Hi friends! So this chapter is gonna be sad, hence the title, but it was one of those dark, evil plot bunnies that just won't stop sitting on your shoulder and rubbing it's fluffy face against your ear and I'm really tickilish. So I gave in and wrote it, with a little experimentation with my writing style. I feel like a horrible person saying I hope this makes you cry, it made me tear up a bit when I was writing it. Have had a hectic first week back at school so to those of you suffering alongside me, good luck and to the rest of you I hope you had a great week. I want to dedicate this to my new friend Rita Marx because I've been enjoying our PM's.

Tears

D'Artagnan's chest ached. An intense, potent, violent pain that threatened to burst through his ribs. An agony so profound it made burning tears rush down his cheeks, head pounding, eyes caustic and throat raw from the forcible sobs as his body shook so intensely he thought he was shaking apart.

Was he dead? He felt like he should be. He wished he was. Anything to escape this…this state of depression stabbing at his heart and making him feel like he was bleeding out inside.

D'Artagnan curled deeper into his sheets, allowing them to ensnare him in a suffocating ball of safety, where no one could see him, where he could allow his sanity to crumble away in peace.

Every time he shut his eyes…every time…he was back there; back in that hellish moment that destroyed him, crushed his heart and stole the air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Choking.

Choking.

Choking.

Voices echoed through the locked door. Words muffled, heavy with fear and worry and anxiety, filled with other emotions. Because they knew. They knew better than anyone. Why he was feeling this. What he was feeling. The nightmares-those terrible nightmares-that had finally come to pass in as though they were horrific premonitions of the future, those ones that had haunted him night upon night, leeched into his days but then-

He said they weren't real.

Fresh tears spill down d'Artagnan's face; a perpetual waterfall that drained all the fluid from his body, made the white pillow beneath damp and cold.

More knocking.

Go away.

Go away, go away, goawaygoawaygoaway-

Go away!

It was all his fault. If he had done something; moved faster, trained harder, fought better, been a Musketeer, maybe they could have all escaped this, this abyss of cold and dark and loneliness.

"D'Artagnan!"

There's his name again. They shouldn't have to say his name. It was his fault. They lost their friend. They buried their brother. Just a cross and a pauldron and a memory that lingered in their broken hearts.

Broken.

His father had once told him that death was easy, that the dead didn't suffer; it was the ones left behind that were in Hell.

"Please, d'Art."

The heavy guilt makes d'Artagnan's stomach twist and wrench and knot. They are family. The only family he has left. He can't be without them. He needs to face them.

He needs them.

He stumbles almost drunkenly to the door. He can still hear them. Talking quietly to each other-his brothers-soft voices with equally soft words; calm, caring, supporting one another but underneath he can hear the stress and the pain. He can't do this to them. They need one another. All for one and one for all.

He touches the door handle. Cold, solid beneath his hand and he flinches away as if burned.

That cold. It flashes up his arm and now he's not in his room.

It's wet. Rain pouring, thunder crashing, lightening flashing. D'Artagnan kicks his opponent into the mud, dark hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping off his nose as he looks up. Around him the sounds of battle are raging, Musketeers mixed with men, blood mixed with slush sloshing around on the ground. D'Artagnan catches sight of Aramis in the crowds of duelling men, watches as he sidesteps and takes down the man his is engaged with, eyes focussed and the silver metal of his sword scintillating in the spark of levin in the storm. A shadow approaches from behind and d'Artagnan calls his name in alarm. But Aramis is already brandishing his pistol and spinning round, blasting his assailant in the chest and sending him back into the muck. Cocky as ever, Aramis turns and winks at d'Artagnan, tipping his sodden hat and displacing a small pool of water collected there before he flies back into battle, as elegant as he is lethal, a dancer with a blade.

Porthos is Aramis' complete opposite. Heavy, broad and strong; he wields his blade with the same expertise, the same level of deadliness transformed into something less balletic, an immovable force that batters others aside and shatters metal and bone. The number of opponents does not faze him, nor do their size and he grins, wide and feral, sure in his footing when other men would fear to fall as he faces off against the men surrounding him. D'Artagnan knows he does not need to help him as he spins round, blocking another man's strike and dealing another with pernicious accuracy, eyes darting around for his leader.

There.

Athos moves like the lightening in the sky. He lacks the flamboyancy of Aramis, the brutality of Porthos; but he rather inherits the two, calm and collected as his usual self whilst he flourishes his weapon masterfully. None could deny that Athos was unbeatable with a blade, his virtuoso and character reflected in the careful balance of his blade, the strict position with which he held himself. Athos used the sword as an extension of his arm, of himself and d'Artagnan sometimes found himself hard pressed to discern where one ended and the other began. Athos brandished a sword as easily as he breathed. Darting between his enemies, Athos moves carefully, calculated steps taking him across the ground, form perfect as he wasted no steps, no energy, no movements. They catch each other's eye and Athos nods. D'Artagnan nods back.

The shift in Athos' expression scares him; his first indication anything is wrong is when the world seems to slow and Athos blinks and pales, bringing up his musket and pointing it at d'Artagnan. The young Musketeer has barely time to ask himself what his brother was thinking before the shot went off and the ball whizzed past his ear, the strangled cry of the man behind him making d'Artagnan turn so sharply he almost slips. But the corpse is dead before it hits the earth and d'Artagnan takes a moment to berate himself before facing his mentor again.

What he sees stops his heart.

There is a shadow behind Athos. A blade at his neck.

Sliding.

Sliding.

Cutting.

In that instant, in the distraction of protecting d'Artagnan-

Athos knows. Knows what's happening. It seems so slow. The way his eyes meet d'Artagnan's and there's something fond, something apologetic, something-something-something….

Blood. So much blood.

D'Artagnan is lost in it.

Lost as his mentor, his older brother, falls to his knees and it seems to shake the earth, rattle d'Artagnan's foundations. His world tilts as Athos does, tipping sideways and falling to the dirt.

Unmoving.

Dead.

All d'Artagnan remembers after that is the scream that rips from his throat; a strangled imitation of Athos' name, more animal than man, choked by his heart being wrenched from his chest.

It's a haze. Blood. Battle. Tears.

He remembers Aramis freezing mid-step. Head whipping up and face changing at d'Artagnan' broken cry.

He remembers Porthos' roar, rage and pain and fear, louder than the thunder up above their heads.

He remembers staggering as he burst into a run. Sword tearing through flesh, spraying him with blood and gore.

He remembers being there. Sat in the mud and the crimson. Athos' head in his lap, eyes blank and unseeing into the stormy grey clouds above as the rain pelted them with all its might. Porthos on his hands and knees, bellowing at the earth, screaming at heaven. Aramis frozen in place, stood over them, eyes haunted and dark and dead.

He remembers tears.

They buried him today. Another grave in a field of Musketeers. D'Artagnan wants to believe it's not real, like before, another fiction they made up in one of their crazy elaborate schemes.

It's not.

It never will be.

His fingers are digging into his arm. Vivid crimson lines. The pain doesn't help. It's nothing in comparison to the agony in his heart.

It never will be.

He can't be alone anymore.

He opens the door. They look at him, surprised, worn, exhausted. Porthos moves first, grabbing Aramis' arm and herding them into the room, engulfing them all in a hug. They sink to the floor in their embrace.

They cling to each other. No space between them. No space to breathe. But d'Artagnan breathes better than he has since Athos' death.

They stay like that. On that hard wooden floor, curled up together, one mess of limbs and broken hearts. Whispering gently to one another.

About nothing.

About everything.

Emotion grows and dies. But they never move. Never think about leaving. They stay. Together.

They cherish their tears and remember the brother they lost.