I know its been 15 millennia since I last updated this story but I'm trying to complete or update all my stories, so that's why the last chapter is suddenly appearing now.

I had another idea to how Aramis might have reacted and decided to share it with you. This does not continue on from the last one.

I still don't own the musketeers *sheds silent tear*.

Porthos died. Just like that, he died. One minute he was cursing away, telling Aramis that he'd be fine. Then his eyes started to grow dull. His grip on Aramis's arm loosened. Then his heart stopped beating. Blood stopped pumping around his body. He stopped breathing.

The day Porthos died was the day the world lost it's light, the day the hope that had always lived inside Aramis crumbled away into nothing.

It wasn't right that Porthos would die. It just wasn't right. Porthos was Porthos. He was strong, powerful, understanding, gentle, passionate. He was always there when Aramis needed him, with a smirk and pat on the back. He was the gulp of air when Aramis was drowning in his own memories, the hand that gripped him tight and pulled him out of whatever mess he was stuck in. He was just there, and Aramis didn't give his presence a second thought, until it was gone.

After Savoy, a darkness had settled over him, stifling the hope and joy out of him. A part of him died that night, and he thought he would never laugh again, never smile again, never love again. But time had healed him, and good ale and good times had healed the wounds that that night ripped into his heart. A good friend healed him. Athos was in too much pain to help Aramis, so Porthos shouldered the burden all by himself. The Musketeer could still remember endless nights lying awake, sobbing into Porthos' shoulder and wanting to fall on his own sword to end the pain.

Porthos would never allow that though.

He accompanied Aramis to every mission for months afterwards, taking the long routes to avoid woods and making sure to keep close to him and reassure him with his presence when there wasn't any other option.

He was like a wall, a rock anchoring him down. And even when he'd found his feet once again, and was capable of living like he had before, Porthos was still there with his unwavering support. The nightmares still came, and the bigger Musketeer was always just there with a story of when someone caught him cheating at cards and he had to hide in the cellar for two hours, or when he was a mission one time and it went wrong.

And they'd both turned up the next morning with tired eyes and lighter hearts, and didn't care what the hell anyone thought they were doing.

Aramis had fallen through the cracks, and there was no one to pull them out this time. So he kept falling and falling, until there was nothing left of him than an empty shell.

Aramis let himself smile.

He could feel the cold steel of the sword protruding from his chest. He could feel the warm blood, his blood, soaking into his shirt. He could feel the grass underneath him and the sky above him.

He could feel death closing in.

It whispered to him, telling him to let go. Give up, give in. Its touch was cool on his fevered brow. Its words were gentle on his shattered heart.

He could see a figure of a man above him, slightly translucent in the dying sun. A hand reached out towards him and pulled him up, and suddenly the weight he had carried around on his shoulders disappeared. He looked down and his body was still there, the sword in its stomach. His own bloodshot eyes stared at him, the life extinguished.

He should be afraid. He should be praying. But it was the first time in what felt like forever that he was at peace.

The man did not look like he expected. He expected an angel with glorious white wings, or a lady dressed in white that whispered cool words in his ear. But this man had broad shoulders and a face that kept losing focus. Then it solidified, and Aramis understood.

Porthos du Vallon stood before him in all his glory, his blue sash that he was so proud of draped over his shoulder. His hat reflected the sunlight, and his face was so different to how it had looked when they had first buried him. There were no wounds on him, but the scar across his eye was still there. He smiled at his friend with a smile so broad and so happy Aramis couldn't help but return it. His eyes were carefree in a way the musketeer couldn't remember seeing them, devoid of the pain that they had become so used to carrying.

"Hello 'Mis. Long time no see.