A/N: This is the next installment to my story "The Hardest Part of Ending;" it may not make sense without reading that one first but then that story is just a oneshot, a small piece really so it won't take much time to read that one first :)

Just to be clear italics are memories.

There will be some mature themes alluded to in this story but nothing too descriptive. At least that's what I've assumed but if anyone feels different just PM me and let me know.

To anyone reading my other story, I haven't forgotten it just searching for an inspiration to break the wall I've hit, the plot is there but the words won't come so working on that one a few paragraphs at a time.

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable in this work, not making any money either. The lyrics at the start and the end are the inspiration for this story.

Warning: Language and Violence

I close both locks below the window; I close both blinds and turn away

Sometimes solutions aren't so simple; sometimes goodbye's the only way

–Linkin Park; [Shadow of the Day]

He had waited two days.

Given them a head-start before he took to the road again.

Before he traded his hat and coat for a hood and a cloak.

Before he tied his weapons' belt without the blue of his sash under it.

His fingers lingered over the edge of the leather looped about his waist; hesitant to leave the weight of his weapons there without the snug protection of the Musketeers sash. A gust of wind at his back pressed his hood against his head and his cloak flapped at his ankles. Aramis turned around to eye the dark line of the storm-front that had been chasing him for hours now. With a shake of his head he buckled the last strap of the saddle, hooked a toe in the stirrup and swung up on his ride, patting his horse in silent apology for the little time it had been afforded to rest.

Even as Aramis dug his heels in the animal's flanks the first splash of the drizzle accosted him.

By the time he reached Les Routes Perdues, the sky above had rolled into a perpetual deep silver dusk and the world was swathed in thick sheets of rain. His boots squelched in the mud as he dropped down and gave the reins of his horse to the stable-hand before tossing him a coin.

"I'm looking for the owner of this fine establishment," he said.

"Monsieur Henri the barkeep runs the Inn," grunted the man as he turned away.

Aramis snagged the reins and stopped him with a sharp tug, the horse neighing softly against the abrupt halt. The scruffy faced man regarded him with a scowl and wiped the water from his face.

"I'm looking for the owner," Aramis repeated.

The stable-hand nodded towards the door beside the Inn.

"Madame Pascal," he said.

"Thank you,"

She was a wisp of an old lady with much too nimbleness in her creaking bones. Aramis followed her down to the cellar of her home as she glided ahead, white curls aglow by the lantern she held aloft in her bony hand. Moving to the far corner of the cellar Madame Pascal glanced over her shoulder.

"My grandson doesn't know about this, best it stays that way," she said.

"Of course Madame," he offered her a smile.

Sharp blue eyes found his own and held; searching and sifting through his soul.

"You're not like the rest of 'em," she said.

Aramis arched a brow.

"The other de l'Ombre, eight of 'em came in this village last I knew," she said, "Sent them all on to the house, you're the only one I was told to bring down here."

"A dubious honor don't you think," his teeth flashed in a not quite a grin.

The woman shrugged and lowering the lamp swiped her foot over the dust covered ground. It clinked with the ring of metal that marked out a trap door. Without a word Aramis stepped up and pulled it open for her. Madame Pascal reached into the crook in the wall beside her and pulled out a candle that she lit with the lantern flame. Closing the glass she kept the candle to herself and handed over the lamp to Aramis.

"Can't risk open flame down 'ere," she said.

He held the lamp over the opening in the ground of the cellar and the light cast thick shadows of the wooden ladder rungs hanging by the wall. Aramis stared down at the gaping black maw beyond, the cool earthy draft that greeted him sent a prickle down his spine. He looked to the old woman who tilted her head to the side.

"Well what're you waitin' for?" she asked.

Realizing that he was on his own Aramis offered her a small bow and stepped onto the ladder, his breath catching when it creaked and dipped a bit.

"There's a satchel left f'r you down 'ere," Madame Pascal told him, "and you can take whatever supplies you need for you an' your men,"

"That is very generous of you Madame,"

"Just doin' what I'm paid for," she said.

It took him more minutes to reach the end of the ladder than he would have liked but Aramis was glad to step down onto a surprisingly hard floor. The stale chill air leeched the warmth from his skin as he looked about the room that was built of stone and filled with barrels, big and small. He didn't need to be told that it was gun powder. Moving the lantern towards the wall Aramis smirked as swords and daggers glinted from where they hung on wooden frames. The light skittered over the open barrels that held metal balls and he silently moved closer to inspect the crates of muskets and pistols that had caught his eye.

There was enough ammunition to support a small regiment for a short time or an even smaller company for a longer period; Aramis wondered how long was this war that the Minister had planned out and how long would it go beyond the bounds of that planning. He took the satchel that was hanging by the blades and wagered that the other seven would at least be armed with their own swords. He would have to return here after he had seen what they had already brought and plan out their resources according to the instructions he was sure were left in the satchel. The leather bag was heavy, the papers inside crunching subtly.

With one final look around at the ammunition that the Minister had left for him Aramis climbed up the stairs and out of the trapdoor. Madame Pascal merely grunted when he told her that he'd be coming by again soon. Her little house fairly shuddered by the sound of thunder as the storm raged over the village and tore through the air with occasional crackles of lightning.

"You'll need that to see your way out there," she handed him the lantern again and nodded towards further inside the village, "it's the last house to the right," she said.

"Of course it is," Aramis looked away from the open door, "thank you Madame,"

He pulled up his hood and stepped out into the rain. Fat drops of water soaked through his cloak five steps out and Aramis decided against taking his horse out of the stables for the night. Shifting the satchel to keep it clear of any water he took to the dirt road that was turning into sludge under his boots; where the land refused to mix with water, muddy puddles settled in smug dominance.

Wiping the wet hair that clung to his face and pricked in his eyes Aramis pushed the drenched hood off of his head. Water trickled down from the folds of the cloak about his neck and down his spine, his shirt beginning to cling to him as he walked further in the rain. He missed his hat; he missed his coat, missed Porthos laughing at d'Artagnan for looking like a drowned rat in the storm and Athos' sharp voice ordering them to keep an eye out for shelter.

The clouds rumbled; a sound of anger and betrayal like the look on Porthos' face when Aramis had refused to join them in the war. They had come for him and he had turned them away, betrayed them in a way that neither of them could have imagined.

"Did you ever think that we'd abandoned you?"

"Never,"

Porthos' reply had been instant.

Aramis picked up his pace. His lamp flickered, the flame thinning. A crack of lightening split the skies and his lantern snuffed out. But he didn't stop, he could not. Aramis hurried along the slippery track of runny mud. They had been out numbered and out gunned, he had just made a traitor of the man he called one of his brothers. Athos had still rolled the last of his musket ball to him, a rare smile softening his face.

"…did I mention that this has to count?"

He could not see where he was going, water in his eyes blurred his vision; the rain on his face was warm, running down in rivulets that left salt on his lips and a bitter flavor in his mouth. The lantern hung useless in his grasp, swinging along his rapid trudge its creaking lost in the din of the storm, drowned out by the blood pounding in Aramis' ears. The surprise on Athos' face and the disbelief in d'Artagnan's voice at his refusal to join them echoed in his head, the hurt he had seen in Porthos' eyes flashed before his own. The back of his free hand wiped at his split lip that had scabbed over in the days following.

"If this gets me hanged, I will take it very personally,"

He had been young and eager to get a commission in the Musketeers but d'Artagnan had taken his word; accepted it over what he had witnessed with his own eyes.

With a gasp Aramis stopped.

Dropped the useless lantern and bent forwards in an attempt to catch his breath, his throat too dry and too thick to make room for air. The crushing weight of his decision slammed into him and Aramis coughed, eyes burning as he pressed a hand to his chest at the very real pain of what he had let go, of what he had cut out and cast off.

"You can escape Aramis. Have a different life faraway from danger."

"I've never fled from danger in my life, how will I live with myself if I abandoned my duty,"

He had bled for his duty to the crown since before he had a proper scruff on his face, but now he wondered about the head it rested on. He had held two kings of France in his arms, a true one deemed false and a false one deemed true, babes whose destiny was sealed by the whims of those in power. And that had left him here, floundering on a treacherous road searching where his duty lay. To find meaning again in a life filled with violence.

"If you'd told us what you were doing, we might have been able to plan this properly."

"Yes sorry,"

"No, no, let's keep it suicidal,"

A dry, rough laugh burst forth from him.

He found the meaning exactly where it had always been, in their brotherhood.

That was it. That was the reason he had to do this because he knew without a doubt that those men he called his brothers would follow him. Into danger, up to the gallows, into death and even hell if that was where he was heading. And he could not let them do that.

Aramis straightened.

Wiped at his face once, shoulders squaring and eyes set ahead.

He had fought for the crown with loyalty, served his king with pride.

He would fight for his brothers in his betrayal, protect them in his disgrace.

His steps did not falter; his stride was sure as he walked on to the last house on the right. It was bigger than he had expected, a two storey block of stone and wood. Not bothering to knock he pushed open the door and stomped over the threshold into the main room. Two men looked around from where they were perched on rickety chairs by the glowing fireplace and the third perched on the table edge paused in wiping down his sword. For a stretch of minutes no one spoke, the crackling of firewood and the drip drip drip of water filled the silence between the thunder echoing in the house.

Aramis took off his cloak and hung it on the nail by the door, his wet boots squeaking as he stepped ahead.

"Gentlemen," his smile held no warmth.

"And who might you be?"

"Another de l'Ombre," he replied.

The large man set down his sword and took to his feet, Aramis watched him pointedly rest a hand on the pistol at his side and was intensely aware of the soaked condition of his own weapon. The large man stepped away from the table, blue eyes shining from behind the scraggly curtain of straw colored hair.

He glanced at the satchel at Aramis' side and grunted to himself.

"Alois," he said.

"Rene,"

Aramis glanced at the two by the fire, demanding introductions without words. The men looked him up and down, clearly estimating his worth and grit. The desire to straighten up, to stiffen his spine crept up only to be stamped out; Aramis knew he needed to appear above their judgment despite the instinctual desire to verify himself.

"Devereux," said the dark skinned man.

The narrow faced man at his side offered half a sneer.

"Mousequeton," he said.

A scream pierced the air; shrill and wet.

The sound of quarrel from down the narrow corridor echoed out. The screech of furniture and a thump on wood could not drown out the sound of men arguing, but the scream had been feminine. Pushing past Alois Aramis hurried down to where the sound had come from and found a tangle of limbs rolling on the floor as an old man hung onto to a much larger one outside of a closed door.

The door through which echoed another petrified screech.

The three on the floor slammed into the wall and came to a halt. Ignoring the colorful insults spitted out like unchecked sparks Aramis stepped over the three near his feet and pulled the old man off of the man by the door.

"Please, my daughter," the sunken watery eyes flashed from him to the man at the door, "my daughter."

The silence in the room beyond was disturbing.

"Step aside," Aramis said to the one guarding the door.

"Go to hell,"

"We're all there already," Aramis bit out, "now step aside."

The giant by the door snorted, his hand reaching for his pistol.

But Aramis got there first.

Slamming the man back he pulled out the pistol from his belt even as the larger man fell through into the room he had been guarding. Aramis followed him in and leveled the pistol onto the half dressed man on the bed, a squirming girl pinned in his grasp.

"Let her go,"

The man from the bed grinned back at him.

"Wait your turn," he said.

"You're done here," Aramis glanced at the girl before fixing his eyes back onto the man, "you want to have fun then go find a willing woman."

The man laughed.

"Who made you our boss?"

"Consider it a self-appointed prerogative," Aramis cocked the pistol, "now get off the bed."

He didn't have to see to know that two men had their swords pointed his way. One of them was the man who had been at the door. From the corner of his eye he caught that one shift on his feet just as the man on the bed reached for something in the covers.

Aramis fired; turned to avoid the blade coming for his heart and buried his own dagger in his attacker in one motion.

He looked back when the girl kept screaming. She shoved off the man who lay dead over her with a pistol in his lax hand. Sobbing and clutching at her chemise she stumbled off the bed and into her father's arms. And Aramis drew out his own sword to meet the man lunging for him, catching his blade against his own before it could slice his throat.

It was short and brutal and ended with Aramis' sword cleaving through the other man's gut.

Breathing heavily he slid his sword back in his belt and retrieved his dagger from the other dead man. The room stank of warm blood and Aramis cleaned his blade on the bed sheets, hands never shaking, eyes never betraying the sickening feeling pooling in his gut. He had killed three men out of the eight he was supposed to lead. He didn't even know the names of the dead. It settled like a boulder on his back, in that spot between his shoulders this weight of what he had agreed to do.

He was no leader.

Aramis walked past the two men staring through the door and back to the main room. He eyed the men who gathered there after him, hands lingering over weapons and eyes studying his every move. He shoved away the utter fear of the position he had decided to take and met their gazes head on.

"Does anyone else have a problem with my authority?"

Five pair of eyes stared back.

The two dark haired young men, who had been fighting in the corridor with one of the men Aramis had killed, were the first to shake their heads. They were young, too young Aramis decided and looked away from them. Not daring to think of how they reminded him of d'Artagnan.

The other three remained silent but no one protested.

"That," Aramis pointed towards the corridor, "is not acceptable, if anyone has an opinion otherwise walk away now."

When no one moved Aramis nodded to himself.

It was well as he could have hoped for but he needed to plan, needed space to find his instructions and allow his nerves to settle. As the father and daughter emerged from the corridor Aramis picked up the candle from over the mantle and lighting it with the flame in the hearth he made towards the stairs.

"Captain?"

He jerked to a halt.

Treville was Captain, Athos was Captain.

"Rene," Aramis corrected the man.

"Bazin," said the one who had his hair tied back at the nape of his neck and nodded towards the curly haired young man at his side, "that's Planchet. What should we do with the bodies?"

Throw them out he wanted to say but stopped at the last second, suppressing a shiver at uncharacteristic retort that had nearly passed his lips. That was not who he was but he had no idea how much of himself would be left if he lived to see this end. Who would he be at the other side of this?

"We'll burry them when the rain stops," he said.

All eyes turned to another figure that entered the house as the father and daughter were hurrying out. Even in the flickering shadows and the limited glow from the fireplace Aramis could tell that there was a woman under the thick cloak that seemed to have survived the rain much better than his own. The hood flipped back and a young face framed by dark hair and hard blue eyes that had seen too much roamed over the men before coming to settle on Aramis.

"Did I miss the welcome ceremony?" she asked.

"Did you lose your way Mademoiselle?" Devereux asked.

"Didn't we all?" she smiled at them as she shed her cloak, "besides, a lady has to keep up appearances; arriving on time is just isn't done in the fashionable society."

Her words stood in contrast to the clearly men's attire she had donned as well as the rapier and the pistol at her side. She grinned at the surprised faces, her knee length boots clicking along the wooden floor as she came to stand before Aramis.

"You must be the one in charge of this little company," she tipped an invisible hat, "Kitty de l'Ombre, at your command,"

Aramis took one look at the clearly appreciative roving eyes of the three men behind her and at the younger two at his side who seemed to be standing painfully rigid, in an effort to look taller most likely. And he wondered if the Minister was laughing at him in his grand office at the Palace.

"Rene de l'Ombre," he said, "you're taking a room upstairs."

"I'm a big girl Rene; I can take care of myself,"

Her smile left no doubt that she could, neither did the line of small throwing daggers gleaming in her belt.

"You're still taking one of the rooms upstairs,"

She slinked closer, her hand coming to rest over his heart as she tipped up onto her toes and leaned closer. Her breath warm against his cheek as her mouth hovered inches from his ear.

"Are you taking a room up there too?" she asked, pulled back slightly until her lips hovered over his, "Would you like me to keep you company? I could keep you warm all night long,"

Aramis smiled; recognized the ruse for what it was an attempt to gain position and power in the group. His grasped the slim waist and gently pushed her back a little, caught the gleam of half a scorn in her eyes and winked at her.

"You wouldn't be able to keep up Mademoiselle," he said.

"That's all great but where're we supposed to go?" Mousequeton asked.

"There's another blood free room down here," Aramis hadn't missed the door in the hallway, "and there's enough space by the fire,"

"Well that's settled," Kitty shrugged, "now has anyone started on dinner yet? I'm hungry."

"There's the kitchen," Mousequeton nodded towards the door by the fireplace.

"He who found it shall use it," Kitty declared.

With that Aramis left them to sort out the duties amongst themselves. He slipped into the nearest room upstairs, relived to find a narrow bed and a lonely chair. He closed the door after him and leaned back against it. His legs folding under him as he slid down until he was on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut against the doubts in his mind, against the smell of blood in snow and the squeak of wheels under the weight of the frozen dead, against the rows of coffins and the freshly turned earth. He could not think of the twenty he had led out for training in Savoy, it wouldn't do to wonder about his own ability to lead.

Not now, that time has passed.

Aramis breathed out through his nose and opened his eyes.

"I hope you're doing better than me my brothers," he murmured.

Gathered his strength to unfold himself, pulled close the chair with his foot and carefully set the candle on its seat. Taking off his wet shirt he hung it on the back rest, suppressing the shiver as the cold air touched his damp skin. Hunching forwards he began taking out the contents of the satchel. Pulled out the writing material, the bottle of ink sealed tight with wax. Unfolded the maps he found and laid them out before him on the floor. He retrieved the sealed letter last even as he unrolled a piece of leather that was no bigger than his hand and filled with holes.

Smoothing out the letter that spoke in great detail of his uncle's life in Paris Aramis placed the leather on top of it, making sure that the carving in the corner of the leather was in the bottom right corner. Opening the bottle of ink he began decoding the instructions even before he began writing them down, his mind quick to pick out the letters through the holes in the leather cipher and stringing them together into new words.

Athos looked up from the maps he was bent over.

The Musketeer hovering at his door started as their eyes met and hastened inside, his hat gripped tight in his hands as he stood at attention. He was one of the new ones Athos realized, naïve and inexperienced, recruited to swell their ranks before they could be cut down at the frontlines.

"What is it Cornett?"

"Its d'Artagnan Captain, he sent me to you to tell you…" the man looked to the floor.

"What?"

Athos had come around his desk, hat on his head and his rapier at his side. Last he had talked to d'Artagnan the younger man had been going home to Constance for the night. The crick in his neck and the twinge in his back told him that it was nearing midnight. His heartbeat picked up pace.

"Speak up Musketeer,"

"He said to – to tell you to come down to The Gold Pit immediately."

Athos blinked.

He couldn't imagine how d'Artagnan had found himself in that hovel of a tavern where even the Red Guards feared to tread. Built at the edge of Paris, it was filled every sort of passing criminals and most of the locals too. Most of all the place doubled as a notorious brothel which explained Cornett's hesitation but not why d'Artagnan was even there.

"He said to tell you; it's Porthos,"

That propelled him past the surprised Musketeers, out of his office and down to the yard. Not waiting to get a horse he hurried out into the streets, hoping against hope that his friends were safe, relatively speaking. He knew why Porthos would have gone there, the man was itching for a fight and d'Artagnan would of course had seen it fit to keep him company. They were both good, but not good enough to take on a dozen cut-throat criminals.

He should have been with them; he should have paid more attention, kept a closer eye on Porthos.

Athos broke into a light run as he made his way through the sleeping city; silently cursing himself for failing a brother again. Because if he had been more vigilant that night, if he had paid mind to the agony in Aramis' eyes as he held the dead nun in his grasp, if he had given thought to the haunted look that lingered in his face as Athos had explained his plans after, if he had offered company to ease the lonely stoop in brother's shoulders.

They might not be in this situation.

They might still be the Inseparables.

"You didn't try to stop it?"

"If I'd known what he was going to do. I would have shot him myself,"

It was a blatant lie.

He had kept the man's secret, incriminated himself by association and yet had done his best to keep Aramis' treason in the dark. No he would never let any of his brothers die if he could help it, Athos' hand curled around the hilt of his rapier, it was not Aramis' actions that pained him, it were the lack of his own. He knew Aramis; he should have read the pain between the lines in his distracted answers to his plans that night in the convent.

He turned the corner and stopped.

As the drunken figures stumbled past him, loud and rowdy in the cold night the sudden awareness of the reality he faced left him swaying. He was a Captain in time of war; he would be leading men to their deaths and standing there in the stench of wine, vomit and rotting fruits he felt unexpectedly alone.

"Athos sometimes I think I'm doomed to always want the things I cannot have,"

And a part of him hoped that it was true for his brother. The part of him that was vindictive, hurting, feeling betrayed and frightened under the weight of his new position without the support of his friends wished that Aramis was feeling every bit of that curse at the moment. That he was tucked away in a room at the monastery and wishing with all his heart that he was there with them.

Because he needed to have him here with them too.

Needed him to lighten the depressing hours of planning that would inevitably lead to men dying at his orders. Wanted to depend on his military knowledge he pretended not to have and his understanding of difficult choices.

Athos forced his legs to take his weight and set one foot after the other. He eyed the tavern that shook with the raucous within and watched as the narrow door opened; a jumble of arms, legs and groans spilled out. Quickening his steps Athos reached the heap as the figures separated, one of them landing in an unconscious heap by his feet as the one who had shoved him off pushed to his feet.

"D'Artagnan?"

"Help me with him,"

The younger man reached down and Athos followed his example. The two of them heaved up a dazed Porthos. He stank of wine and a sharp cheap perfume, but Athos' eyes were drawn to the dark patch on the sleeve under his hand. That gash would need to be stitched.

"No one's coming near me with a bloody needle!"

Porthos shoved away from them even as Athos wondered when he had said it out loud and why. Because stitches were Aramis' domain, when the world left them full of nicks and rips it was Aramis' job to put them together again with his needle and his words, sometimes with his silence.

Athos reached out to steady Porthos but his hand stopped mid way as the big man slapped away d'Artagnan's helping grip and staggered to put some distance between them. He managed a few steps on shaky legs and threw out a hand to hold onto a wall when his legs threatened to buckle.

A painful whine borne of sorrow and frustration came from d'Artagnan at his side.

But Athos was staring at the big man who had his shoulders hunched forwards and his curly head bent as he used the wall to stay upright.

Wide brown eyes flashed in Athos' vision even as he felt a phantom tug at his collar.

"Don't you care about Porthos?"

Don't you he wanted to ask.

Don't you care about him, about all of us?

Didn't you give a damn you bastard?

"He had no right," Porthos told the night, "he had no right to – to –" he inhaled wetly, "he had no right –"

To get them used to his kindness and compassion, to make them trust him to watch their backs, to have them seek out his company when life beat them down. Aramis had no right to pull them both out of their comfortable isolations and weave them into a brotherhood.

He had no right to that if he was to deliberately vanish from their lives like this.

Athos rested a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

Closed his eyes against the abject shaking he could feel in his grasp.

"He did not," he agreed.

Porthos straightened, slipped out of Athos' clasp and let go of the wall he had been leaning against.

"I hate him," his voice was stone.

Cold, smooth, hard.

"No you don't," d'Artagnan spoke up.

Athos looked to their youngest as he ran a hand through his hair and took a few steps ahead, turned back and retraced them before going at it again, his head shaking as he muttered to himself. Until he stopped at the third turn and pinned the two of them with a fierce glare.

"You don't hate him. Neither of you," he said, voice catching in his throat, "you can't."

Athos bit back a wince, the man sounded too young.

"You can't hate him, you're the Inseparables,"

"Not anymore," Porthos snapped, " 'e took care of that."

"Porthos," d'Artagnan shook his head, "you forget who we're talking about, it's Ar –"

"Don't."

Athos flinched.

As much due to the vicious growl from Porthos as from the name that was almost spoken aloud. He had no idea why the thought of speaking the man's name felt like a shard of glass grating between his ribs but he could see that it had the same effect on Porthos.

"But –"

"Just don't."

Porthos shook his head and moved on ahead. Athos wanted to stop him; to accompany him but even d'Artagnan was left rooted to the spot by the clear warning in the other man's movements. They didn't say a word as the big man walked down to the end of the street and turned right. At his side d'Artagnan sighed and followed their friend's footsteps, but at the end of the street he turned left.

Athos had no idea how long he stood there until a shiver coursed through his body. The winter night had a heaviness in the air, there was a storm near the city Athos could tell and as he pursed his lips to keep from heaving in gulping breaths he hoped that it would dissipate before it reached them. He glanced to the different pathways his friends had taken and felt the city close in around himself.

"I'm bored, I miss Paris. The excitement, the noise, the danger..."

"We miss you too brother," he whispered into the night.

Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think! No action in this one I know but it'll come.

TBC