So we had Porthos returning to the Court of Miracles and Athos returning to his estate… This is how I imagined Aramis' return to his father.

"I've found nothing that could've told us who sent them. Maybe just a group of robbers?" D'Artagnan guessed as he walked over to his brothers, after he was ready with searching the corpses of the men that had attacked them.

The Musketeers had been on a mission for the king, delivering a letter, waiting for the answer and return with it. The had already delivered the letter and had waited three days in a nearby village until the answer was ready. It wasn't even a full days ride before they were attacked.

"They didn't seem practiced in this. I think they're normal man and were paid for this. Maybe they wanted the letter." Porthos crouched down beside Aramis, who was working on Athos' bleeding thigh. The medic didn't look up from the needle in his hand as it struck through flesh, as he answered. "One of them was a smith, another a farmer. They were hired."

He earned a confused gaze from his brothers, from all but Athos who only groaned in pain as the needle pushed through his skin. "They're from a nearby village. Not far from my home town." The medic than explained, made the last stitch and wrapped the long gash in bandages. "You can't ride like this any longer than necessary." Aramis didn't give the still curious and surprised looks on his brother's faces any attention as he stored his things away and made his way over to the death to close their eyes and whisper a last prayer for their lost souls.

"Any one else hurt?" Aramis then asked and looked at his friends with concern, but they shook their head. "Only a few bruises and cuts that can wait. And you?" "Nothing serious either. So as no one else needs any treatment now we should leave as soon as possible. Who knows how many are after us."

"How long do we have to ride to reach the village they came from?" Porthos then asked, trying to avoid all the questions that ran through his mind. "Maybe three hours. But Athos won't make it that far."

"I think I can decide this, can't I?" Athos muttered as he tried to stand up just to land on his butt again a second later. "No." The other three answered in union. "So is there something else we can sleep? You seem to know the area, Aramis." The Gascon helped Athos to his feet, wrapping one arm around the swordsman's shoulder.

There was an unnatural silence as Aramis had his back turned to them and put the medical kit back into the bag on his horse. He then sighed and mounted up. "Follow me."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos tried desperately to not show his relief as Aramis told them that it won't be long, only a few minutes. The swordsman would have never admitted it, but the burning pain in his sigh made him feel sick and wish for nothing other than a warm bed and some good sleep. He had been glad to hear that they headed towards a village and wouldn't have to sleep outside in the cold this night.

"Where exactly are we heading?" D'Artagnan asked curiously and looked at Aramis, who had been untypical silent. "d'Herblay." The name didn't say the young man anything, but as Porthos and Athos both exchanged another confused look, he frowned. "What's special about it?"

Porthos kicked his horse slightly to ride beside the Gascon. Whispering, he explained:" His birthname is d'Herblay. It has to be his home town." It's not that Aramis didn't notice the voices behind him and he knew exactly what they were talking about, but he decided to not think about it. He did what was necessary to get Athos to somewhere safe where he could recover long enough until he could ride again. "I've never heard someone call him by his full name." He heard d'Artagnan admit and couldn't hold back a small smile at the young man's curiosity and innocence he still carried with him even though he was a soldier.

"Is actual name was René d'Herblay. He changed it to Aramis as he came to Paris. There's not much more we know, he never spoke about it."

"So it's just 'Aramis' nothing more? I can't believe I never asked how his full name was."

"Just Aramis." Porthos confirmed before his attention turned back to their marksman, who's gaze was locked on a small village that came to view where horizon met earth.

"We're there soon, Athos."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"It looks good here." D'Artagnan turned his head into every direction as they rode through the only street the village had, impressed by how good the houses looked. Orange trees separated the buildings and spent some shadow on the small street.

It's only a five minutes ride through the village until Aramis dismounts in front of a small Inn. The end of the town is already to be seen, as only a few more houses and a church come after the Inn. Some farms are seen in the distance, one building bigger than the other, colourful trees making them seem as small palaces.

The marksman leaves them alone to ask for a few spare rooms just to come out a bit later. "There's no room left. Not even one."

"And now? Where are we supposed to go?" Porthos looked back at Athos, who barely held himself upright by now. Red strained the white dressing, as he probably had ripped his stitches through the ride. The wound needed to be cleaned properly and he needed rest, they couldn't sleep outside for days.

"Merde." Aramis hissed as he mounted up again, feeling the burning of the cut on his shoulder he had earned during their fight. "There's one more place I can think of."

"And that's where?" Porthos now rode beside his brother, while d'Artagnan had an eye onto the swordsman. "The farm of my father." Inwardly he spoke a fast prayer and reminded himself that he did this to help a friend.

"So we're going to get to know your parents? How exciting." Porthos grinned and clapped him onto the shoulder, causing the marksman to hiss in pain. "Just a small cut." Aramis answered fast as he knew too well that Porthos wouldn't approve that he hadn't told them of the cut. But it wasn't too deep and could wait until they had time to treat it. Athos was far worse than he.

"So, what are their names, huh? Your parents, I mean."

Aramis sighed, clearly annoyed at the topic. "My father's name is Pierre."

"And your mother?" Porthos asked, now less excited as he feared the answer. "She won't be there. She never lived with him but at the border to spain. She died as I was still a boy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Aramis offered him a gentle smile. The memories still hurt but he had learned to live with it. It may be a sad story but one many other people shared with him.

They rode up a path, where on each side orange trees hovered, until the tress ended, and a big building came into view. It was not close to Athos' estate, but it was bigger than d'Atagnan's farmhouse. "What kind of farm are you?"

"My father grows grapes and makes his own wine." Aramis explained and dismounted as a young boy ran towards them.

"May I help you?" He asked eagerly and pointed towards the horses. Aramis nod and gave him the reigns before the others followed his example. D'Artagnan and Porthos helped Athos dismount and wrapped each an arm around him to help him towards the door. Aramis always had a concerned eye on the thigh, which lost blood again until they reached their destination.

He took in a deep breath and knocked three times. "When have you been here the last time?" D'Artagnan watched him shrug. "As I way 16." "That's almost a decade ago!"

There was no time to say anything else as the door was ripped open.

A man in his fifties, with a thick brown beard and a few grey strains, took in the look in front of him until his eyes stopped on Aramis.

"René?" He asked, but beside the surprise there wasn't the joy the others had expected. "What is this supposed to mean?" He asked and pointed at the others. "Who are these men?"

"A good day to you, too. These- "Aramis pointed at his brothers, "are King's Musketeers, just as I am. We were ambushed and as you can see my friend is injured. You were the closest place to go and he needs some medical attention. If we could stay until he's able to ride, the King would be in your debt."

The older man huffed but took a step to the side, so they could enter. "Can't believe you really dared to come back here, after all you've done." The others heard the man mutter to Aramis, as they dragged Athos into the next room.

Aramis bit his lip to not say something wrong – they needed his father's help, if he liked it or not. "It's a necessity I also wish we could have avoided."

Pierre watched him enter the room where Athos already lay on a table, his trousers being ripped apart by Porthos. The farmer didn't know much about wounds, but even he could tell that such a deep gash couldn't be good. "We need needle, thread, hot water and towels." Aramis told no one specific in the room as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Even though it was his son, Pierre didn't want to leave him and these strangers alone in his house, so he called out for Justine – his daughter. Aramis froze in his movements for a second as he heard the name before he carried on with his task to prepare Athos.

"Yes, father?" An angelic like voice called, followed by fast footsteps and the rustling of skirts until a woman in d'Artagnan's age stood in the doorway. Her hair was put in a ponytail, her hands too dirty for the ones of a lady. She looked surprised by all the people in the house, but caught herself fast, sending them a small smile. Aramis turned around to face her as he heard her soft voice. Seeing her half-brothers face, the woman let out a gasp and clasped her hands in front of her mouth. "René!" She rushed forward just to stop as she noticed all the blood on his hands.

"Justine." He smiled softly and tried to block her view from the ugly wound. "Why – what – "She turned around to her father in search for answers. "I will explain it later to you, but my friend here is wounded and we need your help. Could you get some towels, water and a needle?" Justine still seemed overwhelmed by the situation, but she obeyed and ran out of the room to follow her half-brother's plea.