A/N: And here is the conclusion!

Set in Season 3, you'll see where the minute you start reading :) As always the lyrics at the start and the end are the inspiration behind this story, they belong to the people who wrote them and voiced them.

Thank you everyone who left me reviews at the end of the previous story, your kind words and encouragement just blew me away. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable here, nor making any money either.

Happy reading!


You ought to know where I'm coming from; How I was alone when I burnt my home.

And all of the pieces were torn and thrown. You should know where I'm coming from.

BANKS; [You should know where's I'm coming from]


He went after Pauline.

Pushed back everything that had just transpired as he sought the woman he had promised to help. The woman who he wished desperately would get her happy future and why was he so adamant about it Aramis did not wish to dwell on it at the moment. If there was something more than the desire of happiness for the girl he had shared his childhood with, something that was embedded in his need to see a life like his own prospering, he refused to touch upon it. Coming to a halt in the corridor he looked through the archway on his right then the left, wondering where she could have run off to. With a glance around the empty inner courtyard he decided to look for her in the outer one and turned left.

"So, did you shoot him?"

He stopped short, body tensing mid-motion as the words of his friend reached him.

"No." Athos said from just around the archway, "No, Aramis is my penance."

Porthos chuckled.

"Yeah, mine too," he said.

Footfalls receded, the clinking of weapons growing distant as the Captain and the Musketeer left. Aramis blinked once, pulled in a breath he didn't remember forgetting to inhale and felt something hard rise in his throat as heat settled behind his eyes. Blinking rapidly he stemmed the moisture before it could form fully in his gaze.

And walked out of the corridor, through the archway and into the yard. Squinting in the sunlight that felt abruptly bright as a twinge sparked in his back. There was a telltale stiffness at the base of his neck that threatened a worse headache than the one coiled around his forehead. Aramis rubbed his temple and took a measured his breath. A sharp pang skittered over his back. It was a constant these days, the tightening of muscles in his back after rounds of sword practice with his two oldest friends, sometimes the two of them joining forces against him.

He had accepted that it was their way of making sure that he was up to par after four years of no sword practice; and realized it was their way of soothing the pain of his abandonment. It was clear in the way Athos and Porthos got carried away and while they said he was the choice of sparring partner because the cadets were too far below their level; there had been times when the snarls were too real, the swipes of the blades too close and the bitterness in the gazes too vivid. Sometimes it was almost as if there was a desire to put him in his place, a need to make an example of him.

Aramis chuckled softly.

He had pushed back that thought whenever it had occurred before, but now –

Pinching the bridge of his nose to alleviate the burning in his eyes he let go a slow breath. Pauline, he had to find Pauline, the rest would have to be sorted later. He looked up and there she was, hurrying towards him and eager to get married. But there on her dress, a long stain of crimson arrested his gaze. Aramis didn't need the explanation to know what had happened as he felt his heart drop to his boots and something akin to frustration stirred in him.

He couldn't meet the eyes of his childhood friend as she broke down before her horrified fiancé. Listened to her broken sobs and tried not to think about his own life that was threatening to unravel from the tenacious grasp of his control. Closed his eyes against her failure to get the new life she wanted, against the pain of crushed dreams her own fear driven actions had trodden upon.

"Aramis, Aramis I had to," she pushed to her feet.

And he moved to help her on instinct, held on as she grasped his arms and shook him slightly.

"He wouldn't leave me be," she cried, "you have to believe me, I had to do it. I couldn't let him – I couldn't let my past destroy my future!"

She collapsed against him and Aramis held her close, saw not the woman wearing the blood of the man she had murdered but the snot nosed little girl he had carried on his back through the streets of Paris, trailing after his Maman.

"Calm down Pauline," he murmured, "Hush, sh..."

He pulled her along and helped her up his horse before settling behind her, ignored her question if he was going to send her to the Bastille as he rode to the garrison. He knew that she had done was wrong, knew that she was a murderer but he could not outright condemn her. He needed time. He needed to think.

"Will I be hanged?" she asked, "is this the way it will end?"

"You took a life,"

"He was going to destroy mine," she turned to look him in the eyes, "it was my chance Aramis, my chance for a better life,"

A better life, a new life, another chance.

He had been hoping for that too.

Gritting his teeth against the echo of the words he had accidently heard from his friends Aramis made no reply. A penance, a self-inflicted punishment to show repentance, but was he the regret too? Or was he simply the suffering they endured? Aramis refrained from wincing as he rode through the garrison entrance and guided his horse to the side of the courtyard where the cadets were practicing. His gaze fell on Brujon and he sent him to find Madame d'Artagnan as he dismounted, helped Pauline down and made sure that the bloodstain remained hidden in the folds of her dress.

He raised a brow as a young man landed by his feet, breathing heavily where he lay sprawled on his back. Aramis reached forward and hauled the younger one back to his feet, steadying the lad as he stumbled a bit.

"What did I tell you Claremont?" he asked.

The younger man wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and gave him a sheepish smile.

"Stay close to my opponent,"

"Why?"

"Gives him less space to maneuver his sword,"

"And yet you were far enough for him to land a kick,"

"Go to my enemy, don't wait for him to come to me," Claremont nodded.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder.

"Good lad,"

"Thanks Aramis," the younger man said.

Grinning as he stooped to pick up his sword before he hurried off to challenge Pierre again; that one still needed to practice his footwork Aramis wondered absently as he ushered Pauline ahead of him. The faster he got her out of sight of the cadets the better were her chances to remain a secret.

"Aramis?" Constance met him halfway to the refectory, "They found the last diamond and took it to the Palace – Pauline? What happened?"

"The marriage was cancelled," Aramis told her, "I need your help Constance,"

He hadn't been lying when he had told Pauline that he trusted this woman with his life, he had trusted her with his sword while he attended to a baby what felt like a lifetime ago, had believed in her ability to defend them all even when he had no proof of her considerable skill with a blade. And he offered her a smile as he caught the wary look in Madame d'Artagnan's eyes. Constance followed them to the empty dining hall, closed the door after her and looked from Aramis to Pauline who had flopped down on a chair. Aramis saw the cobalt eyes widen before the gaze sharpened his way.

"That is blood," Constance said, "and clearly not her own."

"It's not," Aramis said, "it's from the man who blackmailed her,"

"I take it he's dead at her hands,"

"Yes, and I need your help to keep her here for the time being,"

"Hide her you mean,"

"And make sure she stays put,"

Constance looked to the sniffling woman and then back at him. Aramis had wheedled her into helping the Musketeers enough times to know the second she relented. A smile touched his lips and Constance rolled her eyes.

"First an assassin now a murderess," she huffed, "the things I do for you,"

"You're a remarkable woman Madame d'Artagnan," he pressed a hand to his heart, his eyes softening, "and a wonderful friend,"

She had been, always.

He was sure that something may have shown on his face for the woman looked surprised. It was odd he thought, the way sincerity caught them off guard and he wondered if it was only his own honesty that was a shock to those he called friends. He had after all collected a mountain of lies, all to get the life he desired just like the woman he had brought with him. He glanced at Pauline who now sat staring in the middle distance and felt the tremors of his own shaken reality.

"Well go on then," Constance said, "do what you have to,"

Aramis nodded. A plan forming in his mind to help his childhood friend amidst the turmoil of his own position among his friends. It seemed he would need to see the Minister he realized.

"Thank you Constance," he said.

And walked out before the questions in her gaze could stop him.


He stood up as Emile and his wife scurried away.

With one hand clenched into a fist at his side Porthos bent to retrieve his dagger from the ground. It was silly, it made no sense but the thief's attempt to thank them had left him seething. Emile had almost spoken those words, had nearly invoked the vow that had been shattered into silence years ago. The one they hadn't found the strength to voice again. He thoughts broke upon the arrival of a rider and he glanced at Aramis when the man dismounted, landing on his feet with that annoying grin.

"Do you need my help?" he asked from no one in particular.

Although his face had scrunched up at the thought of jumping in the open grave.

"We don't need your help," Porthos told him.

If his words snapped in the air his eyes challenged the man to point it out.

But Aramis being Aramis simply grinned wider and stepped back from the edge. Taking off his hat and waving it before his face to ward off the smell and the flies. The brown eyes that met Porthos' showed no sign of his ire being received.

"All the better for me then," Aramis shrugged, "I just thought it was polite to ask,"

Porthos growled under his breath but his attention was snagged by Athos reaching out for him. He grabbed his old friend's hand and hauled himself out of the pit. The blue eyes that met his held an understanding of the shared pain that had flared in them at Emile's words. Athos looked to Aramis even as he handed the money he had found to Porthos.

"What you offer is too little too late," Athos said.

And wasn't that the problem Porthos thought. Sometimes he wondered what Aramis thought he could gain by coming back to Paris with them when clearly their lives held no place for him. Porthos took the money from their youngest too and wrapped it all in the handkerchief he had tied onto his face up till then; refused to acknowledge the way of Aramis' brown eyes travelled from one man to the other, looking for something the three of them refused to acknowledge. Porthos frowned at that thought before pushing it away.

"Wasn't there a wedding you were supposed to be at?" d'Artagnan asked.

"It was cancelled,"

"Why? The bridegroom had no other ring to offer?" Porthos asked.

And just like that the smile was back; sharp and bright and hard as steel as Aramis shrugged. Stepped aside to let the three of them get to their horses.

"Plenty of rings, but the mood was ruined I must say,"

"Good for you I'd think," d'Artagnan smirked, "You have a chance with her now,"

Porthos grit his teeth at the laugh that brought from the man who had returned to their lives. His jaw clenched at the sound and he wondered if Aramis even realized what he had done, what he had lost. Porthos urged his horse to move after Athos' and pulled it to a stop when his Captain did. He looked to his friend and followed his line of sight to where Emile and his wife were walking away.

"Do you suppose he had learned the error of his ways?" d'Artagnan asked from the Captain's other side.

"Whether he did or not wouldn't matter if he simply goes back to who he is," Athos said.

Porthos glanced from the distant figures to the man who had brought up his horse just little way behind his own; hovering just on the edge of pulling alongside him. It was that nerve in Aramis to even look for that place he had lost that fanned the flames of Porthos' anger.

"At least we know what to expect from him," he said, "it's better than being stabbed in the back,"

Aramis pulled up at his side, his gaze going to the couple they were watching before it turned back to them. Porthos glared at him as the man looked from their youngest to their Captain, to him; and for the first time since they had been reunited the big man glimpsed something other than hope and cheer in the brown depths. But Porthos told himself he no longer knew the face before him, no longer understood the nuances of the man who had once been his brother; that he no longer could read the gaze where they had shared entire conversations in a look.

"Betrayal is by nature only found where there is trust," Aramis said.

Porthos shrugged.

"Well you are the expert on that matter," he said.

His frown deepening at the brown eyes that widened slightly and something pulled at his heart. Porthos looked away. Shoved away whatever it was that he saw in the gaze that met his, ignored it until gaze burning holes in the side of his face relented and the man at his side looked away too. Aramis stared ahead at the path with something in his face that made Porthos' heart clench. He refused to acknowledge it.

"It seems I am," Aramis said.

"Then you'll understand why it pains us every time we see you," Porthos told the side of his face.

"You won't suffer for long my friends," Aramis smiled.

And Porthos felt something tighten in the pit of his stomach. It coiled even tighter when Aramis tipped his hat and shifted in the saddle. A smile appearing on his face again as he leaned forwards a bit to look around to Athos.

"Would it really take four Musketeers to return the money?" he asked.

"You have somewhere important to be?"

"By your leave Captain?"

Porthos bristled at the blatant disregard of his friend's question, not to forget the fact the man had tactfully refused to answer the Captain's inquiry. It was a habit their recently reunited comrade was developing, this disregard to Athos' authority that Aramis had been questioning ever since he had returned.

"Do what you have to," Athos said.

It seemed that was all the man was waiting for because he spurred his horse into a gallop, leaving them all in the dust. Something he is used to doing Porthos mused and looked back to Athos. The blue eyes that met his seemed surprised.

"He looks to be in a hurry," Athos said.

"Probably going after his 'friend' now that she is not to be married," d'Artagnan shrugged.

"When has marriage ever stopped him?" Porthos frowned.

"Well he is right that it doesn't require an entire retinue to return the money," Athos said, "you two can head back to the garrison and get some rest."

Porthos shrugged, he would follow the Captain if it was needed, had done that with even a chance of rest being a flare of a sputtering candle in the long darkness of life on the front lines. But if the luxury was offered, the thought of catching up on some lost sleep seemed enticing. He looked to d'Artagnan and found the younger one smiling. The big man rolled his eyes at the eagerness in his friend to return to his wife.

He looked back to Athos.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

His friend raised a brow.

"Sure you are," Porthos nodded, "C'mon then d'Artagnan, let's get something to eat,"

The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time the two of them rode into the garrison. The smell of fresh bread lingered in the courtyard where the cadets were cleaning up the space after a day of practice. Porthos watched the young ones as they worked together, dragging back the target posts, collecting practice swords and carrying off hay bales that had been pulled out as makeshift seats and brushing away the straw used to soften the ground under hand to hand combat practice.

Another life, another time flashed before his eyes. The smugness at the fear in his rival's eyes as he had grabbed the fist that connected with his shoulder, the thrill of his own strength as he had flipped the man and tossed him over the shoulder, the pull of his grin as he had turned to regard his brothers, the pride in Aramis' eyes when they had met his own.

Porthos pulled his horse to a stop a little harsher than necessary. His horse reared a bit and he soothed it, muttering apologies.

"Whoa, whoa, what happened?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I'm just hungry,"

D'Artagnan laughed but it was drowned out by the clatter of hooves that echoed through the garrison. Porthos looked past his friend at the Red Guards that had scattered into their yard before he glanced at the nearest cadet. Ordered him to get Athos and dismounted to meet this enemy in their home.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"We are looking for a murderer," Captain Marcheaux announced, "a murderess actually,"

"And you think you will find her here?" Porthos raised a brow, "that's a pathetic excuse even for you,"

"I saw him take her, I saw him take my fiancé," a long faced man said from atop his horse, "he must have brought her here,"

"What are you talking about?" d'Artagnan asked.

But Porthos was frowning at the man, it took him a second to realize that he was looking at the nobleman who had been about to marry Aramis' friend. His frown deepened because that meant the woman they were looking for was – Porthos cursed under his breath, he had no doubt Aramis would have helped her escape whether she was guilty or not.

"What's going on here?" Constance demanded, "Why are the Red Guards tossing about the clean beddings?"

"They think we're harboring a murderess," d'Artagnan said.

"And why would we?" she snapped.

And yet Porthos had not missed the fear that had flashed across her face. Her glare that travelled over the red cloaked figures going in and out of the rooms held a touch of apprehension. And it did nothing to calm the fury against the man who had returned to them. His fists clenched at his side as the rage simmering under his skin threatened to sweep out over the trouble the man had brought to their doorsteps again.

"She isn't here Captain," a Red Guard announced.

"We didn't find her," another reported.

"Well then," Marcheaux nodded, "it seems this Musketeer Aramis had escaped with her; unless he is here?"

Porthos bit back a growl, it wouldn't be the first time that man may have gone off with a damsel in distress. His silence simply confirmed the suspicions of the Red Guard's Captain who smirked and ordered them to hand over the Musketeer should they come across him. And as the swarm of Red Guards rode out of the garrison Porthos wondered if that was where Aramis had ridden off to, to accompany the woman somewhere out of Paris, riding off with his new love. How he wished he could wring that idiot's neck.

He rounded on Constance who looked confused over something.

"I'd say she was supposed to be here," he said, "but you don't know where she's gone."

It was not a question, not since he knew the answer already.


The door was open, he still knocked.

The Minister looked up from the parchment on his desk and Aramis stepped in. Walking up to the desk he plucked his hat off his head as Treville sat back and crossed his arms before him. The blue eyes narrowed and Aramis met the scrutiny head on. The snide remarks, the not-so-friendly jibes, the glares and the judgments he had taken it all in these past days; he could take some more of them from his old Captain too.

Aramis stood straighter, shoulders drawing back.

Treville's eyes narrowed before he looked away.

And pulling out a drawer in his desk, he silently reached inside. Straightening back he plunked the heavy purse on the table. It was what Aramis had come to him for before he had went out to meet his friends collecting the money of the Queen's jewels. It was what he had come to collect this evening, that and the letter Treville set beside it.

With a nod Aramis picked up the heavy velvet pouch, the chink of the coins inside subdued by their large number as he placed it in his belt and reached for the letter.

"Two thousand livres," Treville said.

"Thank you," he replied.

And turned to leave with the payment of the four years of his not-official-service to the crown. He had left the money with Treville, having no use of it himself,but the Minister had written to him on every payday that his funds were safe with him. Aramis had no doubt he would receive it when he had come to his old Captain with the request that morning.

"What do you need it for?"

The question halted his steps and he turned, a smirk playing at his lips.

"To help an old friend escape the charges of murder," Aramis said.

"And is this friend guilty of it?"

"Yes,"

Treville got to his feet, a huff escaping from between his teeth as he went to the cabinet by the wall behind him. Aramis turned around fully and stepped up to the chair by the desk, hooked it back with the toe of his boot and sat down, plopping his hat on the table. His former Captain set a decanter beside it and taking his seat poured the wine in the glasses he had brought back as well. Aramis didn't need an invitation to reach for one but when his fingers wrapped around the small smooth container he looked to the Minister; the man despite everything he respected the most.

He raised his glass in a silent salute before downing its contents.

Setting it down, he waited until Treville had refilled his freshly emptied cup.

"What's eating away at you then?" Aramis asked.

"I could ask you the same question,"

Aramis felt a smirk tip up his lips as he sat back, watched the carefully blank face of the man who had made him who was today; the good and the bad. There was a long of stretch of a grounding trust between them and a pit of ruthless betrayal too, they had fought back to back and face to face and somehow always stood shoulder to shoulder. Nothing like with the men he called his brothers Aramis mused. He traced the rim of the glass set before him with the tip of his finger and raised a brow.

"It's that bad?" he asked.

An unimpressed blue glare met him.

"You're redirecting Minister," he shrugged a shoulder, "something has to be that bad for you to do so,"

"Secrets are a heavy burden,"

"I wouldn't know," Aramis grinned.

"Of course you wouldn't," Treville smirked.

A chuckle escaped him and even Treville smiled. But there was a shadow cast over it; a worry in the former Captain's eyes that held something else too, something that Aramis was shocked to witness. His brows shot up as his head tilted a little to the side.

"What has you scared Jean?" he asked.

Sharp blue eyes widened slightly before the Minister glanced away. Reached for his glass and drained it before setting it down carefully though his grasp didn't recede. He stared in its empty depths with his brows pulled together in a frown and when he looked up he was a man grown old right before Aramis' eyes.

"The governor?" the younger man asked.

"He would like to think so," Treville snorted, rubbed a hand down his face, "but no. And yet the crown is under threat as well as the head that wears it,"

"You've always protected both," the conviction in Aramis' voice was not a lie.

The Minister's gaze traveled over his face before he pulled it away and picked up the decanter. Aramis could feel the strain of the burden the man carried as the older man poured himself another drink. And yet he knew he could not share this burden, could not ask the man to reveal what was not his to be said.

"I watched one King fall and practically raised another," Treville said, "watched him stumble and learn; guided him even as I served him. It's an odd position to be in."

Aramis nodded, he had seen the man maneuver the fine lines. To protect, to teach and to serve as the web of court politics tangled and pulled at their King. Simply put, he knew that Treville had in a way raised the child destined to rule them.

"None could have done it better than you,"

"No?" Treville raised a brow, "maybe not," he shrugged and pointed a finger at him, "But I've taught you well, taught you the longest most likely so perhaps you could strike a balance like that too. And yet after all that I've taught you it seems that you are intent upon throwing it away."

Aramis glanced at the letter he had set beside his hat on the desk. The spiral seal keeping his orders secret from him for now. He had asked the Minister for a return to the front lines as well as the previous payment and the man had promised his orders come evening. Aramis knew the dance by now, he could not open the letter until he had reached 'Les Routes Perdues' and even then he could do so only if he was sure that he would take up the orders that the letter carried.

"Are you sure about it Rene?" Treville asked.

Aramis wiped a hand down his face and smoothed out a grimace before it could reach his features; the seizing pain in his back receded as he held still and he dared not tempt it by shifting his weight where he sat. He had realized long before he had returned to Paris that the repeatedly occurring pain was not because of the canning but because of the rack, the constant pull on his muscles that had been left in that state for who knows how long at a time had left him with bouts of cutting pain every time he moved around more than he should.

But that pain was not what had made this decision for him; that pain he could manage; could live with, would live with as he served on the frontlines again. It was the burn of frayed ends where he had cut off his old bonds that ate away just a bit more at his reserves with every spark he met; a flaring occurrence that happened a number of times in one day.

Aramis remembered Athos cocking the pistol aimed his way, remembered Porthos' disgust as he turned away from him when Aramis once more found himself standing opposite to his three brothers, the cutting slide of d'Artagnan's gaze as he had handed the diamond to Athos. And then there was the Queen, the Dauphin...

"When I returned to Paris, it felt like four years had passed in a moment. And now, it feels like forever;" he smiles, "He's big. He's grown so tall."

"Why are you here?"

"To stand witness against the Duke of Orleans."

"Then do so," her eyes are cold.

Aramis could not fault her in that, even when a part of him raged at the unfairness that she could be a parent to their child while he was nothing he still could not find it in him to blame her for shunning him. Not after what had almost happened four years ago. Still he had hoped he could sometimes glimpse the child from a distance while he lived in the company of his brothers.

Aramis reached out and picked up his glass of wine.

"I'm chasing ghosts here," he said.

Drank the wine and reached for more, filling up his glass and his former Captain's. The silence between them lay heavy but it was not uncomfortable. Aramis let it sink into his bones, let it fill up the space between his ribs and watched the older man before him relax slightly, witnessed those taut shoulders of a longtime soldier loosening just a touch.

"They cannot know," Treville said, "that was the one condition of your return to the Musketeers,"

And once he it had bothered him when the Minister had held him back in the office and laid out the rules upon his arrival to Paris.

"I'm aware of that," he nodded, frowned slightly, "I'm not sure I even want them to know now,"

Because where would he even start.

Because why would it even matter.

Aramis shook his head as a dry chuckle scratched past his throat; so many secrets, so many lies and so little words to explain it all. Silence was his only refuge; a quiet leave was his only way out. He had told himself upon his return to Paris that he could take all that his brothers sent his way, had promised himself to work hard and earn back what he had lost. He would stand the trial and the torment if he could somehow find a place among his brothers again. Had imagined the chance for that as a part of some grand plan that had held him back at monastery when his people had departed; hoped that it was a sign that he could gain what he had lost.

"Four years is a long time, we learned to live without you,"

And maybe it was a good thing that they had; because he could not, he would not be a torture for the men he saw as his friends, he would not be their suffering, their penance.

"Time moves on Minister," he said, "it is time I did as well,"

He picked up his glass, tapped it once against the former Captain's beside it and downed its contents without waiting for the man to follow. Aramis pushed to his feet and placing his hat back on his head he put the letter inside his doublet. The sound of his boots on the marble floor was the only noise of his departure.


TBC