Author's Notes: Any (grammatical) mistakes are my own but I would be glad if you could point them out to me. Just don't flame please. As much as I like constructive critism, I do not like flames. If someone liked to be my betareader, it would be very much appreciated.

The years had not been as kind on Aramis as he would have liked them to be. His hair had turned gray and his beard already sported more than a few white wisps. As he lifted his hands up to his face he felt wrinkled skin beneath his blistered hands.Upon looking in the mirror, he saw a stranger's face that bore just enough resemblance with the one he had been accustomed to see in his youth.

„Father ..."

He turned to see the source of the voice standing in the doorway, on the other side of the small room he had come to call ‚home' for the time being. It was a young man, fidgeting nervously under the priest's steady gaze.

„What is it?"

„Someone is calling for you. They are ... soldiers."

For a fleeting moment, lots of scenarios crossed Aramis' mind, almost unconciously he stole a glance at his bag where a rusty, old épée lay hidden beneath neatly folded shirts and underwear. But even as he looked, realization hit him that no one would ask for him in a way that could involve a weapon. He was a priest, a man of god, not a fighter. When someone asked for him, it meant that they needed the service of a man used to handling a sprinkler of holy water not a sword.

„What do they want?"

The boy, for he wasn't much more than that, Michel, obviously felt uncomfortable and threw the padre a helpless glance. „Last rites, I think."

„What do you mean ‚you think'?"

„They have a wounded among them, Father."

Aramis smiled grimly.

War had broken out not too long ago. In recent weeks, he had served a lot of people, sometimes shriving them, other times anointing them. It always depended on how much time they had had left. Sometimes he did both.

He seized the boy's arm and pulled him into the room, whilst he moved closer to the door. „Get the things I need, you know which ... you do know which, right?"

Michel nodded hastily. „Of course, padre."

Content, the priest set out for the tavern's back room where he knew, he'd most likely find the soldiers.

One, two, three, four ... nine steps was all it took the lieutenant to cross the room, before he turned and walked back to where he had come from. The chamber, while rather small was cozy enough. If your idea of „cozy" included everything equipped with more than a stool of rotten wood. Such a stool could be found in this place as well but there were also a table, a bench and a few chairs that seemed slightly steadier than the stool. So why the lieutenant's superior had seated himself on said stool was beyond the officer. It stood on even shakier legs than the room's four occupants combined and that was remarkable given their condition.

The lieutenant fastened his gaze upon the man lying on the bench, next to his captain's seat. His trembling hands rested upon his abdomen where a blood soaked bandage covered a most likely mortal wound.

The fourth man stood a few feet away, near a window where he kept stealing glances at the door and outside. Every once in a while he would take a look at his wounded friend and unconciously straighten up whenever he met his superior's gaze.

One, two ...

„Sit down."

The lieutenant looked up, startled by his captain's voice. He seemed more strained than ever, still sitting next to the wounded man, tapping his shoulder in what was obviously meant to be encouragement.

„Yes, sir."

Everything was silent while the lieutenant first looked for another chair and then sat down heavily on it. Absent-minded he started picking at his uniform, brushing imaginary fluff off of it.

Someone cleared his throat. The lieutenant stopped what he was doing and looked up, only to meet his captain's stern gaze.

„Pardon me", said he and raked his fingers through his dark hair. Seemingly, he could not sit still today, but he didn't know what it was that made him want to start pacing again.

A touch on his arm caught his attention for a moment, before the captain withdrew his hand and nodded slowly.

„We are all nervous", he replied in a calm voice, „but do try not to display your bother so much."

„Yes, mon capitaine." The lieutenant stole a glance at his injured friend and smiled encouragingly at him.

„It won't take long now, Charles", he whispered and to his contentment, his friend seemed to understand the words, for a small smile grazed the wounded's lips. Presumably, the lieutenant thought bitterly, Charles wasn't even aware of the extent of his injures and had long lost his sense of reality. Perhaps, he even thought there was a chance for him to be saved.

„That priest is taking his time", the officer remarked. His superior ignored him for a time, instead concentrating on the injured who seemed to relax in the presence of his comrades. Along with his sense for reality he had long lost his ability for speech as he had grown weaker and weaker over the last hour. Even his hearing didn't seem to work properly but he registered his companions' smiles and obviously understood that they were trying to keep his spirits up.

The captain threw a suspicious look at the blood-soaked dressing that covered the still bleeding wound.He extended a hand towards it but droped it before he could touch the bandage. He knew what the injury looked like, knew better than anyone else that there was nothing that could be done for the soldier.

Instead he turned his attention toward his lieutenant who had already started tapping his foot in yet another attempt to calm his nerves. He only succeeded in ticking his superior off who briefly considered sending him away for a few minutes, supposedly to patrol. But he soon realized that that wasn't possible, the lieutenant couldn't leave the room anymore than he could. Not that he would have.

„I am sure he will be here any second", he admonished his subordinate. Still, just like him the captain would have very much liked to throw distrustful looks at the door or pace the room, But he knew it couldn't be helped and he was the highest ranking officer in the room.A captain couldn't start cussing like a sailor, no matter how much he would have liked to. Besides, Charles would have realized something was amiss and maybe started wondering. The other two need not see him like that either, after all, he was supposed to be their leader, their guidance. Not a man who worried for a friend. That job was reserved to his subordinates who in turn needn't be bothered with command decisions he had to make.

That moment, the door swung open and a man entered the chamber. Captain and lieutenant rose at once and examined the newcomer intently.

He turned out younger than the captain would have thought him to be, though the first glimpses of white could be caught in a gray beard and his skin had already started wrinkling.

„Father", he greeted the other and stepped away from the bench to make way for the clericalist. Somehow he seemed familiar but perhaps it was the cowl. Those people all looked the same anyway.

Aramis nodded at the two officers and sat down onto the spot the lieutenant had just vacated.He looked carefully at the wounded and understood.

„What is his name?", he asked quietly. The injured stared up at him curiously, Aramis thought, and was particularly interested in the golden cross that hung from the priest's neck and glistered faintly in the weak light.

„Charles", the captain provided. He had taken a stand at the bench's end and stood there, his arms crossed in fron of him, frowning at the cleric. Now that it was obvious that the priest thought the same as he did - that Charles couldn't be saved -a fear gripped him that he had before been able to evade. The captain was no doctor, he could be wrong, could he not? He knew the priest was not responsible but he couldn't help bearing a certain grudge.

Aramis was not sure he understood why the two men at either end of the bench (for the lieutenant had taken up stand on the other end of his friend's bedside and was unconsciously mirroring his superior's expression) suddenly seemed to have developed a dislike for him but he supposed they had interpreted his own expression correctly. It was not uncommon that people faced with a tragedy suddenly started shooting the messenger and that, he realized, was just his role in this drama.

„Charles", he repeated slowly and nodded. He leant forward and opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly Charles turned his own head to look at him and Aramis froze. Charles' look went right through him but what caught Aramis' attention were the blood-soaked remains of a uniform that had been used to bandage the wound. Remains of a musketeer's uniform. Abruptly, he lifted his head and took another careful, considerate look at the injured's face. Did he seem familiar?

„Charles", he repeated once more, a little louder than before, whilst he searched for anything familiar in the other man's face. He seemed to be a stranger but was he really? Could it be that he was his long lost friend from Gascony whom war had changed so much that he couldn't be recognized at first glance? It was possible. After all, Aramis himself didn't look like he used to.

If this was indeed d'Artagnan, it was even more likely since when the padre had last seen the musketeer, his friend had been no older than twenty-five.

„His name", he said at last and turned to give the captain a helpless glance, „what is his name?"

The other man furrowed his brow, exchanged a slow look with his lieutenant and hesitated before he turned away sadly. Aramis stared up at him, both uncomprehending and annoyed, and hissed: „You should be able to tell me his full name!"

Silence reigned, then the captain shook his head and cleared his throat, a hint of embarrassment in his voice: „No. He isn't part of my unit. I ... he's Charles", he concluded helplessly.

It was Aramis' turn to hesitate as he turned again to stare hard at the injured who returned his gaze smiling curiously. He did share a certain resemblance to a certain firebrand the priest had come to know over a dozen years ago but was it really him?

Someone cleared his throat and as Aramis lifted his gaze again he met a pair of eyes he had so far ignored. It belonged to the man that had been standing at the door when he had entered. Aramis hadn't payed much attention to him until now when the man anounced: „I know his name."