turned away from Aramis to face Athos with open concern on her face.

"Alone?" Her eyebrows shot up as she asked it, one hand was cradling Aramis’ damp hair, the other was put on the mattress, ready to push herself up to stand.

Athos shrugged as he closed the belt around his waist.

"Aramis is in no state to come with me. And I won't leave him behind all alone."

Constance sighed. She knew that Athos was right. She knew as well as he did that something was wrong. And she was just as worried as he was. D'Artagnan was still out there. Alone, probably chased and maybe hurt.

"Go." She assured, a tight smile on her lips that didn't reach her shiny eyes.

"But come back." She added just as Athos strode through the door.

He stopped in his tracks, lowered his head in a silent promise and then closed the door after he had left the room.

Athos settled his horse and left as fast as possible. Deciding that Porthos should have been closest to Troyes, Athos took the path into his should-be-direction. While one hand was tangled into his reins, spurring his horse to run as fast as possible, his other hand never strayed too far away from his gun.

He had barely ridden for an hour as he came by a small battlefield. Once Athos recognized bodies laying lifelessly on the ground he dismounted and hid his horse in a small forest. Blade in one hand and pistol in the other one, he slowly creeped closer. Crouching behind a tree, he felt enough covered to take a closer look to the scene. Two men, Red Guards he noticed, laid on the grass, small puddles of blood around them. One of them had a dagger stucking out of his eye, the other one a deep head wound. He gulped, his eyes roaming over the scene. But there was no Porthos. But if Porthos had won the fight he would have been here or at Troyes. Had there been more Red Guards? They surely wouldn't have let their dead comrades behind if they had gotten Porthos captured.

So there must have something else happened to his friend to delay his return. Careful, Athos creeped to the dead bodies. After he made sure that he was truly alone, he searched their bodies in the hope to find a hint to where Porthos was. Nothing.

Athos sighed and rose back to his feet, scanning the area. There was the small forest where his horse waited and open fields to the other side. A lake separating both areas.

Searching for more traces, Athos soon found a few footprints close by the lake, indicating that there had been a fight. There was also a big amount of blood, leading towards the water. A sickening feeling made itself known in his stomach as he followed the blood. It ended once the lake began, confirming his speculation. Whoever had been injured here was taken with the raging lake. Could it have been Porthos?

Looking around one more time to make sure he really did not oversee anything or anyone, Athos returned to his horse and mounted up again. He lead it along the lake, slowly as to not miss any new traces. Maybe whoever had fallen into the waters and crawled out of them a while later. It was minutes later as he found a body, crumpled, bloody and almost beyond recognition. Only the red cape indicated that it had been a red guard. Looking closer he found the tip of a blade still impaled in the mans upper body. It must have been broken as he had been carried through the lake. Only a few feet farther there was the hilt of the sword. Porthos sword, Athos noticed.

But still, there was no sign of said man. He let the corpse behind, following the lake further downwards. But after seeing how mangled the Red Guard had been, he feared of what he may find of Porthos.

It wasn’t much further downwards the shore as Athos noticed the familiar head of his friend, laying on the rough stones by the water. His upper body was out of the cold water, but his legs were still in it. It looked like he was unconscious. Athos  jumped from his horse and towards Porthos, falling to his knees in the mud by his brothers side.

“Porthos.”

Athos breathed, his hands carefully expecting the man’s head. Underneath the wet hair was a red shimmer, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped by now. As Porthos didn’t seem to be awake yet, Athos decided to get him out of the cold water first. After making sure there where not more life threatening wounds, he heaved Porthos’ legs out of the wet. He then dragged the heavy man into the sunshine, hoping that some warmth will do him good.

“Porthos, wake up, mon ami.”

Athos pleaded as he rolled Porthos onto his side, like the others always did with him when he had drunken too much. Porthos’ breathing was shallow, but it was there. Athos hoped, that he hadn’t breathed in too much water. Aramis had once explained that it could kill you even days later.

“Porthos.”

Athos urged once again. He was not strong enough to lift Porthos onto the horses back all alone, not when he was unconscious. But they couldn’t stay there either. Treville and d’Artagnan were still missing and Constance was all alone with Aramis. They had to find the others and get back soon.

It was then, that Porthos finally stirred. A moan left his lips before it turned into a watery cough. Athos put a reassuring hand on his brothers shoulder as the waking man coughed out some water.

Exhausted from the ordeal, Porthos turned onto his back, his eyes fluttering open slowly.

“’Thos?” He asked, voice raspy, once he had regained enough air to speak.

“I’m here.”

Porthos frowned, clearly confused how Athos had come to his aid.

“The others?” He asked and tried to sit up, wincing as the movement caused his head to pound.

Athos steadied him, eyes roaming over his friends body as he searched for something else that hurt him.

“Aramis and Constance are still at the Inn. None of you three had reached us yet, so I went out to search for you. You’re the first one I found.”

Porthos nodded slowly. “Then let’s find the others too.”

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Constance awoke with a gasp as a heavy door fell into it’s frame. The front door to the Inn. Aramis was already wide awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, clasping a weapon in his hands. His feet were just dangling above the ground, careful that they did not touch the wood.

Then, there was the sound of heavy footsteps, coming closer.

She gulped and took the knife she had hidden in her dress. Her knuckles turned white as the steps came ever closer, her heart beating fast. Aramis signalled to her to go into the other corner of the room, where she would be hidden by the opening door. He himself stayed on the bed, (where else should he go?), visible for whoever was coming for them. He levelled his gun at the  entrance once the footsteps stopped right in front of it.

He released the safety catch, his finger twitching over the trigger.

The doorknob was turned and then the door pushed open. Aramis finger already touched the trigger, almost shooting his shot before he noticed who  had entered the room. He breathed out, lowering the weapon slowly.

“Did you just try to shoot me?” d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“Charles!” Once Constance noticed that there was no threat coming in, but her husband, she came out of her corner, hugging him closely. D’Artagnan sighed, breathing in her sweet scent before pulling away slowly.

“You’re both okay?” He asked, just to make sure. They nodded both, but the tight lines around their eyes spoke of their deep worry.

“Where are the others?” D’Artagnan then asked, a frown forming on his face. He shouldn’t have been the first one to arrive. After being hid for hours until the Red Guards had lost his trail completely, he should have been the last one to arrive.  Unless…

“What happened to them?”

“We don’t know. Neither Porthos nor Treville have arrived yet. Athos is out there, searching for them. And for you. We were worried.” Constance told him, her hands closely around his arm, as if he would vanish once she let loose.

“Do you know where Athos went first?”

“To find Porthos, probably. He would have been the closest of you three.” Aramis answered, his fingers playing with the, now secured again, weapon.

“You’re going after them?” He asked, already knowing the answer. Aramis wished he could help, come with him. It teared him apart, not knowing what happened to Porthos or Treville, if Athos was in danger too. He didn’t like all this separating either. But it was necessary.

D’Artagnan just nodded as he shot an apologetic glance towards Constance.

“There had been four Guardsmen following me. They haven’t seen me and rode back. I don’t think they should be of any problem for you. But stay safe, please.”

“Gods speed, mon ami.” Aramis wished, before d’Artagnan left through the same door he had just come in.

D’Artagnan was glad that Athos hadn’t bothered to keep his trail hidden, and so it was easy to follow the hoof prints. He pushed his horse as fast as it could run, knowing that Athos had a good head start. It took him a couple of hours, a few stops to read the sometimes confusing trails, to catch up with Athos, and apparently Porthos, who rode beside him. Once he recognized the two horses in front of him, he called out.

“ATHOS! PORTHOS!”

At the sound of the voice of their brother the riders stopped and turned around, sharing a relieved smile to see the Gascon up and well. Gladly they’ve headed in Treville’s direction first, deciding that the older man may need more help than the young Musketeer, who was the best horseman of them all. They waited for d’Artagnan to completely catch up with them, before slapping his shoulder in greeting.

“Are you well?” Athos asked directly, his eyes scanning the Gascon’s body with concern, who nodded with a small smile.

“I’ve managed to hide and escaped untouched. Not like Porthos, I guess?” He frowned once he noticed Porthos’ exhausted experience and small trickle of blood on the side of his neck which had to come from a head wound.

Porthos grumbled at this and assured that he was fit enough, even though the slightly dozed gaze spoke differently. D’Artagnan was worried for their big friend just as Athos, but there were more urgent matters right now.

“You’re searching for Treville?” He then made sure, which the other two confirmed.

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After he had climbed on the tree and hid there, Treville watched the Guardsmen following his horse. But it wasn’t long after that they noticed that it’s rider was gone and took the same way back, separating slightly to find the First Minister, or better ‘former’ Minister, because he had surely lost his title with deceiving the King.

He watched with a dreading feeling, how the men now started to get a lot more intelligent than he had previous thought them to be. Besides the undergrowth and the path’s they also looked into the trees and Treville knew that there was no chance he would be overseen once they came closer. He gripped the hilt of his dagger slowly, making a decision in seconds. It’s always better to be the first to attack to have the effect of surprise on your side.

Even though his aim was not as perfect as Aramis’, the dagger he threw found it’s mark in the chest of the first Red Guard. Before the soldier beside his dying comrade could even look out for the attacker a bullet pierced his stomach, rendering him useless.

The shot was enough to give away Treville’s hiding place and the Red Guards both aimed towards the tree. Treville jumped down before a bullet could hit him and pulled out his rapier. Fortunately both Red Guards had tried to shoot at the moving Treville and were now also down to use just their rapiers and daggers.

As the three men circled each other, Treville calculated his chances. Two against one had normally been a fight he would have taken gladly and with ease. But years out of the active service and age had made his muscles stiffer than usual, even though he had tried to train every now and then. In the mornings he felt a familiar arch in his back and shoulders and he’d noticed that his reflexes had become slower than they once had been. In front of him now stood two young and fit soldiers, maybe not as skilled as Musketeers, but whatever they liked to think of the Cardinal’s men, the Red Guards were trained soldiers nevertheless.

However he parried the first stroke with ease, swirled around and attacked the other Guard. They exchanged a few fast strokes before Treville managed to hit one of them on the arm. It wasn’t a deep enough cut to really stop the man but it was enough to surprise him and give Treville some time to concentrate on his other opponent.

He thought he held his ow quite well for a time, even though his breath was now coming in quick gasps and his muscles burned from the exertion. However he was still one man less than his opponents and had only his rapier left while the Red Guards had both, rapiers and daggers. This was what became his doom.

He was parrying one hard stroke and could not turn enough fast enough before a dagger was pushed through his skin, ripped muscles apart and finally stuck as it hit a rib. Treville grunted in pain and his left leg almost gave in. He somehow managed to stay upright, but now every stroke was followed by an agonizing fire in his side.

He did not quite know how, but somehow he managed to push his rapier through the chest of one of the men, killing him on the spot. Before his body fell to the ground, Treville pulled the man’s dagger out of it’s hand and now turned to his last opponent with a grin, teeth shining red in the midday sun.

He noticed, with a wave of joy, that the last standing man was the youngest of the Guards and now his determination had been replaced with fear as he looked around at his three death comrades.

In all his fury and fear the young an lunged forward and pushed Treville to the ground with a strangled yell. For a second, Treville saw nothing but blackness as pain was all he felt. His awareness came back once hands were wrapped around his throat, strangling him. He gasped and tried to get air to fill his lungs, his right hand grabbing and pushing at the offending hands while his other one was grasping on the dagger with determination.

As his vision got a black edge to it, he made his last move. He plunged the dagger into the Red Guard’s side causing him to gasp, then pulled it out and then plunged it into the weakened man’s stomach. With a gurgled yelp, the Red Guard let go of Treville’s throat and fell to his side, hands grasping desperately at the bloody wound.

Treville sighed contently, knowing that he had eliminated the threat towards his Musketeers.

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“Look!” D’Artagnan pointed at something in the distance, his young eyes catching the glimpse of a grey horse.

“I think it’s Treville’s horse.” He added as he noticed that the other two were still straining their eyes to recognize what he had seen. At his exclamation the three of them spurred on their beasts until they reached the lone animal. It was indeed Treville’s mare Becca. While D’Artagnan snatched the horses reins and pulled it closer, Athos and Porthos looked around, searching for it’s rider. But they were utterly alone.

“It’s still settled, with the bags and all. Treville wouldn’t have left without any provisions voluntary.” D’Artagnan said, petting the nervous animals’ neck.

His comrades’ faces had set into a worried frown, nodding their agreement.

“He can’t be that far gone when he’s without a horse. I don’t think Becca would have gone too far away from him.” Porthos added, clinging to the last straw of hope. His eyes scanned the ground close to them, easily finding the track Becca had taken. “It’s best if we follow her way back.”

The others did not argue as they followed Porthos’ lead, soon leading them into the woods. And indeed it did not take them too long to find the first body of a red guard, a bullet in his stomach. They all dismounted, tying their and Treville’s horses to nearby trees. They soon found further bodies littering the ground. Between two Red Guards laid the one they knew too well.

“Treville!” They shouted simultaneously, falling to their knees around their Captain. The man’s face was white and his breaths labored, but he was still conscious as his eyes darted from one Musketeer towards another. A sheen of sweat covered his face and the reason for his pain was obvious. The dagger was still in his side, blood oozing out of the wound sluggishly.

“We can’t pull it out here. He will bleed out before we close the wound.” Porthos worried after he inspected the wound. He laid a comforting hand onto the First Minister’s leg.

“We can’t move him like this either.” D’Artagnan added, worry and sorrow filling his voice. They had to do something! Treville was getting weaker with each minute they just sat there. It was Athos who now took control of the situation. He pushed the worry and fear aside and tried to stay as neutral as possible as he stood up quickly.

“I’ll get wood for a fire. Make sure he stays awake.” With that he strode away, and only as he was far enough away from the others, he let out a shuddering breath, catching himself against the trunk of a tree. He’d seen enough men with similar wounds, most of them succumbed to them. He couldn’t let that happen to Treville though. The man who took them all in, supported them and protected them like only a father would have done. He’d given everything for them, but Athos could not allow that he would now give his life as well. Not now, not like this. He did not allow to imagine how hard the pain would hit him, how it would rip his heart apart and swallow him.

He took another deep breath before hurrying to find enough dry wood before returning to the camp. There he found Porthos and d’Artagnan still kneeling around Treville, still alive. They’d placed a cape beneath his head, trying to make it more comfortable for him while another cape was draped over him, in order to work against the coldness that had taken over his body.

Athos made fast work with the fire and then pulled out his knife and laid the blade into the flame.

“Pull the dagger out once I tell you to.” He then ordered and got court nods from his comrades, who had already ripped Treville’s shirt open enough to have an easy access to the wound.

Once the blade was hot enough, Athos took it out of the fire and gave them the command to pull the dagger out. Treville screamed as the blade was pulled out, but Porthos’ firm grip kept him grounded.

Chapter Text

“Horses!” Constance gasped. She’d been staring out of the window, over the few houses of the small village and into the distance of the endless fields for hours now. The sky had turned from blue to orange and then to black.

“How many?” Aramis asked and sat up. His skin was too pale and a shiny layer of sweat covered it. He now tried to also get a look out of the window, but from his place in the bed he could only get a glimpse of the stars and the almost full moon. His hands were already clinging to the weapon he’d kept close to him, worry spreading in his chest and squeezing his lungs.

The riders could be Red Guards, who’d finally found them and would now take him back to where he belonged. Ending what they’d started. Giving him what he deserved. But this wasn’t what he was scared off. They would take Constance with them as well, calling her a traitor just as well. And there was nothing he could to do about it. He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t run. But she could. But he knew her too well, knew that Constance would not leave him behind. If these riders were Red Guards he would try to get her too flee, but he already knew the outcome. Oh, Constance was just a too loyal friend. And if it were the Red Guards, had they already found his brothers? Killed them? Tortured them to get them to tell them where he was hidden? They wouldn’t have talked, he knew.

Aramis suddenly felt sick as he thought about all the gruesome possibilities but now was not the time to let his feelings take over him. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it through his mouth.

“Three horses.” Constance then answered.

It wasn’t a too bad answer. They could take three men between the two of them. It could work if they prepared it right. But maybe it were his brothers who returned. But if this was true, one would be missing. And this thought was even worse. He would rather be found by three angry Red Guards and fight them to death than have only three of four of the most loyal men return.

“Can you see who it is?” He then asked, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he watched Constance. She’d leaned out of the window slightly, he normally so soft and beautiful face set into tense lines as he eyes squeezed together to see more in the dark night.

“No, it’s too dark.” She sighed and retreated from the window, drawing the curtain close. “We should prepare.” She then added, face determined.

Aramis nodded his agreement, but he felt so useless. Constance pulled the table over the ground, probably waking the whole Inn with the screeching sound as she put it in front of the door. The chairs followed and was put exactly beneath the doorknob. Aramis wanted to help but with his injured legs there was not much he could do.

Constance then blew out the few candles that had spent them some light and sat down on the bed beside him.

Aramis stared at the door, his right hand gripping the gun while his left one fumbled with his rosary.

“Do you think this is the end?” He asked after a few tense and silent minutes of waiting. He heard Constance breath out loudly as she thought about it.

“I hope not. It would be a shame if d’Artagnan would never get to know his son.”

It took him a few long seconds until Aramis comprehend what Constance just had said. He then laughed, a weir mixture of true joy and fear and sadness. He embraced Constance tightly and kissed her cheek.

“That’s wonderful news, Constance. And I promise you, I will not let any harm come to you.”

He lied. He could not promise such a thing and both of them knew. If the Red Guards had truly found them, this would be their end. They were outnumbered, weakened and not well armed.

“You should hide.” Aramis then tried, hoping that being pregnant would make Constance look after herself more. But of course, she was still the same stubborn woman and only huffed out.

“I should not.” And Aramis was ready to argue but it was already too late.

First, there was the sound of hooves on dry earth. It came to a clattering halt and was then followed by hushed voices, a door being ripped open and heavy footsteps.

Aramis felt Constance tense up beside him, her breath now coming faster as adrenaline was pumped through her veins. Hoping to be able to comfort her in the slightest, he took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

“It’s going to be okay.” He whispered, eyes fixed on the barricaded door.

“Yes.” Constance breathed in answer. They both knew it would not. They both knew, that everything they’d done, everything they and the others had fought for, would be for nothing if the Red Guard would be barging in now. And they both knew, that if it were their friends, that one of them would be lost.

Aramis felt bad for thinking this way, terribly bad, because you should not value one life over another’s, but for Constance’s sake, he prayed that d’Artagnan would be one of the lucky ones. He had a child and wife he had to care for. And for his own sake, /god was he selfish/, he prayed that Porthos would return too. But then as it came to Athos and Treville, he noticed that he could not value one of them more or less. That it would be devasting to lose any of them, no matter whom. Athos, who had been of his dearest friends for so many years, who’d always been there for him, fought for him and kept his secrets. And then there was Treville, the only man who ever came close to being a father figure in his life. And even though they’ve had their up and downs, he knew he could always rely on his Captain, knew that his First Minister would never abandon his, knew that Treville valued all their life’s above his own.

So, he did not pray for a special person to return but prayed for a miracle.

The steps stopped in front of the door. A deathly silence hung over the Inn. On neither side of the door someone talked. Aramis and Constance still sat on the bed, waiting. On the other side of the door, someone turned the doorknob, just to find it blocked. He turned and twisted but the door would not open. Another man pushed him aside, and ran against the door with his shoulder. It screeched and budged, but did not open.

They knocked, loud as thunder, the sound vibrating in Aramis’ and Constance’s ears.

“Constance? Aramis? It’s us! Open the damn door.”

It was Porthos gruff and rough voice that send a wave of relieve through Aramis. But it only lasted a second. As Constance pulled the table and chairs away, Aramis remembered that there had been only three horses. Porthos was there. This was good. But what did that mean for the others?
Would Constance have to care for their child on her own, the father dead before he even knew she was pregnant?

He gulped down the bile that had threatened to come up and stared down the door. As it finally could be opened, all obstacles out it’s way, Porthos was the first to barge in. Athos was the next that Aramis could see, he had an arm slung around someone’s shoulder. D’Artagnan was on the other side, helping Athos carry the man. Treville was a dead weight between the two, head hug low on his chest, his shirt ripped open and a bloody mess.

“What happened?” Constance asked, already guiding Athos and d’Artagnan towards the table where they placed Treville.

“He was stabbed. We’ve cauterized his wound but he’s already lost a lot of blood. I don’t know if it’s done any internal damage.” Athos explained, voice rough and low as he looked down at his First Minister.

Aramis was trying to push himself up, but he had barely lifted his body off the bed as he fell back down, his feet still not carrying his wait.

“Help me up.” He urged. The others shot him an uncertain worried look, no one dared to move to his aid.

“Help me up! I’m the only one who knows what to do. Or how many stab wounds have you treated, huh?!” He asked, annoyed and angry and desperate. His face was painted with tight lines of pains, but his eyes shined in determination.

D’Artagnan rushed towards him, grabbed his arm and pulled it around his shoulder. With a groan, Aramis pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pain that shot through his feet. D’Artagnan tried to take as much weight off him as possible, but it was still not enough.

“Are you sure?” The Gascon asked, eyes wide in worry. Aramis just grunted and nodded. Resigned, d’Artagnan helped him hobble over to the table, where Aramis was left panting and breathing through the pain.

Luckily, Porthos had thought with and placed a chair behind him. Nodding his thanks, Aramis sat down. It wasn’t the perfect angle to treat a wound but there was no other way he could do it.

He gently peeled away the ripped fabric, worried about how still und unresponsive the Captain was. But as he touched the man’s wrist and felt the cold, sweaty skin, there was still a faint pulse. It wasn’t steady or strong, but it was there.

Underneath the shirt he found a red, glistening patch of skin, heat radiating from it. He nodded slightly. A stab wound on this place must have bled badly, cauterizing it was the only way to treat it. The problem was, that he now had no way to open it and see if there had been any internal damage. His fingers prodded along the stomach, gently pushing into the skin and searching for anything abnormal. He couldn’t find anything but this didn’t mean anything. Internal bleedings were a difficult thing. They often couldn’t be detected and even if they could, there was no way to treat them.

Aramis sighed, his hands brushing through his hair before he dared to look at his brothers. All of them looked exhausted, almost dead on their legs. They were sweaty, dark bags under their eyes and their body posture stiff. Their brows were furrowed in concern, waiting for answers.

“There’s not much we can do other than keep the wound clean and wait. And pray.” The meaning behind his words was clear and hung heavily in the room.

“When do we know that he will live?” Athos then dared to ask, voice uncharacteristic thin.

Aramis shrugged helplessly.

“If he survives the night and the next day, it’s a good sign. But we can only be sure in a few days.”

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“So most of the Red Guards that have searched for us are dead. The ones that still live will probably get reinforcements. I think we will have around two days until they could reach us.” Athos concluded, after having told Constance and Aramis what had happened in the time they had been away.

Aramis dabbed at Treville’s wet brow with worry. It was almost morning, Porthos and d’Artagnan shared the single bed in the room, snoring softy, while Athos and Aramis had taken the chairs. Constance leant against the wall, declining any offer to sit. The Captain hadn’t shown any signs of waking or getting better since they had arrived at the Inn. Instead he had gotten a dangerously high fever and was now sleeping restlessly. Small whimpers left his dry lips every now and then and every time Aramis tried to coax him to drink something, the water just was wasted and spluttered down onto the table. The wound had taken an angry red and no cleaning or salve seemed to be of use. Treville’s skin had turned even more white than before if this was even possible, his breaths came in short pained gasps.

“We can’t move him like this.” Aramis answered, voice rough and strained. Being up for so long had taken it’s toll on him. He felt his head growing clouded and heavier with each hour while his muscles and bones throbbed merciless. But he could not sleep when Treville was so dangerously wounded. Moreover his brothers needed the rest more now. He had slept for days while they had fought for their and his life. He could cope with a few sleepless hours in return.

“What do you think? When could we transport him with a wagon?” Constance asked, her voice barely audible as she didn’t want to wake the sleeping men.

Aramis gulped and kept his gaze fixed on the still form of the First Minister. He doubted that it would be of any use to move Treville anywhere. If he didn’t get better in the coming hours, he didn’t see any hope in a recovery. Of course there had always been miracles and men who had been thought dead survived. But this seemed different. It didn’t feel like Treville was even fighting. Maybe he knew as well that this injury was fatal. But Aramis couldn’t say this.

“In a week maybe.” And it wasn’t completely a lie. Should Treville his senses soon and get stronger the next days, it could be possible to move him over a short period of time in about a week. But the likelihood that this happened was thin.

“In a week? We will be dead or in prison in a week if we don’t leave this place!” Athos reminded Aramis needlessly.

“Then leave. Take Porthos, d’Artagnan and Constance with you and leave before it’s too late.”

And he meant it. Aramis’ words weren’t spoken in anger but had a pleading tone in it. He didn’t want to endanger his friends anymore, but he would not leave Treville behind either. His stomach churned at the thought that after all he would end in the hands of the Red Guards again, but it was a soothing thought to know that at least his friends would be save.

“No.” Athos huffed as if Aramis’ suggestion was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “You really think we would commit high treason, fight our way through half France, give up everything we’d known, for nothing? You’re coming with us. Both of you. We’re not leaving a man behind. Never.”

Aramis gulped, his hands fidgeting with the wet towel in his hands restlessly. He’d never wanted any of this. Never wanted to draw his friends into his misery and change their lifes so drastically. He shouldn’t have given in all this time ago, in the camp to the border of spain. He never should have told them about his mission, should let them believe that he was indeed a traitor. It would have been easier. They could have ended and locked away the chapter with him as a part of their lifes and he could have continued to live a lie. It couldn’t have been too bad. Either he would have been killed while still being a prisoner of the French or he would have been exchanged with another prisoner and could have returned to spain. He wouldn’t have been happy there, could never been, but he would have known that the others were safe.

On the other hand, without the help of his brothers, they would never have found the spy and who knows what he could have done. Maybe France would have lost the war, maybe the spanish troops could have marched through the country right to Paris, maybe they would have been able to kill the King and Queen, or the Dauphin. No. All they’ve done was the right thing to do, for the country. Even though the King did not want to see it the way. Aramis liked to believe that they’ve saved France, that everything was not for nothing.

Aramis glanced down to their First Minister, who laid on the table as still as a corpse. Sweat was glistening on the pale, burning skin and his breath was shallow now, barely noticeable. Aramis took Treville’s hand and had to concentrate to feel the faint pulse.

“Let’s wait till noon. Then we can make a decision.” He then suggested, but his tone did not allow Athos argue with him anymore.

TRAITORTRAITORTRAITORTRAITORTRAITOR

They’ve all tried to get some sleep throughout the night, but no one felt rested as they gathered around the table. Treville’s condition hasn’t got any better, actually it worsened with each hour passing. The wound was inflamed and even hotter than the rest of his skin. Neither of the Musketeers had managed to get some water into him.

“And? How is he?”

D’Artagnan asked into the tense silence of the room. Everyone’s eyes were on Treville and Aramis, who’s hands were methodically roaming over the older man’s body, checking the wound, his pulse and temperature.

Aramis, who’s fingers were currently pressing on the First Minister’s wrist, did not answer at first. His gaze was fixed on the greyish face of the man who’d came closer to something resembling a father than anyone else ever did. His lips twitched in a sad smile as he suddenly remembered their first meeting, images of the proud and slightly amused Captain flashing through his mind. He’d seen the sparkle of entertainment in the man’s eyes even though he’d tried to keep a stoic mask as he’d tried to explain Aramis that he could not leave his post in a suicidal rescue attempt of an unknown Captain.

Aramis had just smirked at the higher-ranking soldier then, while his hands were busy dressing up the cut on Treville’s arm. >Though we’re still both alive, aren’t we?< He’d then answered, owning a snort from the Captain.

Reluctantly, Aramis shook himself out of the memories of a better, easier time.

“I don’t think there is a priest in this village we can get?” He then asked, voice horse from the lumb in his throat.

Porthos opened his mouth, the question <Why?> almost slipping before he comprehend Aramis’ intention. His mouth was left open in a silent ‘O’ before he gulped down the shock and closed his lips in a tight line. His eyes flickered from his First Minister towards the others in the room, each one as shocked and hurt as he was.

Athos, always trying to not show his feelings, had his arms crossed above his chest as he leant against the wall, his head turned away, allowing him to look out of the window. But his eyes were dull, probably seeing nothing but the images in front of his inner eye.

D’Artagnan had breathed out loudly, his head hanging down and his hair covered most of his face, so Porthos could not see his impression. But from the way the boy pressed his fingers into his forearms he could tell, that he was trying to hold himself together.

Constance had turned to bite her lip, her eyes shining a little bit too bright to hide her pain.

“We can’t risk anything.” Athos then answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aramis nodded. Of course he understood, but Treville deserved better.

 ++

In the following hours, they all tried to busy themselves to flee from the oppressing atmosphere that hung in the room. Treville was still alive, but just as unresponsive as before. Aramis has turned to wash the man, cleaned his wounds in a last useless attempt, and then started reciting prayer after prayer.

Porthos and Athos were saddling the horses, fed them and made sure that they were well watered so that they could leave any minute. The earlier the better. Constance had talked to the Innkeeper in the meanwhile, helped his wife in the kitchen and made sure that they would have something to eat while travelling. D’Artagnan, completely untypical to his usual lively behaviour, has sat down with some maps on the bed and got lost in planning the best route for them to reach Couflens, a small village by the border to spain, as fast as possible without being found by the Red Guards.

It had been Treville who’d suggested the unknown village as a hiding place, promising that they would be safe there and find help there whenever needed. In wise foresight he’d told them to reach out to the blacksmith there if they in the need of help. D’Artagnan wondered if Treville had already known that he would not reach Couflens by himself as he’d told them about the blacksmith. Why else should he have told it to them that early into their journey?

It was Aramis urgent voice which ripped him out of his thoughts, stopping him from diving deeper into the the dark sea of his thoughts.

“A letter. He had a letter in his jacket.” Aramis said, holding op the envelope for d’Artagnan to see. The Gascon sprung to his feet immediately to inspect the letter by himself. It was still sealed, but no name was written on it.

“Shall we open it?” He asked, uncertain. They both knew that Treville would not be able to tell them about it’s content or to whom it should have been send.

Aramis looked just as torn as d’Artagnan, pondering about what they should do.

“We should wait. Until we’re in Couflens. We couldn’t find someone to deliver it here anyways.” Aramis then suggested and put the letter into his jacket, storing it there safely. D’Artagnan agreed with a nod.

Their eyes then fell onto Treville, who’d let out a ragged breath, his eyes moving wildly behind his eyelids. Aramis’ expression darkened immediately.

“Get the others.” He then ordered. No need to explain. D’Artagnan ran out of the room just to enter in a minute later with the other three right behind him. They were all slightly out of breath as they gathered in the small room.

Treville let out another ragged breath, as a reaction to it, Aramis grabbed his hand, squeezing it gently.

“We’re all here, Treville. Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan, Constance and I. You’re not alone.” He assured, hoping that it would bring their Captain some peace.

And peace it brought.

The fight for breath stopped, his eyes stopped dancing and the hand in Aramis’ went limp.

The silence in the room only lasted seconds but felt like hours, until comprehension hit them all.

There was a a single, muffled sob from behind Aramis. Constance, who clung to d’Artagnan’s hand like it would hold her above water. An angry shout, followed by Porthos’ fist hitting the wall. A whispered prayer, broken by gulps and sorrow. Silence from Athos.

They gave themselves some time to grief, each one had the opportunity to be alone with Treville one last time.

Last words were said, memories were shared, prayers were sent and then, the pain was safely hidden and secured inside their chests.

They had to leave. Treville’s death should not have been for nothing.

They wrapped him inside cloths and blankets, securing them with rope and then put him on the back of a horse. They did not bid goodybye’s with the Innkeepers as they left the place, hurrying through the countryside.

In the evening they would make a break in the woods, find a place to bury Treville, sleep shortly and then keep on riding.

They still had a long way to go.

Chapter Text

Sweat ran down his head, wetting the little hairs at the back of his neck an vanishing in the thin white linen shirt that clung to his back. His hands burned even though the skin on his palm had become hard and robust over the time.

It was still early, the sun barely illuminating the small village and it’s fields in an orange light. Above him, the birds circled, singing their songs of freedom and love. From the distance came the familiar sounds of a busy market place and children playing. He smiled contently, as he plunged the pickaxe back into earth.

 It was a peaceful morning, Porthos thought, contently. He never would have thought that he would start liking this kind of life. Planting their own food, looking after the one pig and three horses they owned, doing chores all day long. The first weeks were hard but interesting. They’ve found an old abandoned farmhouse with a small barn and a small field. Together, they’ve renovated and rebuild it, cleaned it and  built some of their own furniture. It was nice,  doing something together. It was hard work too, causing them to sweat during the day and fall into bed before nightfall, limbs heavy. On a weird sort of way it felt similar to their old life. Less dangerous, of course. But they were working together, laughing and sweating, swearing.

Once they’d been done with the house and barn, things changed a bit. They needed money and something to do and so things went their own ways. Porthos and d’Artagnan were happily taking over the farm. The young Gascon had showed him the tips and tricks of farming and flourished in the familiar work he’d grown up with.

Constance had helped them as well but as her belly had grown bigger and bigger and had made walking harder and kneeling impossible, she’d retreated into the house, doing chores there. As this wasn’t enough for her, she did some needlework for the village people and helped in the wash house every now and then. It felt like only a very weeks until her whole time was occupied with the little ball of sunshine, which d’Artagnan and Constance have named ‘Alexandre’, after his grandfather.

Alex, how he was called most of the time, was a healthy and strong child, which brought another wave of joy and hope into their small, weird, patchworked family.

While Constance was cooing the baby and looked after the house and d’Artagnan and Porthos were on the fields, Aramis had found work throughout the church. He was helping them with the small school they’d built, taught the children how to read and write and showed the boys how to shoot and the girls how to care wounds and sicknesses. He wasn’t alone there though. Brother Thomas was helping him with the children as well as a young, strong willed woman called Sylvie. And Sylvie was not only a great teacher or impressive woman, she was also the reason why Athos abandoned his place at the side of the blacksmith more often than not. Of course, when asked, why he visited the school so often, he would always find another excuse.

“Monsieur de Porthau?”

Oh and of course they had to change their names. Only inside their secluded, safely distanced little farm they could call each other by their real names. But soon, once Alexandre would be old enough to understand what was happening around him, they would have to switch to their fake names even inside their own home as well. It would be too dangerous to let a child know a secret so delicate. Porthos always found the thought strange, that the boy would never know the real name of his parents – or his own true surname. His whole life would be a lie. But it was for the best. For a lucky and safe life somewhere far away from the dangers of Paris and it’s monarch.

Porthos, or Isaac how he was called by his friends now, stopped hacking at the earth and looked up. A young woman, almost still a girl, maybe only the age of 17, reached him with a small smile. Her dress was dirty on the edges and almost as messy as her wild hair, which she’d tried to put into a ponytail – and failed. Hairs were sticking out from it everywhere. But Porthos wasn’t interested in the woman, but more in the sheet of paper she had waved at him with.

“Claire.” He greeted her with a wide grin. Claire was the daughter of the blacksmith and she and her father were almost the only persons they trusted. Because Treville had trusted them. Of course they did not know the whole, true story, not even the former musketeers real name, but they knew that the strangers, that had arrived months ago in their small village, were close friends to Jean Treville. And “friends of Jean are friends of me” the blacksmith had told them at their arrival and had never asked a single question about who they were or why they were there.

It was Claire who had ridden to Paris then, and had given the letter, that Treville had prepared, to the wife of a carpenter. They didn’t know the exact details, but in his last hours Treville had made sure that they knew that this was a safe and secure way to let the letter reach the Queen, without anyone noticing.

“This letter arrived at the forge today. Monsieur de Sillègue wasn’t there and I wasn’t sure where he went, so I came to you.” She explained, still slightly out breath from the small run over the fields.

Porthos nodded with a small smile. Of course Athos wasn’t at work. But other than Claire he knew exactly where he would be now.

“Thank you, Claire.” He took  the letter from her dirtied hands and pointed with his head towards their house. “Do you want to come in and have a tea with Camille?”

“No thank you Monsieur. I am sure Madame Castlemore is occupied with the little Alexandre. Moreover my father is waiting for me.”

Porthos just smiled, as the girl then just waved and hurried back.

He then turned his attention towards the letter in his hands. It was sealed with an official royal seal, one he would recognize everywhere. The Queen.

He looked around, suddenly alarmed. Worried that someone could have seen it, could know it, that they have been detected. But it was just as peaceful as before. Still, he frowned. They’ve got only one letter since they were here, it had been also from the Queen, but then she hadn’t used her official seal not even heir signature, to not endanger any of them. Maybe this was a trap.

He gulped, let his pickaxe fall to the ground and hurried towards the farmhouse. On his way he spotted d’Artagnan in the barn and shouted at him to follow him inside.

“What is it?” The young man asked, once they both had entered the house and reached the living room in which Constance sat, contently cradling Alexandre.

“A letter. From the Queen.” Porthos said, whispering the last words. Constance now also looked up, just as concerned as the others.

“What are you waiting for? Get the others!” She then said as neither of the men moved.

“Right. Right.” Porthos nodded and placed the letter in the safe hands of Constance before he followed d’Artagnan who’d already ran out of the building.

“Athos isn’t with the blacksmith.” Porthos said as d’Artagnan was already turning into the direction of the forge.

At this both of them shared a short grin before braking into a run towards the school. Of course d’Artagnan reached it much faster than Porthos, leaving the older man gulping for air as d’Artagnan stormed into the classroom and called Aramis and Athos out of it.

“René! Olivier!” Aramis looked up from where he kneeled in front of a boy, who’d was reading in the bible with a strained expression. Once the former marksman noticed the strained lines of worry on d’Artagnan’s face he pushed himself upwards and walked towards him. He still limbed slightly, his left food has never regained full use since it was injured. Another reason why he was rather working in the school than on the fields. Standing or walking for long period of time was still exhausting for Aramis and could cause him pain in his foot.

Athos, who’d stood in the corner with Sylvie, followed right after.

“What is it?” He asked once they were in the streets, making their way back towards the farmhouse. They did not run, in order to not exhaust Aramis too much, even though Porthos and d’Artagnan wanted to rip that letter open as fast as possible.

“We’ve got a letter.” Porthos explained, keeping his voice low. He decided to not tell from whom in the open streets, but getting a letter was a big thing for them either way. Outside this village, there was no one left who could have an interest into writing them. No one despite the Queen or their enemies.

Once back inside, they all settled around the fireplace. Constance waited that everyone was settled down, even Athos who’d checked trice that all doors and windows were closed and that they were truly alone, before he sat down as well.

Constance then gently opened the envelope and unfolded the paper.

Dear loyal Musketeers, Dear Constance, Dear my Champion Aramis,

The last one grinned slightly at the title, his fingers twitching towards his crucifix. He’d changed the showy one of the Queen against a simple, wooden one. Still he felt somehow connected to her through it.

I hope you are all well. I am writing you to inform you of the Death of my late husband and the former King of France Louis XIII. He has fallen ill some weeks ago and had not woken up this morning. You are the first I inform, as you are the ones I trust the most. I am the Queen Regent now until my son will be old enough to take the throne.

I want to let you know that I will acquit you from the crimes that you’ve been accused off. When this letter reaches you, you will be safe and free to go wherever you like. I am convinced by your innocence, always have been and I apologize for all you have had to go through.

I understand that you have build yourself a new life. Maybe a better one. I also know that I ask much from you. But being the Queen Regent now I need people around me whom I trust. I ask you, not as your Queen but as your friend, to return to Paris and stand by my side.

I guarantee you safety and freedom. You will be welcomed in the Louvre with open arms and will never have to worry about a place to stay. I will find a suitable position for each of you.

I hope to see you again soon,

Queen Regent Anne of Austria

A few minutes long, silence followed. Each one of them needed some time to comprehend all the new information. Their whole life just has taken a 180° turn. Again.

“We’re no searched criminals anymore?”  D’Artagnan then asked, relief and disbelief filling his voice as he stared at his wife. “We’re safe?”

“I think so.” Constance answered, a smile tucking at her lips before her gaze fell from d’Artagnan to Alexandre who was beginning to wake. Their son could grow up with his true name, could know his parent’s history, and most importantly, he would be safe.

“Do you want it?” Aramis then asked into the round, his fingers playing with his crucifix. “Return to Paris?”

A few months ago, no one would have even asked this question. They would have saddled the horses and rode back before they would have read the last words of the letter. But things were different now. They had work and a home. They’ve grown together even tighter, become a true family – even though it was a weird mix, but it was what they were. And they were happy, all of them.

“I will.”

Porthos then decided, showing off his white teeth.

“I mean I like it here, I really do. But I miss the adrenaline, the danger. And if the Queen asks, who am I am to decline?”

Aramis nods, his gaze straying out of the window and towards the school, where children were playing outside now.

“It feels wrong to leave the children. But I – it’s –“ he sighed, shaking his head.

It’s Anne. It’s his son. He wanted to say.

But he was worried. What would he even do in Paris? He doubted he would ever regain full use of his foot. He could not return to the Musketeers and after all that had happened, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to. In the past years he’d fought against Frenchmen, had killed Musketeers. Even though he’d had no choice and good reasons, he could never forgive himself for it. He could never return to the Garrison nor look the ones in the eyes who’s brothers he had killed.

“Come with me.” Porthos then said.

He did not want persuade any of them. Who wished to truly stay here, should stay. But he’d seen the look in Aramis’ eyes, the longing for the woman he loved so dearly and to see his son, to be able to protect him. Aramis deserved this. He deserved a family, even though no one could know about it. But he deserved to be close to them.

Aramis then nodded. Maybe he could open a school in Paris as well. Take something from his life here with him. It could work. And if it didn’t, he could return. Because he was truly free now. Not from his demons nor his guilt, but free from false accusations. And that was something.

On the opposite of the small room, d’Artagnan and Constance shared a short look, searching for something in the other’s eyes before they turned to the other men.

“We’re going to Paris as well. We’re not letting the Queen down.”

“And you, Athos?” Constance asked, voice gentle as she addressed the silent man.

Athos lips twitched and his eyes wandered over them before it stopped at the window.  The others followed his gaze. Beside the children that were playing in front of the school, stood Sylvie, talking with another woman, laughing.

“I think – I think I will stay here for a while longer.”