It was over. That much at least was certain. He heaved out a ragged sigh heavy with the torturous emotions coursing through him as he leant forward, clutching the ruined body of the man lying in his arms to his chest. He winced as the action brought a groan from his brother, not wishing to cause him any unnecessary pain in his final moments, but selfishly needing the contact to assure himself that he was, for that brief period, not utterly alone in the world.

Athos glanced down at the face of his charge. Even with his too pale complexion and the sheen of sweat now coating his skin he was perfect in Athos' eyes. He stroked d'Artangan's face gently, the man's eyelids fluttering at his touch, and pressed their foreheads together as he tried to wordlessly communicate just how much the young boy meant to him. It was an insurmountable task.

All around him the sounds of battle crashed. War cries mixed with muskets firing and swords clashing, intermingled with the frequent screams of both rage and pain. But it was muffled to him. His entire existence rested in the silent bubble of his mourning, punctuated by heaving, wheezy gasps as d'Artangan struggled to gulp air into his punctured lung.

Athos took a moment to raise his head and eye the circle of the opposing soldiers which was once more closing in on the two men on the ground. He was on his knees, d'Artangan draped across his lap and fastened in his arms. The men had been daring themselves to move in on them, with the caution of a pack of hyenas around a dying lion. They had all seen first hand the terrible skill with which Athos had cut down so many of their comrades and none were willing to try to test the man themselves. But when his friend had been wounded, he had dropped his weapon to the ground to catch his graceless decent and they both now rested in the sucking mud. An easier target for any one of them. Still they dared not take him on alone but took strength in numbers and pressed in for the kill.

Or so they had thought. When one of their party had run forward with a cry, Athos had fixed his gaze upon him, an animalistic snarl ripping from his throat as he had dared the man to try his luck. The soldier had faltered, skidding in the mud in his haste to stop, and had retreated back to the relative safety offered by the circle. Occasionally they pressed forward, and Athos would raise his eyes in defiance and their movement would halt. The fire in his gaze like a beam stopping them in their tracks. This time, as he eyed them evenly once more, his gaze slipped past them and onto the blood streaked faces of his brothers, his heart fluttering as misery threatened to overwhelm him once again.

Porthos had been first to fall. The giant man had bellowed triumphantly as he waded into the too strong numbers of their enemies, tossing men aside like rag dolls and carving an impressive line through their midst. He seemed to be made entirely of muscle and fire and though his sword work lacked the fine, tutored upbringing of many of his fellow soldiers, his carving swings mowed down man after man as they threw themselves at him in an attempt to bring the monolith to his knees. In some distant part of every Musketeers' mind they knew this fight was going to be hopeless. But they fought to protect their King and country and the very sight of their compatriot cleaving through so many of their foes lit their hearts with battle passion and they hurled themselves into the fray with more enthusiasm, severely depleting the enemy numbers on the front line.

But it couldn't last forever. Even a man such as Porthos grows weary, and for every foe he cut down, two more stepped into his stead. He hacked and slashed until a grey mist clawed at the edges of his vision. His muscles screamed. His heart pounded. Little nicks and bruises he had picked up at the start of the battle suddenly became blood slicked gashes. The crimson trails sapping him of even more precious energy as they worked their way down his glistening body. His already dark skin grew darker as the trails merged together in a grisly coating. His chest had heaved as he tried to catch back his breath, hitching suddenly as a deep, dull pain erupted in his flank.

Brought to a complete halt, he looked down in shock to see the tip of a rapier peeking out from his body. Turning his head slightly, he saw from the corner of his eye, the soldier behind him who had thrust his sword into his back whereupon it had run him through. He knew in a far away part of his mind that he was done. Men he had known and served along side had died from lesser wounds. It filled him with a fury. Screaming blue murder, he pulled himself forward away from the blade spelling his doom and turned. The expression on the face of the triumphant soldier who had brought down the man mountain changed, from snarling elation to complete terror as his sword was batted aside and a giant hand placed about his neck. Porthos squeezed with every fibre of his remaining strength, crushing the throat of the solider and bringing him instant death.

Adrenaline coursed through him, mixed with anger, and dulled the screaming pain of his mortal wound. Taking a moment to heave a breath he turned and threw himself back into the battle, blood gushing down his side with every movement and soaking the leather of his doublet. The grey around his eyes was pulsing now, but he had resolved to take down as many of the dogs with him as he physically could and he attacked his cause with gusto. Looking down he noted, with a dull shock, the handle of a dagger poking out from his shoulder and the pulsing blood of another appalling wound missed in the heat of his attack. His mind was completely disconnected from his body now, floating as if on a cloud, and he felt neither the coursing pain nor the discomfort of his screaming muscles. His breath was harsh in his ears but he found he didn't care. He was peaceful in his final moment until he caught sight of the whirling form of Aramis in the distance, swearing he heard the marksman calling his name although his hearing was fading, and a crushing sadness fell upon his chest as he realised he was leaving his brothers for the last time.

He jerked once again and his gaze was torn from his friend to the blade of the rapier which had been buried into his stomach. Finally, his body could no longer put up it's impressive fight and he slid to his knees as if in slow motion. Crashing to the ground. He raised his gaze away from the weapon and fixed his blurry eyes upon what he knew was the far off form of Aramis although he couldn't quite seem to focus upon his face. Love still bloomed in his chest for his brothers at the sight, seeming to warm his frozen limbs. The pulsing grey flashed a blinding white as he slumped to the ground, his chest falling in a last lingering breath, before finally fading to black.

Aramis had been faring as well as his comrade at the beginning of the battle, although his twirling blade did not cleave such impressive numbers. He had lagged behind the Musketeers who had ran headlong into the fray. He was known throughout the garrison for his skills with a musket and Treville had ordered him to bring up the rear of the attack and pick off the more impressive fighters from the overwhelming numbers of their foes. And so he had stood, with a line of the guns at hip height placed upon many surfaces until the first cries of battle had been upon them. His hands had moved so quickly to pick a weapon, fire and then replace it that it seemed as though the guns hardly moved at all. Every shot had met its target though his face bore no expression of triumph, so focused was he at his task. It was no time for celebration as his position from the rear allowed him too perfect a view of the front line and the blue draped bodies of his fellow Musketeers as they were mown to the ground. Adrien who's booming voice had rivalled that of Porthos. Clement, only just in his first year of commission and who had still been so unsure of himself. Elliot, a grizzled, older Musketeer who had been on a thousand campaigns in his years before joining the regiment, and who had a story for each and every one of them as to how he had single handedly turned the tide of battle to his favour. Gone. Their voices silenced forever by the snarling, drooling faces of their enemy.

Aramis had grimaced. The only indication that his veneer of professionalism in the face of battle had cracked. He glanced down for the first time as the gun he shot clicked. Empty. He was out of ammo. Placing the final musket back on the barrel he drew his sword, holding it against his forehead with his eyes closed for a moment as he offered a wordless prayer to his God before running full pelt into the fray.

What little skill he lacked using the blade he made up with in sheer style and beauty. His deadly swings sang through the air as he danced around the battlefield, felling men left and right. He heard the triumphant bellowing of Porthos from somewhere behind him and smiled to himself. Though the battle had seemed to be already lost before they began, there was a glimmer of hope that was ever present in Aramis which had only gleamed all the harder at the sound. So the dance continued, a different partner at every turn as soldier after soldier met their doom at the end of each move. His arms began to tire but he fought through the ache, revelling in the sheer carnage of it all. He did not do well before an imminent battle. His brothers knew too well how hopelessly annoying he became, skittishly moving from one task to another and snapping out replies to any conversation as the adrenaline poured through his body making him twitch. But the moment he could open the floodgates and act upon that adrenaline was glorious to him.

In the aftermath of battle, the part of his soul which called to the cloth would repent in the misery of war. The blood spent needlessly and the families rent apart from the actions of the battlefield. But in the heat of it all, when his friends and his country were threatened, he replied savagely. This time it was not just his family and his King to be defended but, by proxy his Queen. His Anne. And he gloried in it.

He hissed aloud as an errant blade bit deeply into his right arm, and felt the immediate drop in dexterity. Unlike Athos, Aramis relied upon one arm for battle and a thrill of fear washed over him as he found himself surrounded by enemies with his sword arm wounded. The fear deepened as he heard the unmistakable sound of Porthos in pain. A tense yell cut across the battlefield and straight into Aramis' heart. He whipped around and his eyes immediately fixed upon his ailing comrade. The icy fear piercing his chest as he saw the amount of blood pouring from his brother and the way his arms flailed as he fought.

The whirling dance of earlier was gone now, and the fear replaced by terrible urgency. Aramis fought like a man possessed, the pain in his arm completely forgotten as he carved his way through the heaving mass of bodies with one goal in mind. To get to his brother. He didn't register the blades which cut him, nor the way his hand crunched as he aimed a clumsy blow at too armoured an opponent. The pain only added to his urgency. But when he stopped still, frozen in place with shock as the final, deadly blade pierced Porthos, he felt the crushing blow of the sword pommel as it slammed into his jaw. His teeth clacked together and more than one tooth was chipped. The hit would have had the power to addle his senses if they had not already been destroyed by the sight of Porthos crumbling to the ground.

"PORTHOS!" he managed to scream out across the distance through his ruined mouth and the hazy fog of his dizzy brain. He righted himself in time to duck a slashing cut aimed at his bent neck, which would have easily severed it from his body, and pulled himself back, a white hot fire burning through him as he drove the point of his sword through his opponent's throat. Some part of him growled in pleasure at the hideous choking sounds coming from the man as he slowly died on the end of the blade. The emotion leached out of him leaving a void as the soldier hit the ground, his neck sliding back off the rapier as his dead weight pulled his body backwards. There was nothing. No sadness, no fight, no fury. Nothing left. He was a husk in the middle of a battlefield. Thoughts crashed through him as loudly as waves leaving his ears buzzing. But there was just nothing. Losing comrades was part and parcel of the job, even though he had lost more than most in his career with the treachery of Savoy still clinging to his shoulders, but it did not get any easier when a fellow solider was lost in the field. But this was different. This was no mere brother in arms. This was Porthos. This was a quarter of his soul. And it was gone.

An icy breath whispered through him as some terrible thing clawed at the edges of his consciousness, growing larger and colder as the enormity of what he'd just witnessed finally began to catch up to him. He physically folded in half, gasping, as the weight of his sorrow fell upon his shoulders obliterating every one of his senses as it sought to tear his very heart from his chest. Faces flickered through the back of his eyes. His mother, Isabelle, Anne, Savoy. All the people he had loved and lost until his field of vision was taken up with the bloodied face of Porthos.

He stood slowly, still bent in his agony, the ache of his jaw and the sting of his arm fading as he tried to make sense of it all. Tried to figure out how he was supposed to continue on without the steadfast presence of Porthos. The man who had been their rock for so many years. It was the sight of d'Artangan, whirling in the distance as he fought his way through a scrum of the enemy, which brought him back to himself enough to raise his sword and begin the fight anew. Porthos would not want them to die in this battle. He would want them to continue. To find some way of carrying on without him.

But his arms felt stiff as he swung them even as he sent more of the soldiers to hell to meet their maker and he found himself unable, or unwilling, to dodge blows which he normally would have with ease. The pain of the blades was like a balm to his wretched soul and he welcomed them. Even as the blood began to drip freely down his hands to soak the leather of his gloves from the numerous cuts and wounds sapping what little was left of his vitality. It was in the moment that the rapier pierced his heart that he understood he had been freely walking to his doom.

As it fluttered around the cold steel, he smiled at his opponent who blanched at the expression of sheer calm passing over the marksman's face. He felt no pain. The crushing sadness switching to the warmth of joy as he realised he would be reunited with Porthos much sooner than he could have comprehended. Aramis fell to his knees, a breathy prayer falling from his lips in mingled Spanish and French as he tumbled, willingly, into the void after his fallen brother.

Athos had known something was wrong as he had made his way through the font line. His practised swings easily cutting through the enemy numbers. The sword had been an extension of his arm for as long as he could remember. Picking one up as a child when he'd been shuffled unwillingly to his first fencing lesson, he had found all misgivings died away the moment the hilt met his skin. His first teacher had marvelled at the ease with which he had begun picking up the techniques which would one day grow into the graceful beauty of his near legendary prowess. Indeed it had been the man's skill with the blade which had had Treville welcome him with open arms into the garrison, despite his weeks old beard growth and slightly wild light to his eye. The second he had begun demonstrating his expertise all doubts had been forgotten. Here truly was a warrior.

Some younger recruits may have scoffed at the notion of a link on the battlefield between comrades but older, battle weary veterans would not question the idea. So it was with Athos and the rest of the inseparables. They had long since given up the naïve practice of trying to watch each other's backs during the length of a campaign, learning to trust each others propensity for making it through their fights with a relative lack of injury. A spared, distracted glance in the direction of a brother could mean the difference between dodging a blow and taking it full on the chin. But soon after learning to allow the battles to play out how they would, Athos would swear to feeling connected to each of his friends. Almost a line of heat linking him to their well being. One which would falter should one of the others find themselves in a predicament they troubled to handle. He knew it was not he alone who felt it either. Too often to be coincidental had a brother stepped in to block a deadly blow or appear to patch up one of his more serious wounds before it could sap him of his very life. They had never spoken of the bond as such because they did not need to. d'Artangan had warily touched upon the subject a few long months into their friendship, falling silent as he noted the twinkle in Aramis' eye as the others traded knowing looks. He had fit in better than he ever knew.

So it was when he was three deep into enemy territory and grimacing as he pulled down life after life that he felt the first twang of unease. Something had happened, he could feel it. Something terrible. The moment he was able, he pulled himself to the side of a larger group of grinding soldiers, each trying to achieve the upper hand, to be able to scan the heaving masses to reassure himself that his friends were OK. He felt his heart drop to his stomach as he finally picked out the distant form of Aramis, the Spaniard seeming to be furiously tearing through the men in front of him in his haste to get across the ground. There was only one reason he could think of which would move his brother's limbs with such reckless urgency and it did not bode well for either Porthos or d'Artangan. He made to focus himself towards the marksman when he saw him take a vicious hit to the face which sent his blood boiling. Determined now, he aimed his entire being to the aid of his brother and felt the icy shattering of the link of heat stretching across the field as Aramis was skewered through the chest.

He did not know what to do. He watched, mortified as Aramis quietly sank to his knees, crumbling to the ground and certain death. There was no way he could have survived a blade through the heart, Athos knew this. But he would not believe it. The urgent vibrating of his bond to the other two was a terrible distraction as his mind tried to process what it could not. Finally after many an elbow to his person and a blade or two to any who dared to try to stop him, he sank to the floor besides his fallen brother, gently rolling him onto his back and placing a hand against his already cooling cheek. Silent tears began to pour as he raked his eyes across Aramis' face. So calm and peaceful in death, his hand still loosely clutching the cross about his neck. Anne's cross. He thought about her own shattered heart which would mirror his in the days to come when she would learn from whatever bolt hole the Cardinal had squirrelled their Highnesses away to at the sound of the approaching war, that her Musketeer was dead.

Athos could not imagine a more colder world now that Aramis easy smile and joyous laugh was no longer in it. He raised his head slowly, not wanting to see what he knew the man had been fighting like a hell hound to get to before his terrible death, but needing to confirm what he already knew to be true. His broken heart was scorched by the sight of Porthos, seeming so small in death mere feet away from where Aramis had managed to cleave his way before being brought down. The battle had moved away from the pair now, and Athos was allowed an awful moment of calm, surrounded by mounds of the dead and the two people who knew him best in the world who had been silenced forever. His chest heaved as he sobbed. He was alone once more. When Milady had stepped into his world bringing light and love and happiness, only to dance away from him taking his heart and his little brother and leaving behind only a cruel mockery of his old life, he had been broken. He had wandered shattered and alone until fate had brought him to Paris where he had set about bringing his own demise living at the bottom of the bottle and charging into any skirmish he could in an effort to just end it all. A chance meeting with the Captain and a well thought out mission pairing post commission had been all the spark their brotherhood had needed to begin to blaze brightly. A light which had only grown larger with the arrival of d'Artangan and their following years of service together.

Now it was dust. Dust and ashes. As he struggle to contemplate the enormity of his loss, he was distracted by the sound of a scuffled boot nearby. He didn't need to raise his head, however, to know that it was d'Artangan. The dust gave way to a spark again as his broken heart beat a little stronger knowing that he was nearby and all was not lost in the world. They were not alone just yet.

"Athos." d'Artangan whispered his name but agony screamed at him in that one word. They were not alone but their shared pain was enormous. Too large to understand in that moment. The boy's thigh leant against Athos' shoulder as he knelt still on the ground. Both needing the contact. His hand still rested against his brother's slack face. Athos' head dropped for a moment and a ragged sigh heaved from his mouth as he curled his fingers through Aramis' wayward curls for the last time before resting his hand on the Spaniard's chest in parting. There would be time for a proper goodbye later. Or so he hoped.

d'Artangan grasped his outstretched hand as he helped to heave his broken mentor to his feet, their eyes meeting with a mirrored sheen of mourning. Tears freely streamed down the Gascon's face as he looked from one brother to another, his head raising suddenly at a shout from behind Athos. The battle was turning once again towards their direction.

"Let's send the lot of them to hell," Athos growled, anger flaring in his eyes as he clapped his forearm to d'Artangan's. The man nodded in response before unsheathing his bloodied rapier once again and turning to face the oncoming tide of soldiers. Athos mirrored the move and they stood side by side as the wave crashed down on them once more.

Their tired muscles protested the renewed abuse but the combination of sorrow and raw fury bled through the wall and flooded their bodies with vigour. They moved almost as one, their movements both graceful and deadly. Foe after foe met their end to their twinned blades until they began to hold back. Unwilling to test their mettle.

Both men stood panting, facing down a line of would be assailants. Athos snarled in frustration. There was not enough blood in the world which could equal the debt of what they had spilled by taking his brothers.

"Advance you cowards!"

Through the cacophony of battle one sound rent the air. The click of a hammer as it was pulled back on a musket. Athos whirled at the noise, which had come from behind them, and attempted to do something. Anything which would stop the accompanying bullet before it tore its way through either his flesh or d'Artangan's. He found himself almost airborne as he was thrown to the side by the boy crashing into him as the ball left the musket with a roar.

"Noo!" he called out as he felt rather than saw the bullet thudding into his remaining brother. He staggered to his feet and turned to face the Gascon, who was still standing by apparent force of will. He stared at the ground, chest heaving as blood began pouring from a hole in the front of his doublet. His eyes finally raising where they fixed upon Athos'.

"I'm...sorry."

At the words, he faltered and began to gracelessly slump to the ground. Athos dropped his sword as if it had bit him in his haste to catch d'Artangan before he hit the floor and jarred whatever injury he had received. The man slid bonelessly into his arms and Athos lowered them both to the ground carefully, whispering nothings into his ear in an attempt to stave off the pain which was painted on his young friend's face. His heart faltered once more as he recognised the wheezing noise emitting from d'Artangan's mouth when he struggled to pull in breath. The bullet had torn into his lung. There would be no saving the boy.

"No, d'Artangan, no," he bit out, sobbing once again as he clutched at d'Artangan's head, roughly stroking his hair.

"Sorry...Athos," d'Artangan choked out, his eyes glazed though they still fixed themselves on his mentor's.

"Stop saying sorry you stupid, wonderful boy," Athos said, openly crying now as he rested his hand on d'Artangan's cheek in a ghoulish image of the moments before when he'd stroked the cold face of Aramis.

He did not know how long they knelt in the mud. Baying at the circle of soldiers who occasionally dared themselves to come closer, and focusing his entire world on the rasping breaths of his brother as though his concentration would help to keep them from faltering. Finally there was a hitch in d'Artangan's breathing he could no longer ignore and Athos knew the moment he was dreading with every fibre of his being was upon him.

d'Artangan's eyes slipped past Athos' face for a moment and the pain seemed to drain away. Replaced by an expression of pure joy and longing and almost seeming to bring colour back to his paling skin.

"It's alright...Athos.." he managed to bite out though his breaths were becoming more and more shallow, "they wait for us."

A final ragged breath left his ruined chest and he slipped quietly into the darkness.

Athos was alone. Whatever agonies he thought he had felt when he'd first lain eyes on his fallen brothers were ripped apart and replaced by complete desolation of his soul. He had never felt a pain like it. He knelt in a complete stupor. His eyes resting on the face of d'Artangan but unseeing. Unblinking. He forgot how to breathe. How to move his limbs. The very reasons for his existence were gone and he had ceased to be. How could he? How could he fathom continuing without them? Even his heart skipped several beats as his whole body tried to remember how to function. As though their vitality had powered his own and without it, he was like a fire without fuel. Rain without a cloud. Impossible.

On some, distant platform of himself he registered the manic sound of Treville's voice cutting across the battlefield as he tried to make his way to his second in command. To try to save him from the ever decreasing circle of mercenaries as they began to close in around him. The dying ember buried inside of him which responded to his Captain's voice flickered against his will. Without his real knowledge. He was a soldier to his core and there would never be a day it did not respond to Treville's commanding tone but he did not have to act upon its impulse. And he did not.

Whatever power Athos' presence had held over the men who chomped at the bit to bring about his death was finally waning. The beam of pure hate which had held them at bay was finally gone. He slowly lowered his head, curling his body protectively around d'Artangan's stilled form, not wanting them to desecrate his body as they reined down his doom upon them.

When it came, it was not the pain filled agony he had always expected to mark his end. Nor was the darkness the torturous emptiness he thought he had deserved. When it came, it was shining and warm and beautiful, and felt entirely like walking into the crowded embrace of his brother's waiting arms.

So. For some reason the vision of Athos kneeling in a circle of enemies would not leave me whilst I was doing one of the more menial tasks at work the other day which requires little brain power and lets me daydream quite nicely. I wrote half the moments in this fic in my mind then and they poured out when I sat to write them.

I succeeded in making myself quite sad writing this so my apologies for any evoked feels.

(I feel I should wish everyone a Merry Christmas too..although it doesn't seem fitting considering the story content..still the wishes are very much there!).

As always any comments and critiques are greatly appreciated.