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Too Great a Price
A Musketeer story by Deana

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The war lasted for four years.

The year was now 1635, and Captain Athos of the musketeers rode in the front of what remained of their military force. He was surrounded by his three closest friends: Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan. They were all exhausted mentally as well as physically, and each of them bore more scars than what they'd had before France had declared war on Spain. France had won the war, as each of them had hoped for, and they were finally returning home.

Athos looked at each of his friends as they neared the palace. D'Artagnan had to fight to keep himself in check; wanting to increase their pace so he could see Constance again. He'd survived the war with fewer wounds than the others; his youthful energy had gotten him out of a lot of scrapes that would certainly have killed other men.

Porthos hadn't been wounded too much either; he was a fighting force all his own, and could take down four or five men in the time that it took someone to blink. Athos could see that he was tired though; they all were.

Athos looked at Aramis last. Aramis had always been the happy one, the kind of person who always smiled and liked to talk. After the awful experience that he'd suffered at the hands of Rochefort, he had changed. It was obvious that Aramis had been very shaken by how close he'd come to being executed for treason, and it had taken him quite a while to recover. Athos couldn't blame him for retiring to the monastery…what Aramis needed was peace and quiet. He often felt guilty for retrieving Aramis from Douai and throwing him into a war…that was the last thing that Aramis needed to endure after what he'd been through. Athos' only comfort was that Aramis had survived; if he'd been killed, that would've been too great a price to pay and Athos would never have forgiven himself.

Aramis was unaware of Athos' scrutiny. He stared at nothing, looking exhausted, pale, and thin, as his horse plodded along. War had not been easy on him…when not fighting the enemy, he desperately tried to save the lives of the wounded, even when wounded himself. Athos would never forget the night that he'd walked into the infirmary tent to find Aramis sewing up a soldier's cut-open leg. The sight wasn't unexpected…until Athos noticed that Aramis' right sleeve was completely sodden with blood from a gunshot wound that he hadn't even acknowledged, putting everyone else above himself. When Athos had grabbed him and pointed out his wound, Aramis had glanced at it with surprise, saying that he hadn't even noticed. He'd promptly passed out in Athos' arms after that, and lay unconscious all night from the bloodloss.

Athos sighed. When Aramis had woken the next day, he'd been upset that he hadn't been there to tend to his patients…despite his own wounds, he never gave up his role of surgeon. Thanks to him, most of the soldiers not instantly killed managed to survive their wounds…but some had died despite everything that Aramis had done. Each time that happened, he took it very hard, wondering what he'd done wrong.

As if that hadn't been enough, the Spanish had found out that Aramis was their best medic and had focused a lot of attacks on him, knowing that killing him would result in more French deaths. As a result, Aramis had been wounded the most. Even now, he was suffering from a broken wrist, obtained when one of the enemy had savagely bashed Aramis' arm with the handle of his pistol on the day that the war had been won. That had been less than a week ago, and Athos knew that Aramis was still in pain. Add that to the wounds that he was still recovering from and malnutrition from the regiment often not having enough food—and giving his portions to his wounded patients…

Guilt filled Athos again. I should've left him in the monastery, where he would've stayed safe and healthy, he thought. Still staring at Aramis, he saw him wince and shift slightly on his horse. "Aramis?" he said.

Aramis looked towards him, eyes blinking with exhaustion.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked.

Aramis nodded. "Just…tired."

Athos nodded back. "We're almost there," he said.

Aramis looked ahead, and some life came back into his eyes. He was so glad to be returning home!

Athos smiled at the familiar gleam, some of his guilt alleviated by the evidence that the old Aramis was still in there.

Not long after, they reached the palace, spotting Treville standing at the bottom of the steps, waiting. When Treville saw the four of them, he couldn't stop the tears that sprang to his eyes; those four musketeers were like sons to him, and he had missed all of them terribly. He'd prayed every night that they would all survive, and to finally see the answer to his prayers was almost more than he could emotionally handle.

Finally, they arrived and stiffly dismounted—all except for d'Artagnan, who jumped down like he'd just gone for a leisurely ride. He reached Treville first, and the older man opened his arms and hugged him tightly. "It's so good to see you," Treville said to him. His hair and beard were grayer, but aside from that, he hadn't changed.

D'Artagnan smiled. "Same here, Captain. I mean, Minister for War."

Treville laughed and pulled out of the hug, looking d'Artagnan over and glad to see him looking fit, considering.

Porthos reached up to help Aramis' dismount. With his broken left wrist in a sling and his right arm still recovering from the gunshot wound, it wasn't easy for Aramis to get on and off his horse. Aramis let him help, wincing at all of the aches and pains throughout his body. "Thank you."

Porthos nodded with a smile. "We're home, Aramis!"

Aramis smiled back and they looked towards Treville, in time to see him hug Athos.

"Well done, Athos," Treville said into his ear. "You've made me proud. I knew you could do it."

Athos smiled before pulling away. He looked back at his three friends. "It wasn't just me."

Treville smiled and hugged Porthos next. "I'm sure that I have you to thank for getting them all out alive?"

Those words made Porthos think back to one particular attack on Aramis, where three Spanish soldiers had snuck into the infirmary tent and hit Aramis on the head, knocking him out. Whether they planned to kill him or kidnap him, they'll never know, for Porthos had descended on them like a raging bull, and saved Aramis' life. "Something like that," he answered.

Treville smiled, before looking at Aramis. Of the four of them, he knew that war would be hardest on him; Aramis had never fully recovered from his traumatic experience in Savoy, and after what Rochefort had done to him only days before the war began…

Aramis limped forward with a smile and accepted Treville's embrace. He was so glad to be home…so glad…

Treville hugged Aramis tightly. "I'm sorry for what you've been through," he whispered to him, hoping that the younger man could feel his sincerity.

Aramis sighed, eyes closed as his chin rested on Treville's shoulder. He remembered how Treville had taken care of him after he came back wounded from Savoy…how Treville had taken his side against Rochefort and King Louis, even…"And I thank you for helping me survive it all," he answered.

Treville's arms tightened around him for a few seconds more before they drew apart, and he saw the wince on Aramis' pale face that he couldn't hide. Treville looked down to Aramis' slinged arm, which had been caught between their bodies, and winced himself. "Musket ball?" he asked.

"Broken wrist," Porthos answered for Aramis.

Treville winced again. He studied Aramis for a few more seconds, easily able to see his exhaustion and pain. "Come, hopefully Louis will be brief, and then you can rest."

Athos told the rest of the musketeers to head to the garrison, and then he, Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Treville headed into the palace.

TBC