We Wouldn't be Anywhere Else
A Musketeers story by Deana
Takes place just after the Savoy massacre.

Entry for the 2nd 'Fête des Mousquetaires' contest: 'There is no friendship that cares about an overheard secret.'

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"Aramis?"

Silence.

"Aramis?"

More silence.

"He's not with us."

*sigh*

Someone started tapping his face, and Aramis blinked as the sounds of men shouting and dying in the snow faded from his mind. A cup was suddenly held to his lips and he obediently drank, expecting cool water but getting instead the wonderful taste of hot broth. It was Serge's best recipe; Aramis' favorite. He closed his eyes as it warmed the inside of his body, which always seemed to feel so cold. When the cup was pulled away, he reopened his eyes and licked his lips before looking at the two faces that were watching him.

"There you are," said Porthos, with a smile. He was sitting on one side of the bed while Athos stood behind him. "How'd you like to get outta here?"

Aramis blinked. "What?" His voice was soft and scratchy from disuse.

"We have convinced the physicians that you will recover faster in your own room," Athos told him. It had been nearly three weeks since Aramis had been brought back the only survivor of the Savoy massacre, with twenty Musketeers dead and one missing.

Aramis said nothing for a moment, feeling confused. His head injury had been severe; that, plus the stab wound in his left side and the fact that he'd nearly frozen to death left him unconscious for two days after he'd been rescued, and he'd been in a stupor for even longer, seeing nothing in his mind except for the dead bodies of his friends in the snow…

"Hey," said a voice, as a hand grasped his shoulder. "Come back."

Aramis blinked again, and closed his eyes with a shuddering sigh. He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep, not with those images fresh in his mind…and Marsac…where was Marsac? He'd obviously been captured by the men who had attacked them…

"Aramis?"

With a jolt, Aramis reopened his eyes and looked at the others, seeing the looks of concern on their faces. "Apologies," he mumbled.

Porthos squeezed his shoulder. "No need for that. Do you want to go back to your room, or would you rather stay here?"

It wasn't a hard question to answer. "Go."

Porthos nodded and stood from the bed, sliding an arm behind Aramis' back, to carry him, blankets and all.

"I'll walk," Aramis said.

Porthos and Athos both frowned. "I do not think that wise," said Athos.

"I want to walk," Aramis said.

Porthos looked at Athos, and they both realized that Aramis would have to get back on his feet sometime, so why not now? They'd helped him walk around the room a few times in the last week, but from here to his room seemed like too long of a journey, in his condition.

"If you are sure," said Athos.

"Yes," Aramis told him.

Porthos kept the arm around Aramis' back as Athos pulled the blankets back and gently swung Aramis' legs off the side of the bed. The sleeping pants that Aramis was wearing would have to do, as they didn't want to dress him only to undress him again once they put him into his own bed. Aramis was already wearing three shirts, against the relentless chill that his body could not shake, and they quickly got his boots and jacket on him and put his hat on his head.

Aramis quietly submitted to everything, not even protesting when Porthos pulled one of his arms around his shoulders before pulling him upright.

Athos held his other arm tightly and they watched Aramis get his bearings while standing. They knew that he still suffered from dizzy spells, and patiently stood there until he was ready.

Aramis closed his eyes when the dizziness struck and his head throbbed. The pain had gotten better over time, at rest, but when he tried to exert himself, it came rushing back. The stitches in his side pulled, causing a sharp sting to go along with the ache in his side. He started to regret the decision to walk, but it was too late now.

"I can carry you if you've changed your mind," Porthos suddenly said.

Aramis was amazed at that. Not at the suggestion, but rather to see how perceptive Porthos was. None of the three men had known each other for long; Porthos had been shunned by most of the men in the garrison because of his skin color and where he'd come from, and it had made Aramis feel sick to see how they treated him, as if he were less of a man than they were. Aramis had instantly befriended him, and found Porthos to be a warm, kind soul.

As for Athos…Athos had come to the garrison looking lost. The opposite of Porthos, he pushed everyone away. The men were amazed at his skill with a sword, but no matter how much anyone tried to befriend him, he simply glared at them or ignored them…that had finally changed one day during a fight with bandits. Athos had been knocked down and his foe stood over him to make the killing blow, but the sword never touched him, for Aramis had charged the man and sent him flying, earning himself a broken rib in the process. Athos had been shocked to see someone who didn't even know him risk his own life to save his—and even get injured for it. From that day on, Athos felt that he owed him a debt, and Aramis became the only man in the garrison that he would willingly speak to.

A few nights after that battle, Athos had sat in his favorite tavern drinking away his sorrows, and he was surprised to see Aramis and Porthos come in—rather, Aramis limped in with Porthos tightly holding onto his arm. Marsac wasn't with them, and Athos remembered that Treville had sent him to deliver a missive from the King the day before. They spotted Athos and immediately headed over to him.

Athos deliberately chose this tavern because it was far enough from the garrison that none of the Musketeers went there, allowing him the chance to be alone without having to socialize. He watched them approach and moved his hat off the table.

Once they reached their destination, Aramis carefully sat down across from Athos, left hand pressed to his right side to brace his rib. He was pale, his breathing too fast and shallow.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked, ensuring that he sounded curious and not annoyed. His voice turned out to sound shocked instead, and shocked he was; Aramis was in no condition to walk that far.

Aramis closed his eyes for a few seconds and took a few more breaths before replying. "We were in…the neighborhood."

At that, Athos stared in disbelief. "Why were you 'in the neighborhood' so far from the garrison walking around with a broken rib?"

Aramis smiled, bracing his other hand against the table as if trying to keep himself upright. "I'm fine." His left hand was still over his right side.

"He wanted to see where you disappeared to every night," said Porthos, coming over with two mugs. He set one down in front of Aramis. "I told him it was too soon for him to walk around, but he wouldn't listen."

Athos looked at them both for a moment. Aramis was an honorable man; Athos knew that even before he'd saved his life. Porthos was an excellent warrior, and didn't let the unfair treatment from the other Musketeers get him down, which Athos respected him for. He suddenly realized that Porthos was standing behind Aramis rather than sitting because he assumed that Athos didn't want to be in his company either. "Sit down, Porthos," he said.

Porthos looked surprised for an instant, before obeying. Once seated beside Aramis, he gave Athos a nod, as if thanking him.

Athos nodded back, before looking at Aramis, who looked on the verge of passing out. "You are a fool," he suddenly said.

Aramis looked at him and blinked. "I am?"

"You should not be walking anywhere, nevermind all the way here," Athos told him. He reached out and pushed Aramis' mug closer to him. "Drink. It will numb the pain."

Aramis obeyed, and Athos was right…it did, especially after his fourth one.

The three Musketeers sat there for over an hour before it became obvious that Aramis needed to get home. Athos and Porthos denied him anymore drinks; the last thing Aramis needed was to suffer a hangover with a broken rib.

The walk back to the garrison took twice as long as it should've: even though Aramis was in less pain thanks to the alcohol, his rib was still broken and the walk was not easy. Once they finally arrived, they went up to his room and helped him lie down. Aramis fell asleep quickly, and Athos watched as Porthos pulled a chair next to the bed and settled himself in it. "You plan to stay?"

Porthos nodded. "He might need help or somethin'. I don't like the way he's breathin'…he really shouldn't've walked around tonight."

Athos looked at the sleeping Aramis, to see that his breathing was still too shallow. He suddenly felt guilty that Porthos was going to stay there all night. "I will stay," Athos found himself saying. "It is my fault that he was injured, therefore it is my responsibility."

Porthos looked at him with surprise, before smiling. "We'll both stay, then."

Athos grabbed another chair and set it down, and the two of them remained all night, ensuring that they would be there for their friend—yes, Athos realized, Aramis was his friend—should he need them…

"Aramis?"

Blinking, Aramis came back to himself to realize that he'd actually been thinking about something other than Savoy for the first time in nearly three weeks. He looked at Athos and Porthos, who were waiting for him to either start walking or ask to be carried. "I'm fine," he said.

The others didn't look like they believed him, but they started to walk him to the door. Athos opened it, and they slowly walked down the hall and outside the infirmary.

It wasn't as cold as it had been that day in Savoy, but Aramis shivered anyway. Porthos tightened the grip that he had around his friend's back and steered him towards the stairs.

Aramis suddenly stopped and looked around. The grounds seemed nearly deserted, with twenty-one of their number gone…gone forever.

Athos saw the look in Aramis' eyes, and knew that he'd become lost to his memories again. He sighed and looked at Porthos, before giving Aramis' arm a shake. "Come, Aramis."

Aramis blinked and looked at him, before starting to walk again. Once they reached the stairs, he looked up them with dismay, having forgotten all about them when he'd decided to walk. His head was throbbing and he felt lightheaded, and he heaved an audible sigh.

Porthos saw his reluctance and reached down to scoop his friend up into his arms, but Aramis said, "I can do it."

The trip up was slow and painful, and once he made it to the top, Aramis felt like he'd accomplished the impossible. His body apparently felt the same way, for his knees buckled and Porthos picked him up and carried him the rest of the way without giving him a chance to protest.

A moment later, Aramis found himself sitting on his bed while his two friends removed his jacket, boots, and hat, and then they were gently laying him down. Aramis closed his eyes and shivered as his head throbbed, and he felt Athos gently lift up the bandage around his middle to check the stitches in his side before Porthos pulled the covers up over him.

Aramis could hear a fire crackling in the fireplace, and he was grateful that one of them had lit it before liberating him from the infirmary. Suddenly, he opened his eyes. "Thank you," he said. "Both of you. I know that I have been a burden."

Porthos frowned and sat on the side of the bed. "That's not true, Aramis. You're our friend, and we want to help you."

"He is right," Athos said, having never thought that he would say that of anyone.

"Still," Aramis said. "I've been useless ever since…" Savoy, he almost said.

The other two were glad that the subject had come up, as they had a question for Aramis, but hadn't wanted to bring back the awful memories. "Have you remembered anything yet?"

Aramis knew what they meant; he remembered the attack…how he'd been asleep one moment and then jolted awake by screams. He remembered fumbling for his sword and pistol in the dark and rushing outside his tent in time to narrowly escape the man who'd been about to charge in to kill him. He remembered fighting for his life and then an awful pain in his head…but then, nothing. He knew that he'd woken at some point; he knew that he'd seen Marsac, but the memories were gone.

"Aramis?" Porthos prodded.

Aramis came back to himself and sighed, raising a hand to his eyes. "I'm sorry. No."

Porthos and Athos glanced at each other. It wasn't just the missing Musketeer that they were concerned about; it was the fact that the Red Guards had started a rumor that Aramis must've survived the massacre because he'd hidden from the battle. It wasn't hard to keep the secret from Aramis since he hadn't left the garrison since the day they'd rescued him.

Porthos had been furious when one of the guards had the nerve to say it to his face. He'd punched him so hard that he'd flown six feet.

Aramis suddenly sniffed. "It's my fault," he whispered.

Neither Athos nor Porthos expected to hear that. "What is?" Athos asked.

"Marsac," Aramis answered.

"What?" said Porthos. "How can you say that?"

Athos put a hand on his arm to stop him, wondering if Aramis had remembered something. "What do you mean?"

"My fault he's still missing," Aramis explained, sounding choked up. "I know that I saw him after I was wounded…I just can't remember what happened! If I hadn't forgotten, he may have been found by now!"

Porthos grabbed Aramis' arm and squeezed it. "That is not your fault, Aramis," he said. "You almost died! You were nearly frozen to death when we found you, and you know that concussions cause loss of memory!"

"He is right," said Athos. "You have nothing to blame yourself for."

"They may be torturing him, because I can't remember," Aramis said. "And the rest of them…they're all dead…all of them…" His breath hitched and he couldn't hold back the tears.

Porthos reached down and pulled Aramis upright against him, comforting him as he cried.

Athos wasn't sure what to do. It was perfectly normal for Aramis to mourn; he'd been a Musketeer since before the age of twenty and had known Marsac and all of the others for a long time…anyone in Aramis' position would be overcome with grief. Combining that with the pain of his concussion and weakness that he knew was frustrating, Aramis had to let it all out somehow.

Besides, Athos knew how he felt…mourning his own brother and wife. He sighed, pushing those thoughts away, and reached over to put a hand on Aramis' shoulder, as he would've done for his own brother.

Aramis was mostly quiet in his grief. His arms were trapped between his body and Porthos', so he clutched the front of his friend's doublet as his tears wet it. He didn't cry for long, as it was making his head throb even worse. He tried to calm down and managed to succeed when he realized that he was embarrassing himself.

Porthos wasn't surprised when Aramis suddenly tried to pull away, but he didn't let him. "Hey, take it easy, just rest."

Aramis' body remained tense, but his head hurt too much for him to try to move again.

"There is no shame in expressing grief," said Athos.

Aramis relaxed after those words, though he sighed.

All three of them were quiet for a few minutes, before Aramis tried to move again. Porthos let him pull back, where Aramis remained sitting upright in his bed. He raised a hand to his head with a wince and closed his eyes, putting his other hand over the stitches in his side and letting out a shuddering sigh.

"Everything's gonna be all right," Porthos said to him. "I know that sounds ridiculous right now, but it's true."

How can anything be all right after what happened? Aramis thought. He didn't counter Porthos' words, knowing that his friend was just trying to help.

The basin of water in Aramis' room had been moved to the nightstand with a towel hanging over it, and a pitcher of drinking water sat there too. Porthos poured him a glass and handed it to him, and was glad that he hadn't filled it all the way when they saw it shake in Aramis' hand.

Aramis drank it before handing the empty glass back and painfully shifting to lie down again.

Porthos reached out to help him before taking the towel and wetting it, wringing it out and laying it over Aramis' forehead. It was cold and Aramis shivered, but he knew that it would provide relief for the pain, so he made no protest.

"Sleep," Athos suddenly said.

Aramis was quiet for a few seconds before he replied, "I can't."

Porthos sighed. "You need rest, Aramis."

"I'm resting," Aramis told him.

"Real rest," Porthos said. "You need sleep."

"But I'll only relive it," Aramis said, reopening his eyes. Pain radiated out of them: not just physical, but emotional. "Every night, I relive it."

It was upsetting to both Athos and Porthos to see Aramis suffering so badly. He was always so lively and happy…to see him brought down so low was a blow to both of them.

"Perhaps you will remember in your dreams what became of Marsac," Athos suddenly said.

Porthos looked at him, having mixed feelings about that statement.

It was obvious that Aramis hadn't thought of that; he looked at Athos with shock before opening his mouth and closing it again.

"Go to sleep," said Athos. "We will remain here. If it becomes apparent that you are suffering, we will wake you."

Aramis said nothing, suddenly feeling embarrassed again.

"Go to sleep, Aramis," Porthos said, echoing Athos. "We aren't going anywhere."

Aramis sighed, before closing his eyes again and trying to relax. He was so exhausted that he was asleep within two minutes.

Porthos realized that he should've gotten off the bed before Aramis fell asleep, and he ever so slowly moved, succeeding in standing without waking him. Porthos grabbed a chair and quietly placed it beside the bed, and the two of them watched over Aramis as he slept.

Less than an hour passed before their friend started to grow restless.

Porthos sighed at how little sleep Aramis had gotten before the dreams had come. Neither of them moved yet, waiting to see if it would get worse or if Aramis would settle.

It grew worse. Aramis started to make soft noises and mumble unintelligible things as his breathing increased.

Athos reached over and grasped his arm. "Aramis."

As usual, the gentle prompting didn't work. Porthos refrained from touching Aramis himself, as the last time they'd both tried to wake him, Aramis had woken violently, thinking himself still under attack.

Athos shook his arm this time. "Aramis, wake up." He continued to shake him until Aramis' eyes popped open.

"Marsac, wait!" Aramis exclaimed. "Stop!"

It wasn't the first time that he'd said that in his sleep, and instead of trying to convince Aramis that he was at home in the Musketeer garrison, Athos had an idea. "Stop what?"

"Stop," Aramis repeated, not looking at him. "Stop." He said nothing else.

Athos looked at Porthos, who sighed.

"It was a good idea, anyway," Porthos said.

Athos reached over and started tapping Aramis' face. "You're not in Savoy, Aramis, you're in Paris."

Aramis reached out and grasped Athos' wrists, likely thinking him a foe. Athos didn't move, not wanting to agitate him further.

Porthos intervened now, grabbing Aramis' shoulder. "Hey, wake up. Aramis!"

Aramis blinked and seemed to come back to himself. He lay there breathing heavily, before realizing where he was and letting go of Athos' wrists. He put a shaking hand over his eyes and tried to catch his breath. "Can't...can't take this," he suddenly said. "Have to get out."

"You're not in Savoy," Porthos told him.

Aramis shook his head, even though it was throbbing. "Out of here," he said, moving his hand and squinting at them.

"You mean out of the garrison?" Athos asked.

"Yes," Aramis said.

"Where do you wanna go?" Porthos asked.

"A tavern," Aramis answered.

Suddenly, Athos understood. Aramis needed to hear something else, to mute the voices from Savoy in his mind. "We aren't letting you drink," he said. Aramis was already unsteady enough on his feet because of his injury; alcohol would only make it worse.

Porthos looked at Athos in shock. "He's not fit to go out!"

"He needs to," said Athos. He stood from his chair and reached down to help Aramis sit up.

Porthos sighed. "I hope we're not gonna regret this…"

Fifteen minutes later, the three Musketeers walked into the stable, and they sat Aramis down while they got all three of their horses ready.

Aramis sighed as he watched, feeling completely useless. He'd never imagined that there would be a time in his life where he would feel that way.

Once the horses were saddled, they carefully helped Aramis mount, holding him steady when he swayed dizzily.

"This is a terrible idea," Porthos said, using both hands to make sure their friend didn't topple off the side of his horse.

Athos said nothing, watching Aramis to see when he was ready.

Aramis' eyes were closed as his head throbbed and spun. One hand over the stitches in his side, he completely agreed with Porthos, but he felt that he would lose his mind if he didn't do something to quiet the phantom screams of his dying friends. He eventually opened his eyes and heaved a sigh, looking down at them. "I'm fine," he lied.

"No you aren't," said Athos. "But since we managed to get you onto your horse without you passing out, we might as well go."

Porthos couldn't help but laugh at that.

They rode out very slowly, watching Aramis the whole way, ensuring that he could handle the ride. Aramis made no complaints, despite the pain and dizziness, but they could see that riding wasn't easy for him; he gripped the saddle horn with both hands.

Once they arrived at the tavern, it was just as hard to get Aramis off the horse as it had been to get him onto it. His legs buckled once he was standing on the ground, and Porthos had a mind to turn them around, even if he had to carry Aramis all the way back.

Aramis kept his eyes closed for a few seconds before he tried to straighten in his friends' grip. He took a step, and they helped him walk in, steering him to a table in a back corner.

Once Aramis was sitting, he sighed with relief and tiredly slumped against the wall behind himself, removing his hat and rubbing his forehead.

A barmaid was walking around with a tray full of drinks, and she automatically placed a mug in front of each of them.

Aramis reached for his and pulled it closer to himself before Athos could grab it. "I won't drink it all," he said.

"I'll hold you to that," said Athos. "You know that alcohol will not agree with you in your condition."

"I know," Aramis said. He took a sip and placed the mug back on the table.

For a while, they just sat there with no one speaking, letting Aramis look around and listen to the goings-on. It helped Aramis gain some control over his mind, and even though the noise was increasing his headache, he was feeling more mentally stable. He kept his word of not drinking the whole cup, and placed it on the barmaid's tray when she walked by.

Athos and Porthos finished their own wine, but then relinquished their cups also, not wanting to continue drinking in front of their friend while he couldn't join them in it.

It didn't take long for Aramis to start feeling weaker as he sat there with his head throbbing. The lit candle on the table was hurting his eyes.

"Have you had enough, Aramis?" Porthos suddenly asked. "You don't look too good."

Athos could see it as well. "You are too pale. We should go." He paused. "Did this help?"

It did…being in a different environment with different sounds to drown out the memories of the deadly battle. "Yes," Aramis answered.

Athos and Porthos were glad. They each stood and reached to help Aramis up, but loud laughter suddenly met their ears and they all looked towards the door to see a group of Red Guards enter the tavern.

Porthos looked at Athos with alarm, remembering their accusations against Aramis.

"There's the coward himself!" one of them exclaimed, pointing.

Aramis had no idea that they were speaking of him.

Porthos walked forward. "Don't," he warned.

The guard who'd spoken glanced at his four friends. "One against five, since he's obviously gonna have to help his friend hide," he said, gesturing to Athos.

Aramis blinked, bewildered, wondering if his head injury was making him hallucinate. "What?"

Athos tightened the hand on his injured friend's arm. "Ignore them."

"I don't understand," Aramis said, sounding confused.

"It's simple," said the guard. "We all know what poor fighters you Musketeers are, and the Savoy mission proved it. Twenty-two left Paris, and one came back. How long did you hide before the attackers finished killing everyone and left? Did Marsac hide too or was he so scared that he ran away?"

Porthos dove at the man and hit him so hard that he fell backwards and took all of his friends with him to the ground. Porthos reached down to grab him to hit him again, but stopped at Athos' sudden shout.

"Aramis!"

Porthos turned to see Athos lowering their injured friend to the floor, and he ran over. "What happened?!"

"He passed out," said Athos. He gently tapped Aramis' face, trying to wake him. "Aramis? Aramis?"

The Red Guards wisely said nothing as they got up and watched.

It took a full minute of calling Aramis' name and tapping his face before he showed signs of consciousness, softly moaning.

"Aramis? Are you all right?" Porthos worriedly asked.

"He left," Aramis said, eyes still closed.

"What?" Porthos asked.

"Marsac...he left me there..." Aramis told him.

"Don't listen to them. They're only trying to hurt you, you know that they're in competition with us," Athos told him, throwing the Red Guards a glare.

"No," Aramis said, finally opening his eyes. "Marsac saved me, after I was struck...he dragged me into the woods...but the next day...he left. He just left."

Athos and Porthos looked at each other in shock and dread.

"Are you sure about that?" Porthos asked, hoping that it was a delusion brought on by the concussion.

Aramis closed his eyes. "I remember...he left me there..." His voice was weak and shaky.

Porthos expected the Red Guards to start laughing and accuse Aramis of making it up to save his honor, but they were silent. He turned to look at them, and it was obvious from the expressions on their faces that they believed it. He looked at Aramis again and saw why; his face was extremely pale, eyes closed, and he was breathing heavily. Pain was written all over his face…not just physical pain, but emotional pain. Porthos wondered if Aramis remembered where he was; if he was about to cry again, Porthos didn't want it witnessed by the whole tavern, so he leaned over, close to his friend's face. "Aramis, look at me, let's get you back to the garrison."

Aramis obeyed, opening his eyes and blinking up at him. He looked like he was in a state of shock, and Porthos didn't blame him. How could Marsac have done such a thing? He left Aramis wounded and alone in the frozen forest, with twenty slaughtered friends!

Porthos had to close his own eyes for a moment; if he ever saw Marsac again, he'd kill him.

"Come," said Athos. He pulled Aramis to a sitting position and he and Porthos carefully pulled him to his feet. All strength seemed to have deserted Aramis at the shocking memory that he'd regained, and his knees wouldn't lock. They sat him down but had to quickly grab him when he nearly toppled off the side of the chair, his head lolling when he nearly lost consciousness once more.

Porthos started tapping his face again, trying to keep him awake. The barmaid suddenly appeared with a cup and handed it to Athos, who, in desperation, put it to Aramis' lips and tried to make him drink it, hoping that it would revive him.

Aramis automatically swallowed, and gave a soft moan as he started to regain his senses.

"That's it," said Porthos. "Come back, Aramis."

Aramis blearily opened his eyes and looked at them. He said nothing, and the others hoped that he'd forgotten the memory that he'd just regained.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked.

"Y-yes," Aramis whispered.

They doubted it, but they pulled him to his feet and slowly helped him towards the door. Along the way, Athos held out a coin to the barmaid.

"Keep it," she said. "Your bill was paid."

"By who?" Porthos asked.

"Those Red Guards," she answered.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other, shocked to hear that. Apparently, even dishonorable men recognized when they were wrong.

A few minutes later, the three Musketeers were mounted and on their way back to the garrison. Aramis was riding double with Porthos, as they weren't sure that their injured friend would be able to stay on his own horse. When they arrived back at the garrison, it took monumental effort to get Aramis up the stairs, and he all but collapsed onto his bed.

Athos and Porthos made him comfortable, concerned at their friend's silence; Aramis just lay there and let them manhandle him, eyes focused on something that only he could see.

Finally, when he was settled in bed again, Porthos tried to get his attention. "Aramis? Are you in there?"

Aramis said nothing at first.

"Hey," said Porthos. "Say somethin', will ya?"

"Did you wonder if it was true?" Aramis suddenly asked.

"That you hid as a coward? Of course not," Athos replied.

"Never," said Porthos. "Not once."

"If it was true, would you still be here, right now?" Aramis asked. If Marsac had abandoned him, how did he know that they wouldn't?

"There is no friendship that cares about an overheard secret," said Athos. "Especially an untrue one. But yes, even if it were true, we would be here."

"We wouldn't be anywhere else, Aramis," said Porthos.

Aramis closed his eyes sleepily, before reopening them again.

"Sleep," said Athos.

Aramis sighed. "Thank you," he said, as he closed his eyes again. "For being here."

The unspoken words, 'unlike Marsac' were obvious.

"Always," Porthos replied, reaching to squeeze his shoulder.

Aramis nodded, falling asleep quickly.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other. If they ever saw Marsac again, he was going to pay for what he'd done.

THE END