Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, it would never have been cancelled and there would have been way more episodes about Aramis ;)

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

Okay so along with burying myself under Whumptober prompts (comin at you with another one of those today too), I took on this month's Fete des Mousquetaires challenge which was "Haunted Houses". Of course, how could I pass up a chance for some Aramis angst and whump? So here we are.

This was beta'd by the glorious Arlothia who is also the rockstar slaving away on my 120k+ word musketeer fic that I keep yapping at you guys about. It's coming, guys, I promise haha.

Anyway, enjoy this!

Don't ignore the past, but deal with it, on your own pace. Once you deal with it, you are free of it; and you are free to embrace your life and be a happy loving person because if you don't, the past will come back to haunt and keep coming back to haunt you.
Boris Kodjoe

June 1626

Porthos cinched his saddle into place without looking. Instead, he steadily watched over the back of his horse as Aramis performed the same task. Something was off with his brother and had been off ever since they took this mission.

It had all been simple enough, both in theory and in practice. An easy, though long, trip down to Sigean in Southern France. A short, remarkably straightforward investigation into someone falsely collecting taxes in the name of the king. It had all been quite easy, in the end, more so than their missions usually went.

So Porthos couldn't quite work out why Aramis seemed so sullen.

Athos appeared next to Porthos, leaning against Fort's flank and joining him in watching Aramis saddle Esmé.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Athos asked quietly, so as not to be overheard by the subject of their concern.

Porthos shook his head, gaze never leaving Aramis' back.

"He hasn't said anythin'…but that's the problem innit?"

Athos hummed his agreement.

"I hate it when he gets quiet like this…" Porthos muttered. "'S unnatural."

"He didn't sleep last night," Athos pointed out lowly.

"Noticed that too, did ya?" Porthos sighed softly. They watched Aramis finish his task and then absently start stroking Esmé's neck while fingering the worn, wooden cross he wore around his neck with his other hand. He seemed lost in thought and unaware of his surroundings.

"He hasn't even noticed us starin'," Porthos complained. That alone was cause for concern considering their brother was usually hyper-aware of everything around him – a lovely parting gift from Savoy.

"His mind is elsewhere," Athos theorized. "But where?"

"Well, let's find out, shall we?" Porthos ducked under Fort's head. Athos followed and together they moved towards the marksman. "You in there, 'Mis?" Porthos teased in a gentle, cautious tone.

Aramis blinked, turning to regard them immediately with tired confusion in his gaze.

"You've been quiet," Athos explained with a teasing smirk. "As much as we've enjoyed the rare peace, I hadn't thought you capable of such a thing."

"Not for this long, at least," Porthos chimed in with a grin.

Their teasing drew an answering grin from Aramis, but it was weak, lacking the usual bright light of humor, and it garnered no quick-witted teasing in return. It wasn't the first time they had poked fun at Aramis for how much he talked. The marksman always took it in good humor and usually shot back at them with quips of his own.

"Alright, now I'm getting worried," Porthos teased with concern in his eyes. He nudged Aramis lightly in the arm and ducked his head to try and catch the marksman's gaze. Once he captured the brown eyes with his own, he spoke again. "What's goin' on?"

Aramis held his gaze for a moment before cutting his eyes away and letting out a weary sigh. He seemed to debate for a moment what to say. Porthos worried the marksman would dodge around the truth, play off their concern and redirect the conversation away from him. It was a familiar dance; one at which Aramis was an expert.

But Porthos could see the exact moment Aramis decided not to lie to them.

The marksman's shoulders sagged slightly and he tugged his hat off his head so that he could tangle a hand up in his unruly hair.

"I was born not far from here," he revealed. "In Saint-Pierre, a small town just a few leagues further south."

Porthos blinked in surprise. He had known, of course, that Aramis had been born and spent the first several years of his life in southern France near the coast. But he hadn't realized they had ventured so close to his childhood home.

"You didn't say anything," Athos scolded, but his gaze was soft.

Aramis shrugged a shoulder dismissively.

"It wasn't important."

"That is obviously not the case," Athos countered. He studied Aramis for a moment. "Do you want to go there?" he finally asked.

Aramis looked away from them again, focusing instead on Esmé's mane as he combed his fingers through it.

"That town has nothing for me anymore," he denied sharply. "But…" he trailed off and swallowed, the fingers of the hand not tangled in Esmé's mane finding that wooden cross again. Esmé shifted, looking back at him with a concerned huff.

"But what?" Porthos prodded.

"My mother is buried there," he confessed quietly. "Or at least I think she is."

"'Mis…" Porthos sighed out the nickname. "Why didn't you say somethin'?"

They both knew how dearly Aramis had loved his mother and how much he treasured her memory.

"We had a mission to complete," Aramis defended.

"Which we have done," Athos shot back. He fixed Aramis with a heavy gaze. "What do you want to do?" he asked quietly.

Aramis' gaze turned to the dusty road leading south out of Sigean.

"I wasn't there when she died," he admitted without looking at them. "I can't make up for that, but I can go and see her now."

Porthos nodded immediately, not even needing to look at Athos to know he would agree with what Porthos said next.

"Alright then. Let's go."

Aramis' gaze snapped around to them.

"No," he denied firmly. Then, in the face of their shocked hurt, he went on. "I need… It's not…" he blew out a frustrated breath and then drew another back in slowly. "She's from before," he explained. "Before Paris and the Musketeers, before my father… She was all I had. And I left her."

Porthos could hear years-old pain in that confession. He could hear the sad little boy who had been forced to leave his beloved máma behind. They knew a bit of this story. Aramis had told it to them after the sordid reunion with his father, Julien d'Herblay, last year.

"I need to do this alone," Aramis stated quietly, but firmly.

"Alright," Athos agreed calmly. "We'll wait for you here. Do what you need to do."

Aramis gave him a grateful nod and Athos returned the gesture, backing away. Porthos lingered though, eyeing Aramis in concern.

"I could go with you," he offered. "I'll stay back when we get there if you want…but maybe alone's not the best way, eh?"

Aramis offered him a warm, affectionate smile in return and Porthos knew he'd been right to make the offer again.

"Thank you, mon frère, (my brother,) but this is something I need – I want – to do on my own. I owe her that at least."

Porthos nodded in reluctant understanding.

"Just be careful, alright?"

"I'll be fine," Aramis promised. "It's not so painful a wound anymore, but perhaps one I can finally properly heal."

Porthos nodded again.

"Best get going then," he urged gently. "When can we expect you back?" he asked as he watched Aramis swing up into Esmé's saddle.

"By sundown at the latest."

Porthos offered up a hand and Aramis reached down. They gripped each other's forearms tightly in farewell.

"Be careful."

Aramis chuckled and turned Esmé south.

"You said that already."

"Yeah, well, with you it doesn't hurt to double up."

The breeze carried Aramis' answering laugh back to Porthos even as the marksman road away.

Aramis had been only ten years old when he left the small coastal town of Saint-Pierre. But still, as he gently urged Esmé down the main road, memories began to surface. Moments from his childhood that time had dulled and blurred, now sharpened and cleared as his gaze roamed over the town he had once called home.

Time was a cruel mistress.

The shops, once bustling and pristinely kept, stood nearly empty, shingles missing, paint faded and shutters hanging loosely. The people he could see milling about looked as tired and worn as the shops.

The bakery, which had once boasted the finest wooden porch to be found in town, now presented only broken slats and splintered wood. He remembered putting his foot through the floor of it once after falling from where he'd been climbing in the wooden beams that had once supported a fabric awning. Now only torn pieces of that colorful cloth blew lightly in the breeze. Monsieur Baschet, the baker, had chased him all the way back to the brothel. His mother had guarded him then, scolding Baschet for terrorizing a child. However, Aramis had been made to help repair the damage and his right ankle still bore a faint scar from where the wood had torn into his skin as his foot had broke through it.

An old man with a hunched back and white, wispy hair was watching him through the cracked window, bushy brows drawn together in a dubious scowl.

Aramis hesitated and then urged Esme towards the shop.

The old man visibly tensed, eyes narrowing suspiciously as Aramis slid off Esme's back and draped her reins over the hitching post without binding her to it. He knew she wouldn't wander.

"Monsieur Baschet?" Aramis guessed as he stepped up onto the rickety porch.

The old man retreated a step further into his shop, a bit of fear flashing across his otherwise stern expression.

Aramis paused, holding up a gloved hand in a gesture of peace.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he assured.

He had thrown a dark cloak around his shoulders before arriving, concealing his pauldron and leathers. He'd forgone his hat in favor of the cowl provided by the cloak. The shadows it provided hid his features well. He supposed he presented a rather intimidating figure, especially since his weapons were all very clearly in view.

Still holding up a calming hand, Aramis reached up to push back the hood, letting it drape loosely around his shoulders.

"Perhaps you might remember me." He drifted a step closer.

Baschet's gaze swept over his face but bore no hint of recognition.

"I put my foot through that porch once when I was eight years old; bled everywhere," Aramis prompted. "You made me scrub the wood with a brush for hours when I came to help repair the damage."

A spark lit up the old man's gaze.

"You're that little Spanish hellion." Baschet's voice was rougher than he remembered, but still bore the same note of disdain it had held every time they'd spoken when Aramis was a child.

"I prefer Aramis," he replied with a cheery, sarcastic smile.

"The Spanish whore's bastard."

Aramis let the smile fall away, expression shifting towards anger instead of false geniality. Baschet swallowed nervously at the change and looked away.

"I'll forgive you for that comment as you can't help the small-mindedness you were born with. But you would do well to not speak of her in such a way again."

Baschet's attention twitched down to the sword and pistol visible at Aramis' waist. He raised his gaze again and nodded. Aramis let his posture soften a bit and glanced over his shoulder towards the rest of the town.

"What happened here?" Aramis asked. "When I left the town was thriving."

"A sickness swept through some years ago," Baschet revealed grudgingly. "Killed dozens. Dozens more left to start over somewhere else."

Aramis wondered if this illness was what had taken his mother; if his brother and sister had died too, or had moved on. Or they could still be here, for all he knew.

"My brother and sister, Vincent and Sabine…" he trailed off with a curious tilt of his head.

Baschet sighed deeply, apparently terribly inconvenienced by answering Aramis' questions.

"Gone. And I don't know where!" Baschet snapped.

Aramis held up a calming hand again, recognizing that he'd worn out whatever meager welcome had been offered.

"I've one last question and then I will leave you in peace."

Baschet scowled but jerked his head in a nod.

"My mother – was she buried here?"

Baschet nodded again.

"Up on the ridge. Same as her Spanish kin."

His abuelos (grandparents). He had never met them, given that they'd died long before he was born. But he had visited their graves many times with his mother.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Aramis offered politely, tipping his head into a slight bow.

Baschet just grumbled something and turned away, disappearing back into the kitchens. Aramis retreated to where he had left Esmé and slid his hand along her neck as he prepared to remount. A tingling at the back of his neck had him pausing.

He was being watched. This, itself, wasn't a revelation. The townspeople had been staring suspiciously at him since he arrived. It was the feeling behind this stare. Something in his gut tightened in warning as a vague sense of malice seemed to bleed into the air around him. Aramis cast a wary glance around as he hauled himself up into the saddle, but couldn't identify the source of his sudden unease. He rolled his shoulders to try and shake the feeling and flicked the hood of his cloak back up to cover his head and shadow his face.

Then he nudged Esmé back onto the main road and went to see his mother.

End of Chapter 1

This is complete and fully beta'd. You'll get a chapter a day until it's all up (which will be in 4 days cuz it's 4 chapters long lol)

Drop me a line if you like!