A/N

Warning: Mentions and descriptions of dead Musketeers/Inseparables in the Prologue; if you don't want to read it, start with Chapter 1 further down, though I don't think the descriptions are too graphic.

Heartfelt thanks to BootsnHats for doing the beta again; she was and is unstinting with her time and spent many hours with correcting errors, pointing out inconsistencies, answering questions and trying to find out what I meant to say when I had used erroneous translations. My deep gratitude for making this possible; I would neither write nor post fan fiction if it were not for her. Also heartfelt thanks to oberon24 who was so kind as to read the story as a WIP. She listened to my whining, asked pertinent questions, brainstormed with me when I was stuck and -above all- shares my love for Aramis. All remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are solely my responsibility. The Musketeers are property of BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction.

To Conquer Death, You Only Have To Die

There are those who are resurrected and there are those who are reborn.
And then, there are those who had been known far and wide as the Inseparables;
where there was one, the others were not far...

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Prologue

The battlefields of Rocroi, on the 19th of May Anno Domini 1643*

Unceasingly, Tréville dragged his feet over shredded ground littered with corpses and bodies, broken weapons and broken hopes. He still bled, albeit lightly, from several wounds, including a bullet wound on his left thigh as well as a deep slash on his right upper arm. He had left the tents of the wounded after seeing the unbearable amount of dying men still coming in. There were so many in need of help more urgently than he and he hadn't been able to stomach the stench and screams anymore. None of his wounds were life threatening as far as he could judge and they didn't hinder him in fulfilling his duty. A duty he owed not only as Minister of War and commanding officer, but as man of honor and human being to those who had lost their lives on the battlefield today. It was the least he could do to honor the sacrifice of those under his command who had given their lives for king and country. Too many had died, too many good men had been lost on this black, bloody day, though in the end they had prevailed. Against all odds. France had come out of this day of bloodshed and tears victorious, inflicting such an overwhelming defeat on the Spanish troops that it would finally mark the end of the war. Though victorious was not the word he would ever choose when speaking of the events in the context of this day, should he live to give report about it.

Through the smoldering air that had settled over the battleground, his eyes once again came to rest on a familiar figure and his heart bled at the sight of one of his men felled on the ground, one of the finest swordsmen in all of France. Tréville looked into the broken eyes of his regiment's captain and with no small amount of effort he bent his knee and lowered his body, grunting as he did so, to close the former comte's eyes forever. Athos' face for once looked neither haunted nor grim; an inner peace shone through the blood and grime, and Tréville hoped that, at last, Olivier d'Athos de Siguèlle, Comte de la Fère et de Bragelonne, had found the peace of mind he had striven for half his life. Tréville's gaze wandered again over the bodies scattered on the bloodied ground and his eyes caught on another familiar shape. Whispering a short prayer, he heaved himself up and limped over to where he had spotted the figure of the regiment's marksman, the blue sash shining like a beacon through the dreariness of the place. When he was close enough, Tréville realized that Aramis lay not alone; in dying his body had fallen, as if in a last act of protectiveness, over his closest friend, and joined in death he found Porthos as well, the big man's whole body covered in blood.

Tréville had to avert his gaze for a moment, taking in a few shaky breathes. In the end, the Musketeers everyone had called the Inseparables had died the way they had lived and served; together. Gravitating to one another not only in life and service but in death as well. Ultimately, Tréville thought, it wasn't surprising at all that if one fell, the others would follow, too, for such was the nature of the bond they had shared. A wave of grief took hold of his heart and he had to close his eyes until it passed. For all that, he thought, God had graced the Inseparables with an act of kindness, given that none of them had had to live and mourn his fallen brothers. However, one was still missing, and Tréville resumed roaming his gaze over the battlefield...

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Chapter 1

~Made Of Memories, Only You And I Hold~

Quimper, France, now

René stood on the station platform, eyes staring unseeingly into the distance while the station speaker blared about some delay or other. René didn't care about delays. He didn't know what had gotten into him, packing his backpack precipitately and buying a train ticket to Plogoff. Plogoff, of all places! Sweet Jesus. What did he want there? He had never been there, but on an impulse it had felt right, and he damn sure wanted to be as far away from Paris as fast as possible. So, Plogoff had been alluring - reclusive and lonesome as it was - if what he had once read about that region was right, that is. For now, at this moment and in his current mood, it seemed the right place to go, to flee to. Not somewhere south, where the beaches were powdery and white, and the sun was warm and the wind caressing like a lover's embrace, smelling of pine wood and oleander. No, it had to be rough and cold and wind-whipped, where the wind could clear his mind and numb his feelings. Suited his mood so much better. Besides, truth be told, it had been one of the first trains to leave the Gare du Nord, and he had jumped at the chance. Running away like a coward, licking his wounds.

He lifted his gaze and looked around. Here he was, at a small train station somewhere in the middle of nowhere, waiting for his connecting train. If there was a connecting train. He thought he had heard the speaker announcing some outage, delay, whatever. The rain, unremittingly drumming on the station's roof, reflected his current mood. Melting with the downpour was alluring, what would he give if he could just vanish in one of the puddles on the platform or seep into the earth, leaving this miserable, cruel world behind. "Oh, stop pitying yourself, it's not the end of the world", René muttered to himself, kicking a tiny stone into the roadbed before him. After all, it was not the first time a woman had left him, and not the first time a woman had left him for another, more profitable, more promising man she could spend her life with. No, he really hadn't been too lucky with relationships those past couple of years.

Or altogether with people staying in his life instead of leaving him behind.

But maybe it was his problem, and his alone. It was not about people leaving him (going, dying), but his inability to cope with being left behind. About him wasting his lifeblood on things he believed in, caring more and feeling deeper than was good for him in this too fast living world. Oh hell, he would survive and only rise stronger from this episode. Had done it before. It wasn't so much being single and living alone yet again but rather having his heart ripped out and trampled on and then shoved back into his ribcage where it was trying to find his rhythm again, failing miserably at the moment. One definitely could find kinder words to end a relationship the other half had obviously believed in much stronger. It hurt, the way she had broken up and the words accompanying it.

A train entered the station on the opposite track from where René stood, slowing down with squealing brakes until it finally came to a complete standstill. The speaker announced something or other, but René didn't even hear it, his mind whirling with the accusations and insults hurled at him less than a day ago. When his staring gaze caught on the train's wheels, blocking his eyes' view from whatever they had seen before, he slowly raised his head until his sight settled on the train's windows. He could see his reflection in the window, blurred and faint, and it was not a lovely sight to see. His whole bearing expressed the way he felt. If he had been a person with suicidal tendencies, this would have been the moment to take these couple steps more and let himself be run over by the next train entering the station. Luckily, he had neither suicidal thoughts nor would his faith, strained as it had been over the last couple of years, allow him to take his own life. Not to mention how his dear mother would never be able to cope with such! Furthermore, he had long ago learned that very few things in this world truly were worth sacrificing a life for. And his most recent partner was not among those. Sadly, he had to admit, this he had recognized ever since he had known her.

The light shifted, clouds again blocking the spare rays of sunlight that had illuminated the station for a couple of minutes, and the reflection René had seen of himself faded. Instead, his eyes settled on a person sitting behind said window. Focusing now on the man behind the glass he realized that the person was staring back at him. Embarrassed René lowered his eyes, he hadn't meant to stare and worried now what that person would think of him.

But the man's face had stirred something in René, some long lost memory he couldn't grasp, a fleeting image of another time, another place, and he looked up again. The man was still staring at him, and René thought that the passenger looked more surprised than upset, though he also felt it rude of the other to now stare back at him. Meanwhile, the stranger had risen from his seat, fully facing René now, eyeing him intensively, mouth moving as if he was speaking with someone, albeit obviously being alone in the compartment. René had the feeling he should know the man, must have seen him before, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where or when. With a loud bang the doors of the train shut and another squealing of the wheels announced the departure of the train. When the train slowly started to move, the man inside the car pressed even closer to the window, his left hand touching the glass, lips compressed into a thin line. René couldn't avert his eyes from the departing train, following the man's figure until he couldn't make him out behind the glass anymore. Staring at the red taillights of the leaving train, he wondered why his brain suddenly came up with Mount Athos in Greece. He had never been there, never been to Greece at all. No, not Mount Athos, just Athos, he realized. He hadn't thought about a mountain when the name popped up in his mind. Wasn't there a red wine called Athos? Why did he think of it now?

He turned and scuffed over to a bench, slumping down regardless of the waterdrops that bedewed the seating surface. After ten minutes of shuffling his feet, fiddling with a loose thread on his hoodie's sleeve and absentmindedly watching the rain pour down, René realized that he had spent the whole time turning the name Athos over and over in his mind without volition. He closed his eyes. What was it with the man that he felt he should remember something? If seeing the face had caused that name to come to mind, he might once have met the man. But he couldn't recall ever having met a Monsieur Athos. Nor did he know of a company by that name. Maybe he had treated the man once, and the name had stuck because it was not a very common one. His colleague would know, she never forgot a name, something to do with an eidetic memory, or some such. He tried to shrug it off, he could ask her next week if he had not forgotten about it by then.

And yet, something about the man's features still nagged at his mind.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

After two, almost fruitless, boring and dull days of observations in Brest, Athos felt more than entitled to drown his bad mood in wine. Lots of it. But it would be another couple of hours until he reached Paris, and then it would only be midday. Though it might not always look like it, even he usually had the decency not to start drinking before noon, and then only in reasonable amounts. He hoped his business partner and brother-in-arms was available this evening to keep him company. Drinking alone was another of those things from his past he was no longer prone to. Unlike in the years back then, he was almost fond of drinking in the company of others now. Well, other, singular, to be precise. The conductor announced the train's arrival in Quimper and Athos sighed at the unfairness of the world that he was confined to the compartment with no bar or bistro aboard this train.

Athos spotted the lone figure on the platform immediately when their train entered the station, and even from afar there was something alarmingly familiar in the way the figure stood there, the stature, the bearing. When his car came to a stop directly opposite the man, he studied the person, whose shoulders sagged as if bearing the world's brunt, head hanging in misery, and he knew beyond doubt it was their marksman. Former marksman. In this life, the man very likely followed another profession, but that didn't change the fact that it was Aramis nonetheless. Even if the hair was a little fairer and not as long as it used to be and the beard just a shadow of its former glory, the face was so achingly intimate Athos' heart stuttered for a moment. The man raised his head, and when their eyes met, Athos almost flinched at the forlorn and blank look lingering in the depth of them.

Athos rose from his seat and he had to restrain himself lest he would smash the window with his bare hand. Windows which were no longer openable in these confounded air-conditioned trains. He called Aramis' name, knowing at the same time it was a fruitless effort. Neither was the other man able to hear him calling, nor did he seem to pay any heed to Athos at all. And it looked very much like Aramis had no idea who Athos was, or, very likely, who he himself had once been.

"Merde!" Athos hollered and made to turn and leave the compartment to depart the train, but even before his hand had let go of the window he heard the doors shutting. Mesmerized by the sight of his long-lost friend, he had wasted that one minute he had needed to hop off the train. Now he could only stand there and watch Aramis getting smaller and smaller as the train gained ground. Aramis seemed to watch the train leave the station, too, so maybe, maybe there was hope his friend had felt some kind of recognition at least. Two molecules trying to gravitate to each other in this galaxy would have higher prospects of success than one single nanoparticle had, trying to find a docking station in the universe. Frustrated, Athos curled his fingers into a fist, hitting the glass with an angry bang. For years he had searched and all fate had granted him now was a short glimpse of the friend he had been missing for too long, unable to find any information about his whereabouts.

Athos let himself fall back on the seat once the train station was no longer in sight. "Stop being overly dramatic," he muttered to himself, ruffling through his unruly hair to clear his thoughts. He was sure there had been a short flicker of recognition in Aramis' eyes, gone before the other's mind had been able to register it. And yet, when Athos thought no cognizance had stirred in the other man's memory, Aramis had lifted his head again and stared back at him, uncertainty and desperation written all over the face. Athos had seen that look before, centuries ago, after Savoy, and it did not bode well for the other's well-being. Immediately he had recognized the desolation and despair pouring out of every fiber of their former marksman; he wished he knew what had befallen Aramis, he wished he could have stepped out of that cursed train car and approached the man before the doors had shut and the train started to move.

Athos grabbed his mobile and started searching for a match between that godforsaken small village they had just left and the names he had already typed a bazillion times now into various keyboards. René Herblay, René d'Herblay, Henri-René Herblay. Even before the results listed on the screen within the blink of an eye, he knew he would yet again get no match, get nothing. All those years he had never found the one René d'Herblay he was looking for, and now there were some Renés listed in connection with Quimper, but no Herblay and none fitting the age and none of those bloody awful many pictures that popped up had the slightest resemblance to Aramis. There was no certainty that Aramis still bore the same or a similar name, here and now, in this reality fate or God or providence had granted them, cursed them with. Whatever. Hell, in this universe he wasn't a de la Fère anymore, what if Aramis had nothing at all in common name-wise with d'Herblay? Athos had nothing else to go on.

Gazing at the landscape, Athos pondered getting off the train at the next station, trying to get a taxi back to Quimper. Fingers flying over the touchscreen he searched for the train schedule to see where the next stop was, even before his mind had come to a conclusion in that regard. However, a quick calculation showed him that he wouldn't make it back to the station in time before the train Aramis obviously was waiting for was due. Though he had not yet checked on possible delays.

His phone buzzed, the number showing him it was Isaac.

"Olivier!" Isaac barked the moment Athos answered the call, the use of the proper first name a hint that someone else was with Porthos at the moment. "Madame Marchand is here with me. She insists you had promised to meet with her today about the Dupois case?" Porthos asked, even if he was pretty sure it was not true, because Athos would never forget a meeting with clients. "She says you promised to explain the report you sent her last week, about the lack of evidence in this case and – if I may quote her – your inability to allege facts," Porthos added, well aware that Madame Marchand was within earshot.

Athos sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. No use explaining that he simply had added a note at the end of his report, offering Madame Marchand the opportunity to contact him if she had any questions; and with that he hadn't meant materialize in the office out of the blue, expecting Athos would be there and have time for her. "Porthos, I already told her I cannot deliver what's not there. Even if I spend the next ten years on the case, observing her husband and monitoring his account activities, I won't be able to come up with the things she wants to hear or have proof for. I'm not going to make up lies about her husband to make her happy." He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He knew it would be unfair to throw this at Porthos, however alluring it was. "I'm on my way back and will likely be in Paris around noon. If she is willing to wait, give her a coffee and I shall talk to her when I'm in the office."

The other man hummed his agreement and understanding. If it had been his call, he would tell the lady Monsieur d'Autevielle was not expected back until next week. Or had retired to Canada where he was counting grizzlies now or some such.

"And, Porthos," Athos started but hesitated, unsure if he should tell the other of what he had just experienced. When the silence grew too long, Athos harrumphed. "Err, nothing, I'll see you later."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

When his connecting train finally entered the station, René felt so worn out he had physical problems rising from the bench and walking over to the train. His backpack seemed to weigh tons and the few steps to the train's door stretched like miles. He entered the train and let himself fall on the first vacant seat he passed, throwing the backpack on the seat beside him. Head glued to the cold glass fogging now under his breath, he stared out of the window. He had made the mistake and wallowed for too long in his misery, had allowed the shadows to grow and now the memories were back. Unwanted, unbidden, unasked. Now he really felt desperately alone.

He didn't know if it had been the stranger's face, or rather the piercing eyes that had stirred something in him, a memory he felt at the back of his mind but couldn't grasp. Trying to remember where he had seen those eyes before had brought back other memories, memories of ones he had known, of his friends. Friends he had lost and still missed, sometimes to a point where it hurt just to think of them. Think of the happy times they had shared together.

He didn't know how often over the past years he had cursed that forsaken trip he and his friends had made together, a celebration of their life-long friendship, hiking in the Pyrenees like so many times before. Camping, hiking, laughing, enjoying life, and pretending they were still young. Daring and reckless, like the boys they had been in their younger years. Only, the celebration of life and friendship ended in death and despair. All had lost their lives, all but one. While they had shattered on a mountainside in Savoy, he had been the lucky one, the lucky devil, cursed to be left behind.

The landscape behind the window turned into a blurred painting, houses and trees and rocky fields flying by, its borders smudging like an aquarelle painted with too much water. It took René a while to realize the blurriness came not from the rain still pouring down over Brittany but from the moisture in his eyes that had found its way down his cheeks.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Porthos raised his glass to Athos, the third, if Athos had counted right. "Anyway," the dark skinned man came to a closure of his account, "It's good you're back, I wouldn't have survived one single day more without you." He gulped down half of his beer before putting the glass back to the wet spot on the table that had built from condensate. "Besides, drinking alone is only half the fun," he smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What happened to Valerie?" Athos asked, perking his eyebrow the same way he had done all those centuries ago, comte and captain and secretive ironist shining through with an easiness that made the other man smile. Into whatever external circumstance they had been reborn, they were still the men they used to be, and that was a calming thought. "I always thought she is quite capable of drinking you under the table."

"Don't even ask," the other man replied, waving his hand vaguely.

Without that small smile accompanying the bigger man's words, Athos might have started to worry, though he wasn't quite sure about the current status of the relationship between those two. If they already had broken up and Porthos wanted to share what had happened between him and Valerie, he wouldn't hesitate to do so. If he didn't, Athos would be the last person to try and make another one talk about women. He had gained enough experience in that regard and felt far from needing to share any of those unpicturesque episodes.

"Very well," Athos muttered, sipping from his own glass of wine and taking some extra time to shape what he was going to say next. He looked around. As a matter of course, Porthos had joined him after they had finished talking about the Bonvièr case and Porthos had updated him on the last three days' daily business. Like so many nights before, they sat at a small table in their preferred tavern, a small restaurant that was just a stone's throw from the office, overlooking the Seine and Île de la Cité, and where an exceptionally good red wine from Chassagne-Montrachet was served. Athos took another sip, whirling the fine dark liquid around in his mouth for a moment before he let it run down his throat, savoring the fine taste. He knew he had to be careful with how he spoke of it. "Porthos."

The serious tone his friend addressed him with caused the big man to sober and look at the older man. Though Athos wasn't and never had been prone to brimming over with mirth, the shift in their conversation's light bantering did not go unnoticed by Porthos.

"I think, no, I know I saw him today. At the train station in Quimper, waiting for a westbound train, I guess." Athos eyed his friend and co-partner, certain Porthos would know whom he talked about even without voicing a name.

Porthos kept totally still. No reaction came, other than him staring at Athos, waiting for the older man to continue.

"I don't think he recognized me, but..., " Athos trailed off. "There was some kind of flicker, a surprised look. Maybe..." He fell silent again. What could he tell about that short encounter?

Porthos shoveled breath into his lungs as if it was the last chance in his life to do so. "How did he look?" was all he was able to press through his teeth, thinking of all the years he had yearned for this moment to happen.

Athos had never shrunk from danger in his life, lives to be precise, and he did not now. "Lost," he offered before he could think about his answer properly, immediately adding, lest Porthos choke on too much air gulped in, "no, I mean, all in all he looked like always, you know, like Aramis." Athos hesitated a moment, searching for fitting words. "Perhaps not as charming as usual. A little depressed, maybe, from what I saw. And I really don't think he has any clue who I was or who he is."

Porthos had wrapped both hands around his beer and Athos feared the glass might break under the other's firm grip. "What do you suggest we do?" the bigger man asked, pointedly avoiding his former captain's gaze. Porthos didn't want the other to see the hope and fear of disappointment battling for supremacy in his eyes. Finding Aramis had been his top priority, ever since Porthos had remembered his former life. For Porthos, Aramis had been like the brother the big man never had had, not in this and not in his former life. And getting this brother back was what he wanted and needed more than anything else. "Do you have a plan?"

Athos knew that whether or not he had a plan, which incidentally he hadn't, nothing would stop Porthos from demanding they do something. For lack of a good plan, Porthos would smash something to pieces, so Athos knew he should hurry to come up with anything.

"Well, not exactly a plan, but I'd say let's do something spontaneous."

Porthos raised a brow, staring at his friend. "Spontaneous. You. That's an inconsistency in and of itself."

"I know, but there's no time like the present and I really don't have time nor money to mend whatever you'll destroy if we leave this bar without a purpose. So, since this might be our only chance and I really have nothing better to offer, let's close the office for a couple of days. I can finish with the Denaux case tomorrow and there are no pressing assignments, as far as I know. The rest we can postpone. I already checked about the train schedules at Quimper. There were only two trains due for arrival on platform 3 today, one about an hour later and one in the afternoon. There was some delay with a connecting train, otherwise the first train would have been through much earlier." Athos paused for a moment to think about how he never would have seen Aramis if the train had been on time. Which was unlikely on any given day, but still, sometimes they did run on schedule. Perhaps, he might never want to complain about delayed trains ever again. "Anyway, both trains leaving Quimper westbound were heading to Plogoff. End station, obviously. Let's drive there and see if we find something. Maybe Aramis headed in that direction on business or holiday or he lives there."

Athos didn't think any of these options were the case here, but he was not willing to tell Porthos so. Aramis had not looked like a man who was going on a holiday in Brittany that day nor did it look like he had business to see to there. As far as he recalled he had seen some kind of backpack or duffle bag, but then again Aramis hadn't struck him as a man on his way to a holiday. Returning home? Maybe. His flow of thoughts was interrupted by Porthos.

"And if not? What if he departed somewhere along the way? How many stations are there between Quimper and Plogoff? Maybe he didn't even travel but waited for someone to arrive. Or he was on the wrong platform and changed sides later."

"Do you not want to find him?" The moment the words left Athos' mouth he knew they must be like a punch to the other man's guts, and he regretted saying so.

Porthos moved so his face was only inches away from Athos, the big man's eyes mere slits under furrowed brows. When he spoke, it was sharp and hissy. "Of course I want to find him. Never doubt this. I only say it's chasing clouds what you suggest. We cannot stop and search in every town and village on the way from Quimper to whatever hicksville he headed to. If he headed westwards from Quimper."

Athos wondered when in life their roles had been switched. Shouldn't it be him speaking sobering words? Plotting and planning before running off on a wild-goose chase? Shouldn't it be Porthos mounting a horse and chasing after his friend, captain's orders be damned? But then he saw the look in his friend's eyes. Porthos was afraid. Afraid to see his hopes crushed, afraid they would search and not find Aramis. That they would have to return to Paris without him and forfeit maybe their only chance in this life to get Aramis back.

"No, we can't. But we can try. It's worth a try I'd say. Who says we won't be lucky again?" Once before had they had to go after their brother to fetch and bring him home. And succeeded. "Maybe we are lucky and if not, we have at least tried."

There was silence.

"When have I ever made irrational decisions?" Athos grasped the other man's forearm, forcing him with this gesture to look up.

"Never. Not now, and definitely not back then," Porthos finally replied evenly.

A small smile crept over Athos' face. "See? You should jump in the air happily if you ever hear me say something as stupid as 'let's go somewhere and try to find Aramis, even if we have no idea if he is anywhere in a 1000 kilometer radius of where we are heading to'. And I'm more than determined to do exactly that."

"Well, now that you say it, it sounds like a brilliant idea!" Porthos grinned. "I'm sure I'm more than entitled to a little vacation and I've never been to Brittany. Where do we start then, in Plogoff or whatever the name is? Is it big?"

"No, not that big, though during vacation season it's swamped with tourists. This time of the year I don't think there are many people there, so we might be lucky if we start checking with hotels and inns. If Aramis is not living there and went there... for vacation." Athos had been on the brink of saying 'to sort out whatever troubles him', but that was something he would discuss with Porthos once they were on their way. "I think I can imagine where he might aim for."

Athos was thinking of sharp cliffs and blustering waves and boisterous wind. The Aramis he had known might be looking for solitude, time to think and sort his thoughts and feelings, and Point du Raz would be perfect for it. Oh God, he hoped the man had really jumped a train to the most western part of Brittany and was still there.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Notes/Some facts:

*The Battle of Rocroi of 19 May 1643 resulted in the victory of the French army against the Spanish army only five days after the accession of Louis XIV to the throne of France, late in the Thirty Year's War. The battle is considered to be the turning point of the perceived invincibility of the Spanish tercio. It was also of symbolic importance, as it was one of the few major battlefield defeats of a Spanish army in over a century and, moreover, a defeat of one of its most famous units.

On 17 May the French augmented their garrison in Rocroi with additional 150 Musketeers, on 18 May the armies took up position southwest of Rocroi and started with shelling artillery. On 19 May at 10 am the battle was over. The French had prevailed.

The total Spanish losses were about 7,000 dead, wounded, or captured. French losses were about 4,000.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

In this universe, Alexandre Dumas has not written The three Musketeers, therefore no such books exist and therefore no such names as Athos, Porthos or Aramis are known as "The three Musketeers" in modern times. What exists in this universe, however, are those Musketeers that served with King Louis XIII of France in the 17th century and whose names may be known loosely as Athos, Porthos and Aramis, if one is interested and looks up French history. The names of those three Musketeers might differ slightly from the names used in the show, but the characters are the very same. To bring the historical and show Musketeers in some kind of line, and for plot reasons, I have mixed the names of the 17th century Musketeers with our show Musketeers:

Athos - Armand de Sillègue d'Athos d'Autevielle, Comte de la Fère et de Bragelonne / Olivier d'Athos, Comte de la Fère

Aramis - Henri d'Aramitz (son of Charles d'Aramitz and Catherine d'Espaloungue de Rague of Béarn) / René d'Herblay

Porthos - Isaac de Porthau (also Portau or Portaut) / Porthos du Vallon

d'Artagnan - Charles de Batz de Castelmore, comte d'Artagnan / Charles d'Artagnan

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

As far as I know, there's no train connection between Quimper and Plogoff. For plot reasons and because I can I have implemented a train connection between both towns.

Story title is taken from the musical Jesus Christ Superstar, Poor Jerusalem

Chapter titles are all lines of songs from Rea Garvey