Author's note: This is a translation of my german story 'Im Dunkel der Nacht'. I just had some free time and I had fun translating it. This is not proof-read, so excuse my mistakes. Let me know if there are any mistakes that are just too grave to be left in. This story is set in the end of Season 2, spoilers up to episode one of the third season. A bit AU, since Aramis is at the front with his comrades. A short, 4-part story. The events here are totally made up, therefore, don't try to find historical proof for anything here.
Rated T for battlefield-descriptions and language. I do not own any of the characters.
Each chapter from a different point of view. We start with Aramis. I hope you enjoy!

The thundering of the cannons didn't come to an end. They've been sitting this out for hours, and they could do nothing about it.

They were somewhat pushed into the corner. The terrain on which they were located was hilly, and torn apart by gunfire by now. The soldiers of the regiment, as well as those of the King himself, had entrenched themselves in pits and behind hills, no one dared to lift his head to check the situation.

The screams of the men being hit by the gunfire hung in the air, but it was a noise Aramis had learnt to blend out of his thoughts. Even if every muscle in his body screamed that he should help the men, heal their wounds or even just be a consoling presence in their last moments, he was aware that he could do nothing but sit this out and wait for a fire pause.

He had been active in the service of France almost all of his life, he knew the dangers of war, and the heat of the battle. But it didn't get any easier.

The worst thing was the absolute darkness. Even though occasionally, the fire of the cannons threw light flashes over the sky, it stayed a black, starless night. Not even the moon granted them a grain of his light.

Aramis lay in a pit next to d'Artagnan, a few lengths beside them, Porthos and Athos endured the fire. The young man to Aramis' side had his eyes clenched tightly, in total capitulation to the gunfire.

Aramis' gaze landed on Athos, whose eyes flashed through the darkness in his direction. As captain of the musketeers, he had the command, but Aramis really couldn't blame his friend when he returned the gaze, completely empty and numb. Any order he could give now would lead to a senseless sacrificial massacre, without doubt. He was powerless, until the cannons stopped.

So Aramis did the only thing that could help him now.

His gloved fingers palpated his uniform, and he fished the heavy, golden crucifix out of the folds of his shirt and clasped it tightly with both hands. Apart from the symbolic meaning of such a pendant, this ornate, golden cross also had personal significance for him. Even though he was miles away from Paris, the pendant radiated a warmth he usually only felt in the presence of the Queen or his son, and their faces were so clear in his head as if he'd seen them yesterday.

He took a deep breath before he started to say his prayers. He noticed d'Artagnan briefly looking up to him, but his young friend had enough respect for Aramis' faith that he didn't comment on anything.

So he prayed. He begged God for strength, prayed for a good outcome of this night. That it would go as painless as possible for everyone.

He was a soldier, he found strength and energy in combat and on the battlefield against France's enemies, but he was no monster. Nobody wished for the suffering of another innocent soul, no one, whether he was French or Spanish, deserved that, and Aramis could say that he never felt any satisfaction in killing those men. Except perhaps Rochefort, but even with the count, Aramis' spiritual side had ordered him to show mercy.

And he prayed for his brothers, especially his closest friends. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan were all excellent fighters, but that didn't make them invincible. God beware something was to happen to one of them, and he hoped for strength for them, as well as for himself.

The next minute, he continued to pray, murmured the old-established words of the catholic prayer, and finally concluded with an "Amen!" before he brought the crucifix to his lips briefly.

Seconds later, a cannon ball crashed into the ground only a few meters away, tearing the bushes and the earth apart so that dirt and rocks flew in all directions.

"Amen," d'Artagnan echoed softly next to him, and Aramis turned a little surprised to his friend. D'Artagnan only pressed his lips together in despair and gave him a slap on the shoulder. This little gesture was enough to show that he was doing okay. As good as one could be on the battlefield.

If only they had a little light given by nature. But the moon and the stars remained clouded, and the screams and the bang that thundered through the night seemed even more menacing.

Aramis leaned his head back against the dirt and narrowed his eyes. How could it have come so far?

Their own cannons were absolutely useless in this area. Since they had found themselves in an inconceivably hilly landscape, their guns had no firm hold and above all no clear aim. But even the enemy cannons would come to the point where they could not fire any more, and they all waited for this moment. That they could change their positions and start a counter-attack if necessary.

The moments dragged on for what it felt like half an eternity. Whenever a cannon hit too close to them, they flinched violently, hoping that none of them would be hit.

Aramis felt the restlessness of d'Artagnan beside him. It was no longer d'Artagnan's first battle, which had taken place months ago, but the man from the Gascony had never been a man of inactivity, and Aramis had already had to take him back twice to his security pit as his brother-in-arms had tried to escape from his cover to catch a glimpse.

With a deafening crash, a cannonball struck enormously close to Aramis and d'Artagnan. Aramis put a hand over his head in a reflex-like manner, and rolled to the side, but the force of the impact threw him in d'Artagnan's direction, and covered the two with a thin layer of earth which had loosened from the dusty ground.

Aramis coughed thanks to the dust and wiped as much dirt from his uniform as he could manage without revealing himself to the gunfire. He turned his head briefly to see if d'Artagnan was doing well, but his comrade merely looked back, and signaled that he was doing okay.

And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bang died down. And there was not another one. By the lack of noise of the cannons, however, the screams of the wounded men sounded more clearly through the air.

Aramis knew they had to act now. That's why he looked at Athos.

Their leader had already half raised out of the ditch and shouted instructions.

"Take the wounded to the camp. All the others, we have the opportunity to attack now! "

Athos glanced at his three closest friends.

"Aramis, Porthos, I want you to take half of the men and lead an attack on the Spanish Westside. D'Artagnan will accompany me to the other side, and we will try to take out their cannons."

Porthos grabbed his commander's shoulder.

"Not a chance. We're not separating."

Athos scowled.

"Does anyone here have a better plan?"

Porthos uncertainly bit on his lower lip, and d'Artagnan struck the ground in frustration.

"Very well, then," Athos went on, and his features turned softer. "You can do this. I have fullest confidence in you."

Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan by the neck and pulled him briefly into his arms.

"You better come back in one piece," the younger man murmured in his ear, with a threatening tone in his voice, and he patted his friend's neck. Aramis managed a crooked grin.

"No worries. We have your back," he answered with a slightly mocking tone, but the severity of their situation was evident in his face.

Athos also made a step forward, and in a brief, but meaningful gesture, they said goodbye to one another for the moment. Aramis grabbed Athos by the forearm, and his brother-in-arms pulled him into a short hug.

"See you," Athos growled and then grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulder to motivate him to leave with his captain.

Aramis lifted his rapier up high to signal the men to come with him. Porthos was by his side, and together, they struck their way through the bushes and the mud up the slope into western direction. Aramis' senses still were on high alert, prepared to run for cover if the cannon fire hit again, but it didn't come. He felt the stares of the men in his back, who had to listen to him thanks to Athos, and he already tried to escape the responsibility in his mind.

Once they finally stumbled up the path to more even terrain, a surprise awaited them. The ground was smoother there, though still adorned with trees, but in the moment Porthos and Aramis, who were forming the head of the group, pulled themselves up the last meter of the hill, they looked at the barrels of muskets being aimed at them.

"Down!" Porthos roared and he and Aramis threw themselves back on the sloping ground, knocking over two other musketeers. In the exact same moment, the muskets thundered through the night and pierced through the air, where Aramis and Porthos had been a second earlier.

Porthos immediately drew his pistol from his belt, while Aramis and about half of the remaining men they had with them drew their arquebuses and prepared them. Right after a hail of bullets had torn the ground above them, Aramis gave the signal and they used the top of the slope to hold their weapons straight and returned fire. It didn't matter to them that all they were able to hit were the legs of the enemy troops, at most. It prevented the Spaniards from reloading.

As expected, the small group of enemies charged towards them with loud screaming as soon as they all arrived on even ground. Aramis was prepared and fired his pistol before pulling his parrying dagger and entering close combat.

Porthos beside him roared like a tornado through the ranks of the enemies. With his broad sword and sheer manpower, he swept over the men and easily competed with three men at once.

Aramis parried the attack of an enemy by grabbing his sword arm and whirling it around before he kicked the man down the slope.

Thanks to his sharp ears, he also heard the pulling of a sword behind his back, despite Porthos' intimidating war screams. Without thinking twice, he stabbed backwards with the dagger in his left hand, and ducked just in time as the answer in form of an impressive sword thrust missed his head only by inches. However, his opponent's stomach was unprotected, and Aramis finished his duel quickly and painlessly.

When two men rushed forwards to launch an attack at Aramis, it was easy to parry their half-hearted attacks with one arm each. He had quickly disarmed the first attacker, while he kept the other one in check with his parrying dagger. As soon as the second attacker made an attempt for a presumably deadly blow, Aramis ducked behind the first opponent. Confusion and irritation was written all over his enemy's face, and Aramis knocked the slightly stunned first man to the ground and skidded towards the remaining opponent in a skillful move, one he had perfected in training, below the usual sword level and he finished the duel with one swift move.

Frantically, he looked around, and his eyes fell with horror on Porthos, who was lying on the ground, the hands of stout man around his throat, the musketeer's face distorted with exertion. Without further hesitation, Aramis tightened his grip around his dagger and made a huge leap towards them. With an angry scream, he dug the dagger deep into the shoulder of the attacker, who gasped in surprise and let go of Porthos. The attacker was put out of action with another heavy kick.

After a brief inspection of the situation, Aramis was able to determine their victory over the Spaniards, and he signaled his men to search the others for ammunition if necessary.

Grinning, he turned back to Porthos and held out a hand.

"If you didn't have me, eh?" he joked and pulled his friend to his feet in a single movement.

Porthos grimaced.

"Then I could've avoided a lot of trouble."

He stared down at Aramis for a moment, before he started laughing, in which Aramis, despite the circumstances, joined in. As usual, he and Porthos were able to get down to earth and take some of the tension off their shoulders with a little bit of their everyday communication.

Side by side, they looked up. They gazed through the trees at a more open field, where they knew the troops of the enemy were awaiting them and challenging the troops of King Louis XIII. to an open fight.

The darkness, however, denied them any further insight, and Aramis fervently hoped the moon or the stars would break through the clouds, giving them the little light they needed to prepare their fight. The sky above them seemed empty.

Aramis noticed how Porthos, to his right, was also vehemently weighing their options, and looking for the best opportunity to properly execute Athos' orders.

It was in that moment when the surface was suddenly bathed in faint, bluish light and Aramis looked up to the almost full moon, whose face emerged from behind a cloud and finally granted them light for the first time after hours of total darkness.

And now, they had insight into the troops of the enemy, along with the cannons at the southern end, which had kept them busy the last few hours.

They knew what they had to do. And they knew they could to that. The enemy troops still seemed to be fixed at the point where they had lingered as a unit until just a few moments ago, and despite the noise they had made, the troops didn't seem to suspect anything.

Aramis guessed that Athos' and d'Artagnan's group probably made no less noise on the other side. Their group had chosen a route in which they could find cover in the ruins of a tiny, deserted village, in which they could find cover during the attack.

A gasp not far from him made Aramis jump, and he whirled around to search for the source. All of his men were still standing, more or less, but the gurgling noise came from a man in a Spanish uniform, stretched out on the floor, his hands digging in the mud as he tried to hold on to something.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis noticed Duval, a young musketeer cadet, raise his pistol and point it at the dying man.

Gruffly, Aramis already wanted to make a step towards the cadet, but Porthos was faster and put a hand on the barrel of the gun and shook his head warningly.

The cadet lowered the pistol.

Aramis took a deep breath before dropping on his knees next to the man, and taking the hand, that dug so lost and confused in the dirt, between his own.

"Dios," the man gasped and his eyes that were focused on Aramis were filled with fear and terror. His eyes wandered from Aramis' shoulder plate with the royal fleur de lis back to the musketeer's face.

"No tengas miedo," Aramis whispered, stroking his hand reassuringly.

"Lucìa," the man mumbled absently and gasped for air. "Mi Lucìa."

Aramis pressed his lips together and grabbed the soldier firmly but gently by the neck, to show that there was no reason to be afraid. He was not alone, after all.

The soldier seemed to understand that and Aramis could've sworn that a faint smile played on his lips before his eyes turned rigidly towards the sky. Aramis closed them and mumbled a short, silent prayer before straightening up again.

He was sorry, but he had learned to accept scenes like this. And that scared him.

Looking around, he noticed the slightly puzzled look of Duval, who still kept a firm grip on his gun. Aramis stared at him through tangled locks of hair, answering the question the cadet apparently didn't dare to ask.

"We are here to fight for France and the King, and to protect the families living in this country. Do you really think his intentions differ so much from ours?"

"You should always have respect, Duval!" Porthos added admonishingly and Aramis nodded thankfully.

Duval's jaw was tense, but he didn't say anything and stared sheepishly at the ground.

Aramis turned away from him and stepped back to Porthos, who looked at the dark, open area in front of them. He felt Porthos' elbow in his side and looked up at his friend while reloading his weapon.

"Maybe you should've stayed at the monastery."

Aramis raised a questioning eyebrow, a little shaken by the statement. Was Porthos trying to say he didn't want him here? Just as Aramis felt the anger rising in him, he noticed an amused grin on Porthos' face.

"You know. Then I wouldn't have to feel obliged to save your ass all the time. You would've had a safer life there."

Aramis glared at him, totally unimpressed.

"I think this here was more of a wakening call for you, my friend," he commented dryly with a harsh, sarcastic tone in his voice. "And besides, who would take care of you when I'm not here?" He smirked.

"Well, Athos and d'Artagnan are still here…," Porthos said, looking to the floor.

Aramis laughed dryly, which ended up more in a clearing of his throat.

"Athos has plenty to do to keep the impetuous d'Artagnan under control. I think the good boy is already annoying our dear Athos."

Porthos grimaced and gave a slight shrug.

"Do you want me to prove my skills elsewhere?" Aramis asked a little sharper than intended and a little offended by the attitude shown towards him by his closest friend.

"No, no, I…" the big man nervously stuttered. "Well, what I'm trying to say is thank you."

Now it was Aramis' turn to be surprised.

"Thanks for what?"

"That you're here. And that you're watching my back."

Porthos has never been a man of big words, so Aramis took some tension out of the air in patting his friend's shoulder in response.

"Don't thank me yet. We can celebrate and have a toast to everything when we're still in one piece tomorrow."

Porthos chuckled in agreement and granted Aramis a grin before his gaze wandered from the enemy to his own men.

"What do you say? Athos expects us to unleash hell upon them."

Aramis nodded and turned to face the other men, fully aware that everyone was looking at him.

"And we don't want to disappoint our captain, right?"

The men nodded eagerly and drew their weapons.

Aramis winked at Porthos and leaned over to him.

"Do you know what I like about Athos?" Aramis asked amused.

Porthos raised an eyebrow.

"You mean apart from his incredible charm and sense of tact?"

Aramis grinned at this sarcastic note.

"I was thinking about his ability to scare people with the power of a single look. None of these men will question the plan if they'd summon the captain's wrath."

Porthos snorted in agreement and his gaze returned to the enemy's troops.

"Wise men."

Aramis held his reloaded weapon firmly in his hand, the metal of his rapier clattering reassuringly against his leg with each step.

"Let's go."

Translations :

No tengas miedo = Don't be afraid.