My favourite episode of the series was The Good Soldier and it made me wonder how Aramis survived being left wounded and alone with twenty dead Musketeers. This is how it might have happened. A one-shot with a little bit of Athos at the end.

Savoy

1625 The French border with Savoy

It was Easter, a time for death and resurrection; a time for miracles. There would be no resurrection for the twenty dead Musketeers whose bodies were scattered around the campsite. Death had come swiftly, but not kindly, out of the tranquility of the night. Aramis leaned heavily against the trunk of a tree, watching in silence while Marsac tore off his uniform and rode away without a backward glance.

The attack had been completely unexpected. They were on a training mission. He and Marsac had been the only seasoned soldiers. It had been their decision not to post sentries. What was the need when no enemy was near? It had been the early hours of the morning on Friday that he'd awoken to realise that the camp had been overrun by masked men. He'd lashed out with his sword, wounding the leader of their assailants across the back. There had been no time to press his advantage before a musket ball grazed the side of his head, sending his senses reeling. If not for Marsac he would have died and, in that moment of stunned comprehension, he could not find the strength to be grateful for his reprieve.

His head wound had stopped bleeding sometime during the night. He only had a vague memory of the clash of steel, screams and the cries of the wounded and dying. It had felt like a nightmare from which he would never awaken. When he finally returned to lucidity it never occurred to him that all his comrades would be dead. It was the look on Marsac's face that alerted him to the true scale of the disaster. All had been massacred without mercy.

With Marsac's abrupt departure he was alone and shaking so hard that he was amazed he stayed upright. He recognised the signs of an advancing fever which, if he didn't get help soon, could kill him. He staggered into the midst of the carnage and fell to his knees. There was nothing he could do for his dead brothers except pray to the God who had abandoned them.

He lost track of time, only becoming self-aware again when it began to go dark. A chill rain accompanied approaching night, washing away the blood and flies from the bloated bodies. Soon the carrion would come, inexorably seeking sustenance from the flesh of the dead. Water soaked through his shirt. The attack had been so sudden that there had been no time to dress and he no longer had the energy to look for his coat.

Aramis slumped down, facing the inevitability of his own demise. He was at least seven days ride from Paris. No-one would come looking for them for at least twice that period of time. The woods were silent. If anyone had witnessed the slaughter they were long gone and who could blame them? Killers roamed the night and sensible folk locked their doors and stayed silent.

He wished he had the strength to bury the bodies. Even had he been uninjured that would be a herculean task. Tears gathered in his eyes at the senseless waste of young life; the senseless waste of his life. In that moment he hated the man who'd left him here to die. He bowed his head and wept for all that he had lost.

In the stillness of the night voices carried a long way. He heard them long before they were within sight. He couldn't rise to his feet. That was beyond him. Even crawling was an ordeal. He kept hold of his sword despite the weakness of his grip, determined not to be butchered. He would go to his death with a weapon in his hand and resolve in his soul.

The two men who entered the clearing weren't soldiers. Most likely they were poachers who hadn't expected to stumble upon such a horrendous sight. That didn't mean they wouldn't kill him. He pressed his back against a tree and raised his sword even though his eyesight had begun to dim.

"Easy," one of the men said, moving slowly toward him. "We're not here to hurt you."

Aramis grimaced and fought to keep his arm steady. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't take you at your word." His words came out garbled from a throat parched and dusty.

"Look," the man said, raising his hands to show that he was unarmed. "Who are you? What happened here?"

"My friends died." His arm drooped until the sword lay on the ground. "They died," he repeated, more to himself than to the men. Acknowledging it caused his breath to hitch. With an effort of will he raised his head. "I need help."

"Let me see." Fingers lifted the bandage from around his head and prodded the wound. "Dirt must have got into it. It's red and weeping pus. Can you walk?"

"If you help me to stand I'll manage."

"My name is Bernard Bovais. This is Alain Lecroix. You're lucky we found you."

"You're French?" Aramis felt as if his mind and body were disconnected. He shook his head, wincing painfully. "There are horses."

"No, my friend, if there were horses they've run off and left you."

"How far?" he asked.

"We live on the border. Our home is less than an hour's walk." Bernard looked at him critically. "More than that with you in this state."

"I'm indebted to you." A persistent buzzing made it hard to concentrate. He stumbled forward, losing his grip on consciousness before they had made it to the trees on the far side of the clearing.

TMTMTM

"How is he?"

Aramis was certain that he should recognise the voice. His skin was bathed in a cold sweat which he took as a good sign. All his recent memory was of heat and chills and his rambling voice.

"The fever left him this morning."

The woman's voice was gentle and quiet. It came with a name; Jeanette, he thought. She'd nursed him, coaxing him to drink the cool water and holding his hand when the nightmares plagued him.

"Captain?" he asked, prying open eyelids that felt as if they were stuck together.

Treville's smile was forced, as if a heavy weight lay on his shoulders. Aramis was unsurprised. The Captain had lost an entire troop of Musketeers. Like any good commanding officer he would take that personally.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak," Aramis admitted. "We were attacked…"

"I know what happened," Treville said hurriedly. "Everyone's accounted for except Marsac. Where is he?"

"Gone. He saved my life and then he left."

"He's a deserter and a coward," Treville said unemotionally.

"Yes, he deserted but he's no coward," Aramis protested angrily.

"That isn't how the law will see it. He'll be put under sentence of death."

Aramis knew the harshness of the law and the lack of compassion in the hearts of those who sat in judgement. "I know." He closed his eyes, worn out from the brief conversation and myriad of emotions he was unable to control. "How did you find me? How long have I been here?"

"Two days. When I didn't find your body or Marsac's I came looking."

"Why were you in Savoy?" Aramis asked. As far as he had been aware the Captain had stayed in Paris.

"Royal business." Treville's tone made it clear that he wouldn't say anything more on the subject. "When you're ready to ride we'll escort the bodies to Paris for burial."

TMTMTM

It was a somber procession of wagons that entered Paris ten days later. Aramis was exhausted but stood steadfastly watching while the graves were dug and the bodies were reverently laid to rest. He put his hand over his heart in remembrance and wondered if he would ever again have as strong a bond of brotherhood as he'd had with Marsac. He was no longer angry with his friend. Now he feared for Marsac's sanity, wondering if one day he'd hear that his comrade had taken his own life.

"I hope you find peace, my brother," he said softly.

1630 Paris

"I heard about Marsac," Athos said, joining Aramis at the table in the yard. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"He clearly believed Treville was guilty."

"He did." Aramis still felt curiously numb. The events of the day didn't entirely feel real yet.

"And you?" Athos pressed. "Do you believe it?"

Aramis rubbed a hand over his forehead, his fingers finding the faint scar left by the musket ball in Savoy five years earlier. "Captain Treville is an excellent soldier who follows his orders."

"That's not an answer."

He sighed wearily. "You asked me today what I would do if I found out that Treville betrayed us. I'd have resigned my commission and wouldn't have shot one of my best friends. I've lived too much in the past these last two days. It's time to let it go."

"I saw the Duke's back. He carries the scar made by your sword."

"Yes."

"You don't seem surprised."

"It's all politics. Soldiers die. It's a risk we take every day. The Duke believed we were there to overthrow him. He was protecting his life and lands. I can't condemn him for it."

"If it's any consolation I'm sure that Richelieu is plotting the Duke's demise. With the Duchess as regent for the boy France will have a stalwart ally against Spain. Now, our friends are waiting. Let us drink in memory of Marsac. Whatever else he might have been he did save your life."

"I think he was ready to die. He could have killed both Treville and I and chose not to pull the trigger. He wasn't the man I knew all those years ago." Aramis stood and put on his hat. "Did the Duke sign the treaty?"

"Eventually. It was quite an adventure getting him to that point. I'll tell you over a few bottles of wine."

Aramis looked up to see Treville watching them. With a faint smile and slight nod of his head he followed Athos, his brother, to celebrate the past and look forward to the future.

The End