This is my first Musketeers fic and I will admit it was a labor of love. I thoroughly enjoyed putting myself into a 17th century frame of mind, striving for the poetic sense of dialogue and prose that works so well in the show. Huge kudos go out to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who I forced at gunpoint to watch the entire first season before I gave her this. That is dedication, folks! These characters are so rich and layered, I hope I served them well. This was written before the second season, so it does not follow the series 2 premiere, but is my own take on how things could've gone.

For Whom the Bells Toll

The clang of metal on wood reverberated in his ears as d'Artagnan instinctively ducked the tankard that sailed past his head, crashing against the wall behind him. Craning his neck, he watched momentarily as the dark crimson wine trailed down the panel, before settling more comfortably into his chair and returning his attention to the combatants on the far side of the tavern.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked his companion cautiously.

"Oi," Porthos grinned. The older Musketeer kept his attention fixed on the brawl currently in full swing before them, his eyes tracking the movements of the two Musketeers taking part in the altercation; watching, assessing, enjoying. "They're 'avin' fun."

D'Artagnan visibly cringed as Athos took a punch to the face, his expression of concern quickly changing to one of pride as his friend lifted a fist and retaliated, sending his attacker to the floor in a heap. He shifted his gaze to Aramis, who ducked a roundhouse punch from another assailant, holding his own tankard aloft, trying not to spill the precious liquid within.

A swing of Aramis' arm sent the swarthy man stumbling backward into their table, and Porthos lifted a foot giving him a solid shove to help him back into the fray. Aramis lifted his tankard, grinning in appreciation for the assist.

"Shouldn't we help them?"

Porthos laughed and took a healthy swig of his wine. His eyes were full of mirth, his grin eager and d'Artagnan could sense he was barely restraining himself from joining the battle. The big man leaned an elbow on the table and tilted his head toward the action. "Do they look like they need our help?"

D'Artagnan had to admit, though obviously drunk, Aramis and Athos appeared to have everything under control. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in response. "No, I suppose not."

"Then let's just sit back an' enjoy the show, eh?" Porthos smiled and held up his tankard in a toast. D'Artagnan followed suit, clinking his own mug against Porthos'.

"You still haven't explained exactly why we're sitting here watching our friends do…" the young Gascon waved a hand at the melee, "…this." He had been surprised when Athos had collected him earlier, explaining that he was needed as support for an excursion of the utmost importance. One he had ascertained their destination, he had tried to decline, claiming he wasn't in the mood for drinking, but the older man had made it clear that he would brook no refusal.

Since then, Aramis and Athos had been drinking steadily, the normally affable Aramis matching their leaders' pace drink for drink, becoming more garrulous – not to mention vociferous - as the night wore on. His increasing volume had managed to annoy a few of the more inebriated of the tavern's patrons, leading to a few insults, which had led to a demand for satisfaction in the name of honor.

That was when d'Artagnan finally understood that the entire 'excursion' was nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse to start a fight.

Porthos leaned back against the wall, his smile fading a bit. "Aramis needs this."

D'Artagnan huffed an incredulous laugh. "Why would anyone need this?" His attention shifted to Porthos as the big man sighed, surprised by his sudden melancholy.

"It's to keep him out of 'is own head." Porthos explained, his eyes tracking Aramis as he was pushed away from the bar, his tankard lost, his expression one of wild abandon. "It's been six years since Savoy, but every year on the anniversary of the massacre, he tends to let the guilt and memories take hold. This…" he waved a hand before him in emulation of d'Artagnan's gesture of moments before. "This helps 'im forget… for a little while at least. Gets 'im through the worst of it."

"You do this every year?"

Porthos shrugged. "It's become a bit of an Easter tradition."

One of the drunkards stumbled toward them lifting a fist to throw a punch at Porthos. The Musketeer leaned to the side, deftly avoiding the fist, watching as the man, pulled by his own momentum, twist and, tangled in his own feet, fall with a resounding thud. The man lifted his head for a moment, staring at them as if waiting for their assistance, before deciding he was more than comfortable prone on the floor.

"I didn't know Aramis was still haunted by what happened." D'Artagnan let his eyes drift from the drunkard lying at Porthos' feet to the man in question, watching in amusement as Aramis felled another combatant, reaching out and claiming the man's goblet before it fell. "I thought with Marsac's passing he had managed to put it all behind him."

"That's what 'e'd like you to think," Porthos responded. "And, for the most part it would be true. But once a year, our would-be priest allows the demons out to play. What happened with Marsac stirred it all up again. Made it worse."

"Worse? How do you mean?"

"The women," Porthos responded. "The more women he beds, the worse the nightmares his mind is conjuring up."

"The women?"

Porthos sighed again, lowering his eyes as if trying to come to a decision. Finally he returned his gaze back to his friends. "The women help him cope. They're… distractions. A warm body and all that."

"He uses them to forget when the memories get too close," d'Artagnan surmised, looking across the tavern and seeing his friend in a new light.

Porthos nodded sadly. "Don't get me wrong, Aramis loves 'em all when he's with 'em. But lately, for some reason, he's hasn't been nearly as amorous as he normally is – especially this time of the year. And these past few days, I could see he needed somethin' so…" He waved his arm again, indicating the brawl.

"You gave him a distraction."

Porthos nodded. "Athos and I decided long ago that we would be here to stop 'im from getting' lost in it all again."

Both of the seated Musketeers held their breath as Athos and Aramis bumped into each other across the room and turned, arms cocked to swing before recognizing their ally. They grinned in sheer mirth, each downing what was left inside their goblets before tossing them over their shoulders, clapping each other on the arm and throwing themselves back into the fight.

"Athos," Porthos explained with a fond smile, "Tends to take a more… active… role in the proceedings."

D'Artagnan took another swallow of his wine, his gaze following the movement of his friends across the room. "What does Aramis have to feel guilty about?" he asked, not wanting to pry, but curious how a soldier as accomplished as Aramis could still be affected by something that had happened so long ago. He knew why Athos buried himself in a bottle occasionally, his family and his past weighing heavily on his conscience, but Aramis remained a mystery. He had done nothing wrong. Nothing should weigh on his conscience.

"He feels guilty for survivin'," Porthos said, his voice low. "For a while, he thought he should've died right along with those twenty other Musketeers. It took a long time for Athos and me to make him believe he had a right to live when they didn't."

He shrugged again, drained his mug and slammed it down on the table. Their attention was drawn to the door where a few of the Cardinal's Red Guard had found their way into the tavern, no doubt drawn by the sounds of the brawl filtering out onto the street.

"Looks like the fun may be over."

Porthos stood, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height. He sent a glare of warning toward the soldiers as they stepped further into the tavern, their intent to interfere with the ongoing festivities obvious.

The look on Porthos' face, d'Artagnan thought, would make any intelligent man turn and run back the way he'd come. Unfortunately, most of the soldiers of the Red Guard weren't that smart.

D'Artagnan drained his own tankard and pushed himself to his feet, flexing his fists in anticipation of the fight. Despite his earlier misgivings, he found himself as eager as Porthos to join the fray, so, with a crooked smile alighting his face, he waded into the brawl.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis woke to the sound of bells ringing, unsure if the annoying noise was inside or outside his aching head. He remembered spending most of the previous evening trying to match Athos drink for drink, but it became painfully obvious after a few hours that he would never be on the same level as the older man when it came to the imbibing of wine. How Athos managed to drink his weight in alcohol and still maintain an outward appearance of sobriety remained a mystery – though Aramis was inclined to believe it was a tolerance acquired through years of dedicated practice. Lucky for him, a few of the taverns other patrons had taken offense at his attempt to educate them on the finer points of … something… and they'd ended up in a brawl, thankfully thwarting his poor attempt to prove his tolerance to wine was on an equal level to his noble friend's.

He squinted through bloodshot eyes, taking in his surroundings. He was in his quarters at the garrison. He slumped back onto the thin cot and sighed. Porthos and d'Artagnan, bless their loyal hearts, must have stayed with them at the tavern and made sure both he and Athos had returned safely to sleep off their intoxication. A tightness near his eye proved it wasn't only the alcohol that had his head aching and he reached up to feel the tender flesh, imagining the bruising marring his face.

Oh well, it was a small price to pay for the temporary oblivion it provided.

As the bells continued to chime, Aramis recognized the sound as the cathedral bells of Chapelle de la Sorbonne – definitely outside his head – and the reason for their trolling seeped into his wine-addled mind.

Easter.

It was Easter Sunday. And now the reason for his attempt to unseat Athos from his drinking throne came clear.

Savoy. It was the anniversary of the massacre of Savoy.

He swallowed convulsively and squeezed his eyes tightly as his stomach lurched, obviously trying to distract his mind from the memories that suddenly surged through it. It was six years hence and he still could see them as clearly as if it were yesterday. The twenty still bodies, lying where they had fallen on the frozen forest floor. The light snowfall had concealed the more telling signs of the slaughter, hiding the grisly details beneath a film of sterile white.

But Aramis had known it was there.

It would always be there.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, allowing the sunlight shining through the window to force away the images of his past.

He was safe now.

He had survived.

And he knew the truth.

With a low groan he forced himself to sit up and let his aching head hang down to rest on his hands. The pounding inside his skull kept time with the cathedral bells and he ran his fingers through his tangled curls. The morning after was never as much fun as the night before, and although each and every morning after, he vowed to never, ever do this to himself again, he was once more berating himself for indulging in the wine to temporarily bury his pain.

He reached behind him and grasped the back of the shirt he had slept in, pulling it up and over his head, letting the cool morning air send a chill across his skin. The sensation served to clear his mind a bit, and he let his eyes close, his head drop once more as he attempted to sort through the unwanted memories swirling inside him.

Though he couldn't condone Captain Tréville's part in the massacre, he understood it. Tréville was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders – even if they didn't agree with them. Tréville hadn't known what would happen when he gave the troops location to the Duke upon the King's orders – and Aramis was loathe to consider what he would have done had he known the outcome – but it had been obvious the Captain had suffered for the decision. Aramis now understood the leniency extended to himself – and by extension Porthos and Athos – all these years. As the only soldier to return from the training mission to Savoy, Aramis was a reminder to Tréville of what his actions had wrought. Because of this, Aramis couldn't find it in himself to blame the man further for what was not his fault.

He held no such consideration for the Cardinal. If, as Tréville had surmised, it was Richelieu who had planted the seed of an assassination attempt into the mind of the Duke, Aramis' heart held no forgiveness for the man. Twenty good friends – brothers – had died because of that lie. And though it may have been at the King's order, he was convinced the origins of the idea had been the Cardinal's alone. He couldn't help but wonder whether the Cardinal had forged the plan simply to protect the Duchess or to take advantage of the situation and decimate the Musketeers at the same time. Ingenious, if it weren't for the wanton waste of human lives.

He'd kept to himself for a few days following Marsac's death and his friends had not pushed him to speak of it. Eventually he'd explained what had happened, finding release in sharing the burden. It became easier to remember his fallen brothers once he convinced himself they had given their lives for the crown. Theirs was an honorable death, a soldier's death. Even Marsac, who had died in his pursuit of justice, had regained his place of honor in Aramis' eyes.

So it was no wonder his friends had allowed him his evening of drink – even encouraged and participated in it – though he wasn't sure he was up to thanking them quite yet. He may have lost twenty brothers at Savoy – and one more recently – but he had three who would do whatever it took to see him through the turmoil he'd witnessed. He'd become part of a family, brothers in all but blood, and he couldn't be more content with the result.

He slowly raised his head and looked around, spying the water bucket on the ground in front of the narrow window. Pushing himself off the bed, he waited a moment for the world to right itself before shuffling to the far wall and kneeling down before the half-filled bucket.

He had witnessed Athos' method of sobering himself upon rising after an evening of drinking to excess and assured himself that if it hadn't killed the older Musketeer yet, it probably would do him no harm. He took a deep breath and, before his better sense could assert itself, bent forward and plunged his head into the frigid water.

With a loud wail he fell back on his haunches and raised a hand to wipe the moisture from his face and eyes.

"That was bracing," he said out loud as he shook his head, allowing the droplets to scatter from his hair.

"It generally does the trick."

Aramis jumped in surprise, turning to see Athos and Porthos leaning against the frame of his now open door.

"Feel better?" Porthos couldn't hide the grin that played on his lips at the disheveled sight of his normally debonair friend.

"Don't ever let me drink that much again," Aramis ordered as he pushed himself up, leaning a hand against the wall to stop himself from toppling. "I concede to Athos' superior constitution."

Athos merely smiled, his own hair dripping around his shoulders. "I applaud your wisdom, my friend." Aramis raised a brow at the swelling surrounding Athos left eye, then lifted a hand and tenderly prodded his own.

Porthos smirked. "Just don't clap too loudly, Athos. I don' think Aramis can 'andle the noise just yet." He stepped into the small room and picked up a shirt from the back of a chair, tossing it to his friend as he slowly straightened with a groan.

The shirt landed on his head and he yanked it away, absently nodding his thanks. "It couldn't be any worse than those damnable bells the Cardinal had installed in that eyesore to his vanity."

"The Chapelle de la Sorbonne is a beautiful chapel," Athos pointed out drolly, baiting his friend. "The architecture is inspired." The Cardinal had commissioned the construction of the chapel, which had recently been completed, a marble likeness of His Eminence himself adorning the main hall. They had all been disgusted with the gall of the man, knowing how far his deception and evil stretched, but the King had been delighted to honor the Cardinal, still naively believing Richelieu held the best interests of crown and country close to his black heart.

"The architecture does not reflect the man who ordained it. " Aramis pulled the shirt over his head, not bothering to hide his disdain for the man who had not only orchestrated the deaths of twenty fine musketeers, but had, more recently, the audacity to attempt to kill the Queen. He still could not understand why Anne had allowed the man to live. He would have gladly taken the Cardinal's head then and there if she'd so wished. He wandered back to the cot and dropped heavily down onto it. "What I wouldn't give to hear the melodic bells of Notre-Dame again."

"The rumors are the bells of Notre-Dame have fallen into disrepair." Porthos reminded him. Whether it was true or whether it was just an excuse for the Cardinal to tighten his hold on Paris, they did not know. "Besides, you know the Cardinal wants his own bells ringing out over Paris."

Aramis nodded. "Simply another way for the blight that is Cardinal Richelieu to continue to stain our beautiful city."

"Careful, Aramis," Athos warned. "We understand your hatred of the Cardinal and share it, but, for now, he sits at Louis' right hand. If anyone outside these walls heard your words, they would not be taken lightly."

Aramis sighed and leaned forward rubbing his hands across his face. "I know. And I promise to be the very definition of discretion once I leave this room."

Just then, the youngest member of their quartet arrived and leaned in through the door to the room. A faint bruise graced his cheek and his bottom lip was split, but he grinned when he saw Aramis' crumpled countenance.

"You look like you had an interesting evening."

Aramis looked up at d'Artagnan's smiling face. "One of the best, from what I can actually remember, thank you very much. Unfortunately it has been marred by a morning filled with smirks and innuendos. "

"Not to mention bells ringin' inside and out," Porthos added helpfully.

"Those, too." Aramis conceded.

"Well, Tréville wants us immediately. Apparently something of importance has happened at the palace."

Aramis looked up, his eyes finding Athos', who immediately picked up on the reason for his friend's alarm.

"Did Tréville say anything else?" the older man asked calmly, his eyes holding Aramis' a moment before turning to the newest member of the regiment.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No. Just that there had been an incident at the palace and we were to be dispatched immediately."

Athos nodded then followed d'Artangnan and Porthos down the steps of the barracks. Aramis reached for his doublet and weapons, having never removed his boots and breeches from the previous evening. As he followed his friends out the door, he grabbed for his hat and placed it on his head, his hangover forgotten as fears for the Queen and her unborn child took up residence inside his mind.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

On their arrival at the Louvre, they were directed to a familiar courtyard directly outside the offices of the Cardinal. Tréville met them as they entered the yard.

"There's been a murder," he told them without preamble. "The Cardinal himself has been killed."

The four Musketeers exchanged looks of surprise before returning their attention to their superior.

"I don't suppose there are any witnesses to this event?"

Tréville shook his head at Athos' question and began to lead them to the arch of the palace entrance. "Unfortunately, no. He was stabbed in the back with a dagger. It's conceivable he knew his attacker as there are no signs of struggle."

"He didn't fight back." Porthos surmised.

"Or he was surprised," Aramis offered.

Tréville nodded. "That is what you are here to determine. Athos, I'm putting you in charge of this investigation. I realize the Cardinal had many enemies, many who would rejoice to see him dead and gone…" he looked pointedly at the four of them before continuing. "If I am honest, I can be considered one of them, as could all of you. But the King has ordered us to find out what happened and I trust you to be impartial in your investigation."

They had stopped before the massive doors of the Cardinal's study. A small group of ladies were standing near the far entrance to the hallway and Athos could make out the familiar face of the Queen in their midst. He nodded at Tréville.

"We will do our best, sir." He tilted his head at the others. "Porthos, come with me. Aramis, d'Artagnan, remain on guard and allow no one else inside so that we may have time to gather any evidence available."

Without another word he turned and accompanied Tréville into the room. Porthos hesitated for a moment, exchanging a shrug with Aramis before following the other men and closing the door behind him.

Aramis sighed and pivoted, placing his back to the door, standing at parade rest as ordered. Normally, Athos would want his insight into such a matter, but, he considered, maybe the older Musketeer believed his hatred of the Cardinal would mar his objectivity in this case. He found he couldn't argue the point. If there was one man who deserved such an end, it was Cardinal Richelieu.

"The Cardinal is truly dead," d'Artagnon muttered in disbelief.

"It would seem someone has done the whole of France a favor."

The younger Musketeer turned to his friend, his expression one of rebuke. "You mustn't speak like that, Aramis. I understand how you felt about Richelieu - I share the sentiment. We will never prove it, but I know he was somehow responsible for my father's death. But you cannot allow anyone to overhear your true feelings. There could be repercussions."

Aramis sighed and lowered his head. He blamed the throbbing behind his eyes and the queasiness of his stomach for his lack of tact and atypical disposition. "You are, of course, right. I apologize, my friend. I –"

"Monsieur Aramis?"

Both men looked up, surprised to see one of the young women who had been standing at the end of the hallway curtsey before them.

"Mademoiselle?"

The young woman rose and graced them with a shy smile. "Her Majesty requests your presence."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened, shocked at the request. Aramis merely nodded, and with a lopsided grin and slight shrug of a shoulder to his friend, followed the woman back down the hallway.

The ladies parted to reveal Queen Anne standing in all her glory, her cheeks flushed, her belly swollen as the child inside her flourished. Aramis' eyes were drawn to the round swell beneath her dress and he dropped to a knee before her.

"Your Majesty, your radiance puts the sun to shame."

Anne smiled. "You are too kind, Monsieur Aramis." She looked to her ladies in waiting as he rose and they, in unison, stepped back to give them a semblance of privacy.

"Are you well?"

Anne nodded, her smile still playing on her lips. "Yes." She placed a hand upon her swollen womb. "We both are." She hesitantly reached a hand up, brushing her fingers against the bruise along his eye. "Which is more than I can say for you."

Aramis sighed in relief and returned her smile. "This is nothing," he assured her, feeling suddenly bereft as she lowered her hand. "I am pleased. As your time has grown near, I have worried."

The Queen sobered, her eyes misting a bit as she lowered her head. "As I knew you would." She stepped closer and lowered her voice to a mere whisper. "I pray every night for some way to be able to share this joyous miracle with you."

"And I pray each day for a way to support you in your time of need."

She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Just knowing you are thinking of me... of us... makes the days easier to bear."

Aramis lowered his own voice to match hers. "Then rest assured, my Queen, you are both in my thoughts, and my prayers, every minute of every hour of every day."

Her smile brightened and he longed to reach for her, but knew they could not give in to their desires. Reluctantly he took a step back and Anne looked behind him toward the closed doors of the Cardinal's chambers.

"The Kind is distraught," she said, her voice once again bearing the tone of regality. "He will stop at nothing to find whomever is responsible for the death of Cardinal Richelieu so that justice may be served." She returned her gaze to Aramis, the tears no longer present as she once more became the Queen of France. "I trust Captain Tréville to discover the perpetrator of this heinous act and bring him before the court."

Aramis bowed. "You have my word we will do whatever is necessary to find whomever responsible. But, if I may caution the Crown, the Cardinal had many enemies. It may be difficult to discover the true culprit within the maze of intent."

Anne gifted him with a knowing grin. "As I have already explained to my husband. Your task is an intricate one at best."

"Then we shall endeavor to give the King the satisfaction he desires."

Anne nodded and motioned for her ladies to return. "God speed, Monsieur. I would like to be kept personally informed of your progress." She made the formal request loud enough for all within the confines of the corridor to hear.

Aramis bowed again. "If that is Your Majesty's wish."

With a nod and a gracious smile, Anne turned and led her entourage back through the doors at the far end of the hallway, Aramis waited until the doors closed, blocking the sight of her from his wanting eyes. Only then did he return to his post beside d'Artagnan.

"The Queen requested you to keep her appraised… personally." The young Gascon smirked.

"So it would seem," Aramis responded coolly. He knew d'Artagnan had no idea of just how… personal… the Queen's request truly was, and, if he could help it, the lad never would.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The body was lying to the side of the large, ornate desk, the top strewn with scrolls, some still sealed with the stamp of the King. Richelieu lay face down, one arm extended toward the door as if he had been reaching for help with his last breath.

Athos found he could summon no sympathy for the fate of the man. All he had done to deceive the King - his orchestrations with Athos' ex-wife now known as Milady de Winter, his sanctioning of the assassination of the Queen and his part in the massacre of Savoy, not to mention the secret dealings that were sure to have been going on behind Louis' naïve back - combined to lead Athos to believe the Cardinal had been delivered his just desserts.

He knelt down beside the body, careful to avoid the small pool of blood that had collected alongside, soaking into the expensive tapestry on the floor.

"A dagger to the back," he observed. "Not exactly a heroic way to die."

"An act of a coward," Porthos agreed. He stood on the other side of the body with Tréville, but his voice held no more compassion than Athos' did.

"Perhaps, but considering how devious the Cardinal could be, a case could be made for intelligence over honor."

Porthos merely grunted in return.

Athos let his eyes drift to the hilt of the dagger, the blade still embedded in the cooling flesh of the Cardinal. It was a main-gauche, the hand guard scratched and dented from use. His brow furrowed as he studied the familiar carving on the hilt of the weapon, his breath hitching in his throat as he realized where he'd seen the blade before.

"Porthos," he motioned to the other Musketeer as Tréville moved toward the desk to inventory the scrolls scattered across its surface. When the big man crouched down so their heads were only inches apart, Athos' tilted his head toward the dagger. "Does that look familiar to you?" His pitched his voice low, barely a whisper, and the larger Musketeer frowned at the sudden change in tone. Porthos shifted his eyes to take in the dagger and Athos sensed the moment he realized what he'd discovered.

"No," Porthos shook his head adamantly. "It can't be."

Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his suspicions confirmed.

"No," Porthos repeated. "I won't believe it." He looked up quickly to make sure Tréville was far enough away so as not to overhear their whispered words. "It may be his dagger, but that doesn't mean he did this," He raised a hand and gestured to the body on the floor.

"He hates the Cardinal more than anyone," Athos stated sadly.

Porthos shook his head vehemently. "No. Aramis is not a coward. He wouldn't do this. You know that."

"His dagger says otherwise." Athos honestly couldn't bring himself to believe his friend capable of such an act any more than Porthos could, but he'd given Tréville – and the King – his word. He'd sworn to investigate with impartiality. Apparently that was going to be much more difficult than he'd thought.