A/N: Apologies for the slow pace that I am posting chapters, but thank you to those of you who are sticking with it and I promise, it will be finished! Many thanks to Issai for her excellent beta-reading skills and helping to make sure I don't have giant plot holes. There are still plenty of mistakes that are all mine.

O Lord, forgive me my sins;

the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul,

the sins of my body; my idle sins, my serious voluntary sins;

the sins I know, the sins I do not know; the sins I have concealed

for so long, and which are now hidden from my memory.

Aramis let the words of the Act of Contrition wash through his mind like fingers of cool water easing over a bed of smouldering coals. Riding to the ridge where they would make their ambush on the party from Savoy had stirred Aramis's mind — too many feelings about what had happened in the last three weeks, too much guilt about his own actions. He was a soldier, meant to follow orders and serve France but he was a man of conscience meant to serve God. When those things did not align, his soul suffered. But these current orders were different - it seemed that both France and the Pope himself wanted him to act against the Duke of Savoy. He could almost accept that duty - but not the remainder of the order, to kill the Duchess and their newborn son and permanently eliminate the the threat to France from Savoy. There was no conflict between church and state in these orders. They were in perfect harmony. The message from his King and his God was clear. Yet Aramis's conscience was not. His soul was screaming. His inner light, his moral compass that guided him through the conflicts between his human nature and his deep faith was shattered. He no longer knew the right path. He no longer could distinguish sin from virtue.

So as he kneeled beside the Jesuits as Father Pietro lead them in confession before battle, he chose to let his conscience recede. He placed the act of contrition between himself and his orders like a shield. He asked for forgiveness and absolution even though he had no idea which thing was right and which was wrong. It didn't matter as God would wash his sins from him. Those known to him and those unknown. Those committed with intention and those committed in hopes of doing what was right. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He prayed.

I know my sins have wounded Thy Tender Heart,

O My Savior, let me be freed from the bonds of evil through

the most bitter Passion of My Redeemer. Amen.

Forget and forgive what I have been. Amen.

"Ego te absolvo," Father Pietro intoned before each of them as he made the sign of the cross on their foreheads. One by one the priest, God's mortal instrument on earth, gave them the blessing of absolution and forgiveness. One by one they murmured their thanks and rose until Aramis alone was left on his knees among the company God's warriors.

"Ego te absolvo," Father Pietro said, his hands warm against Aramis's brow as he made a gesture that had always brought Aramis immeasurable comfort.

"Amen," Aramis responded his voice soft with uncertainty. Was it really so easy a thing to be forgiven what he was about to do? His head remained bowed, wondering if he truly had the will to stand. Once he did the wheels of this plan would be in motion. Once he did he would be asked to pick up his guns and kill a woman and baby. Father Pietro must have sensed something in his stillness as a hand was laid on top of his head.

"Mio figlios," Father Pietro said to the company, "let us offer to our new brother the benediction of St. Ignatius." The men drew closer, placing their hands on his shoulder, his neck, his arm. Surrounded by the strength of these warriors of God, they prayed over him with the words of their founding patron, Saint Ignatius of Loyola.

"Take, O Lord, and receive my entire liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my whole will," Their breaths rose and fell together, the words holding the clarity of a chant, "All that I am, all that I have, Thou hast given me, and I will give it back again to Thee to be disposed of according to Thy good pleasure," Hands still on Aramis, they kneeled around him, their strength seeming to pour into his very veins, "Give me only Thy love and Thy grace; with Thee I am rich enough, nor do I ask for aught besides. Amen."

Take my liberty, my memory, my understanding . . . My whole will. My will. Aramis let the words roll over in his mind. He was God's instrument. His will was not his own. All that was asked of him was obedience. Had this not been the heart of the lesson these days spent with the Jesuits? Was their intercession in his life not a sign from God himself? Was not disobedience at the heart of all of his sins? For Aramis, the greatest act of contrition he could perform was to obey. Through obedience, he could no longer sin as no act belonged to him. It all belonged to God.

"Amen," Aramis replied, standing as the hands fell away from his body. He was ready.

They moved to take their positions.

Their ranks had swelled slightly after the Medici ambush had taken out over half of their original company. Two small groups of men had emerged from the forest to gather at the meeting point. The expedition from Rome was well-prepared. After Aramis fired from the ridge, the men hiding below them would move down into the ruins of the abbey and eliminate whatever threat remained. No quarter, no prisoners.

Aramis was to take the Duke first, and then move on to the remaining targets, if they were still standing after the first onslaught. He laid his weapons out against the crumbling foundation he had taken position behind. The long musket first - the best opportunity to take down the Duke, but only in the hands of an expert marksman. Then his shorter arquebus which could also handle the distance, and then two loaded pistols. He was deadly with a pistol, but the range was long for the weapons. He would take those up in hand as he made his way down the ridge if either of his first shots failed. There was no other distance shooter in their ranks - the Medici's had seen to that.

He analyzed the abbey ruins, thinking where it would be most likely for the parties to meet, what areas provided the least cover and therefore the best opportunity at making the shot. He could probably kill the Duke just as he rode into the ruins if he was at the head of the company, but then the remainder would turn back, and even Aramis would not be able to make a shot through the narrow track and into the canopy of trees. No, the Duke and all of his party would have to be close enough to see their faces clearly to ensure he could kill them all.

He took up the long musket, lit the match cord, balanced the gun on the edge of the foundation and waited. Whatever uncomfortable feelings he had, whatever the new wounds he was placing on his scarred heart, Aramis set them aside to concentrate on the direction of the wind, the pitch of the slope and distance of the shot. His thoughts narrowed as he found that vacant place where only the musket existed. The place in his mind where no stray thoughts other than the shot could take root. The place that made him the best marksmen in a regiment of musketeers. Doubt slid away. God's will be done.

Athos found the meeting spot at the old fort without much difficulty. There was a narrow trail that probably had once been a much wider track when the fort was part of the abbey's defense. Now it was little more than a dear path but it was enough for Athos's horse to follow. As he had ridden, he had cut through the bindings that Aramis had so meticulously wrapped around his arm. He did not think there would be a fight, nor was he certain his arm would be useful in anyway should there be, but showing weakness seemed a foolish way to stop an assassination.

He rode into the clearing and immediately his horse was flanked by two men he did not recognize. Although Father Pietro stepped up to put a hand to his mount's bridle, so these must be more of his men. Athos scowled, Jesuits were multiplying like rabbits.

"What has happened?" Father Pietro said quietly, his hushed tone urgent and his eyes narrowing with suspicion, "Why are you here?"

"I have information about this mission," Athos said calmly, "I must speak with Aramis." Father Pietro licked his lips, indecision playing across his face. He spared a glance over his shoulder, perhaps looking at where more of his men were waiting. Athos knew before he had arrived he would not be welcome. But as much as he disliked these men, he doubted it would come to violence. He just had to convince them of the truth of the plot, and Athos knew he could be very convincing.

"That is not possible," Father Pietro said, "The Duke and his party will arrive at any moment. Aramis is necessary to the signing of the treaty."

"I know that is not your true mission," Athos said, "We found your orders, but I have information that —" Athos's words were cut off as he one of the men grabbed his bad arm and pulled him from the saddle. The pain was intense but Athos's shout was cut off by a big hand clamping over his mouth. He saw stars as he was helplessly dragged from his mount, but no one had thought of the horse. Battle trained and stoic, the horse reared up, striking out with his front hooves at the men attacking his rider. Father Pietro was pushed forward as the man holding Athos collapsed with him to the ground. The horse whinnied, a high-pitched and insistent whine meant to alert his stable brothers to danger. He kicked out again at the man on his right side, keeping him at bay as he tried to gain purchase on the bridle. Athos struggled with the man who held him on the ground, but Aramis had been right, his wounded arm was next to useless.

A sharp whistle pierced through the commotion in the clearing and the horse immediately stilled, just as he had been trained to do. The Jesuit who had been trying to restrain him immediately grabbed the reins with no intervention from the horse and gave Athos a smug, triumphant look. But Athos knew it had nothing to do with him, he raised his eyes to find Aramis standing a few paces away, long musket in his hand and hat pulled low over his eyes. By his stance, Athos could tell Aramis was coiled for battle, but against who, he could not tell.

"Let him go," the marksman's words were laced with quiet threat. The man holding him did little but let Athos up to a kneeling position. Athos wasn't sure he could stand on his own anyway, he reached with his good arm to hold the injured on closely to his side. The wound throbbed.

Father Pietro picked himself up and knocked the dust from his leathers as the man who had got hold of the horse lead him toward the edge of camp where he could not make further mischief.

"Aramis, return to your post," the Priest said, "The Duke, he arrives at a moment now."

"Why are you here?" Aramis looked past the priest to Athos, his head raising enough that Athos could see his face clearly. It was a face of three weeks ago, when Aramis had been forced to serve as executioner for the Cardinal's warrants against French citizens. His eyes were dark and hooded, the warm light that was his friend snuffed out as sacrifice to the orders he must follow. Aramis knew —knew the orders were not to negotiate a treaty but to kill the Duke and his heirs —and yet he was still here, musket in hand.

"I thought you were through with assassination," Athos said tensely, anger at Aramis's seemingly easy compliance at obeying the orders of these Priests digging at his gut.

"I am a soldier," Aramis said simply, "I follow orders wherever they may lead."

"This is not you, Aramis," Athos said, struggling to push himself up to his feet, "You know this is wrong. You have a conscience. You know killing women and children is wrong," Athos's words landed, the other men around the clearing murmuring their surprise. The marksman had gone ridged. Aramis was struggling, had been for a long time now Athos realized, and it felt like they stood on a precipice that might swallow Aramis whole if he stepped in the wrong direction. Athos let his face soften, his anger recede, "Aramis," Athos said, taking a step forward, "This is not the way. This is not what Musketeers do," he said, "This is not what you do."

"Not what I do?" Aramis squeezed his eyes shut, "What I do is disobey my superiors. What I do is think I know better than the Captain, the Cardinal, the King . . .than you," Aramis found Athos's eyes again, his gaze full of despair, "I took an oath, it's high time I kept it."

"No!" Athos called out as Aramis turned to return to his position, "These orders are false! They do not come from France or from Rome. They come from Rochefort!" Aramis stopped in his tracks, stiffening as if he had taken a blow to the back. He slowly turned.

"What are you saying?" Aramis challenged, his tone bitter.

"Treville and I read the orders," Athos said, "They are in Rochefort's hand, not the Cardinal's," Athos watched the words land, saw Aramis duck his head as he took in a deep breath. The heartache Rochefort had caused them all was still fresh, it was not difficult to see the damage he had inflicted to their marksman was not healed.

"The Comte de Rochefort is the trusted agent of Cardinale Richelieu," Father Pietro interjected, stepping between Athos and Aramis and drawing the marksman's focus back to him, "I am confidant to the Cardinale, I know that the Comte has his complete trust," the Priest moved closer, laying a hand gently on Aramis's shoulder, "You swore on your knees before God your obedience to his will, do you break your vows so lightly?"

"No, Padre," Aramis said, his head bowed. Athos could hear the anguish in his voice.

"This is not God's will!" Athos's voice rose, "This is the evil manipulation of one man!" Athos started to advance toward Aramis, but he was grabbed on either side by the two Jesuits who had met him at the clearing earlier. He tried to tug from their grip, but pressure on his arm from one of them caused him to wince in pain. At his cry, Aramis raised his head.

"Listen to me," Athos regained his composure, ceasing his useless struggle against the two men, "Treville has given his word that he came to terms with Richelieu. He swears these are not the orders, that France has no part in the assassination of Savoy. You must trust him."

"Must I?" Aramis chewed on his bottom lip, "Must I trust the man who just three weeks ago assigned me as Richelieu's executioner."

"The Captain put a stop to it," Athos reminded him, "He swears these orders are counter to France, counter to Richelieu's wishes. I believe him, Aramis, but if you can't, " Athos paused to take a deep breath, "Trust me then."

"Your Capitan has proven false since we have met him. He has tried to end this mission since Royan," Father Pietro said, shifting his hand to rest behind Aramis's neck, a familial and comforting gesture, "Mio figlio, can you truly know this man's motives? He keeps his secrets from you, this yourself you have said. You have had doubts about your regiment and God now sends this as a test. In whom do you place your trust?"

"Place it in the Musketeers," Athos said, pride filling his voice, "In the men of honor, faith and duty you swore your allegiance to. Aramis, if you cannot find your faith in your own heart, then lean on mine. I know these orders are false."

"Lies," Father Pietro spat, spinning to face Athos and drawing a pistol from his belt, "He baits you with lies. He speaks with the tongue of Satan."

"You must believe me," Athos said as the men holding him forced him again to his knees., "Aramis —" Athos called as a rag was stuffed into his mouth. His hands were pulled behind him and forced together up the middle of his back, sending piercing pain up through his wounded arm. He didn't care, he struggled against them, eyes desperately seeking to meet Aramis's.

"Release him," Aramis's voice was deadly. Father Pietro turned, the pistol in his hand now pointed at Aramis's chest. The marksman's eyes widened, but Athos also saw the sting of betrayal. Before either man could say more, Brother Luigi ran into the clearing. He took in the stand off with a quick glance and then approached Father Pietro.

"The Duke and his party," he said breathlessly, "They approach. We only have moments."

"Take your post, Aramis," Father Pietro said, weapon still drawn. Aramis took a deep breath and glanced around him before his eyes settled on the Priest again. Buying time, Athos thought.

"Release him, and I will do as you ask," Aramis finally said.

"This man is sent by the devil to test you," Father Pietro said, "By all rights we should try him for heresy," Aramis drew up at that statement, eyes flashing dangerously. The Priest took a step backward, hands outstretched, the pistol laying across his open palm, "I will not hurt you. I will help you. Do as you must, and this man will remain here, unharmed, when we ride back together to Rome. This is the mercy of God and a gift for your obedience." The Priest stepped from between them and gave a nod. A pistol was cocked, the barrel pressed to Athos's head. The words were unsaid but the intention was clear - Athos's life was forfeit if Aramis did not do as he was ordered to do.

Athos found Aramis's eyes, but the dark look he found there gave him no comfort. The marksman's face was closed, no hint of his thoughts penetrating from his brown eyes. Athos had seen this before, every time he killed another name on Richelieu's list. Athos struggled despite the gun to his head. Aramis could not do this!

"I'm sorry, mon ami," Aramis's words were heavy with grief as he turned back to the edge of the ridge. Athos tried in vain to shout through the gag as he watched Aramis raise the long musket, lifting the gun to his shoulder and sighting down the barrel.

"Ambush!" Aramis shouted before firing the musket high into the air. Below them men started shouting. The Jesuits hidden below must have broken cover as there were battle cries, pistol shots, and the scream of horses as the clash of blades rang out.

Aramis turned from the edge with arms outstretched, the spent musket smoking in his hand. His eyes locked on Athos, the sorrow there evident. The apology had not been for the Duke's life, it had been for theirs. Aramis might be the best shot in the regiment, but with his pistols laid out on the ground and Athos held with a gun to his head, Aramis knew that in warning the Duke he was likely trading their lives for his. It was no matter. If that was the price of Aramis's soul, Athos was willing to pay it.

Father Pietro turned to the marksman, pistol outstretched, face a mask of rage.

"I will send your soul straight to Hell!" he shouted closing rapidly on Aramis as he cocked the weapon. Athos struggled but knew nothing would stop the inevitable. At that close range the pistol was deadly. A shot rang loud in the clearing and Athos screamed into his gag. An explosion of red and then Aramis had his hands on the priest and they both tumbled to the ground.

Before Athos could process what he had seen another shot came, this one closer and clearly behind him. The man who had been holding the gun to his head staggered forward the weapon falling from his hands as he landed face down in the dirt, a bleeding hole in his back.

Chaos broke loose as the remaining men tried to find the shooter. The man holding Athos's hands slackened his grip enough that Athos wrenched his hands free and threw himself forward onto his stomach. The Jesuit reached for his sword but Athos rolled onto his back and came up with the other man's pistol in his hand. The man dropped his sword and raised his hands even as another shot rang out and a loud voice echoed in the clearing.

"Hold! Put down your weapons!" Porthos's bellow brought everyone to stillness. He emerged from the woods, Brother Luigi pressed tightly to his chest, a knife at his throat, "No one else needs to die today." A thin sun-browned boy followed him, wearing Porthos's bandana, brandishing a set of pistols and looking every bit like he knew how to use them.

Athos scrambled to his feet, pushing his man further into the clearing before pulling the rag from his mouth. The remaining two men dropped their weapons. Athos knew that two of them had sustained wounds in the Medici ambush and like him, were not fighting fit. With Porthos's dramatic appearance turning the tables and the failed ambush attempt there was no fight left in them.

"How are you here?" Athos panted, disbelief coloring his face.

"Long story," Porthos said, pulling knives and pistols from the four remaining Jesuits and tossing them to the ground. "Amos!" Porthos called out, "Get the horses will ya." The boy holstered the pistols and nonchalantly made his way back into the woods.

Athos had a million questions, but everything had to wait.

"Aramis!" Athos called out running over to where the two men had collapsed. The sight that met him was gruesome. Father Pietro lay face down, most of the back of his head gone from what Athos now realized had been a pistol shot from Porthos. That was why he had seen the spray of blood. Father Pietro had pitched forward onto Aramis and they had both gone down. The priest half lay across Aramis, who had landed on his back. His face was pale and his eyes closed, but Aramis's brow was furrowed and he shifted his head uncomfortably.

Athos used his good arm to pull the priest's body off of the marksman. Aramis's torso, face and hands were smeared in blood but whether that was from the priest or from a wound Aramis had sustained, Athos could not tell. He knelt down beside Aramis, tugging at the straps on his doublet to see if he had been injured.

"Aramis," Athos called urgently as he searched the marksman for a gunshot wound. The priest's pistol might have still gone off even as he was struck by Porthos's shot. But Athos could find no visible sign. Aramis groaned and his eyes fluttered open, his facing scrunching tightly against whatever was paining him. He took some deep breaths and raised a hand to his head.

"Ow," he said, rubbing his hand into his hair. His fingers came away bloody. With an exasperated sigh he let his hand fall back to his chest and he closed his eyes tightly. "How am I not dead?" the marksman asked through tight lips.

"Porthos," Athos said with a smile.

"Porth—" Aramis started, "That's. . . That's not possible," he spit out. Athos put a hand to Aramis's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze, the marksman was struggling with the pain. Aramis's hand snaked up and gripped Athos's where it was laying on his shoulder, "Thank you," he breathed. Athos wasn't entirely sure what Aramis was thanking him for and now didn't seem to be the time to ask as the marksman started to pant in short gasping breaths.

"Are you going to be sick?" Athos queried.

"Yes," Aramis said, struggling to raise himself off his back. Tucking his injured arm tightly around his torso, Athos caught Aramis's upper arm and pulled him upright into a sitting position just as the marksman turned his head and retched up his last meal. With a groan Aramis leaned his forehead into his hand, resting his elbow on his cocked knee as if his head was too heavy to lift. He swayed enough that Athos remained kneeling beside him, still gripping him by the upper arm lest he pitch over. Athos raised his head to call for Porthos only to find the man in question crouching down in front of Aramis, a waterskin in his hand.

"What the 'ell 'appended to you?" Porthos asked, holding out the water. Aramis took the skin with a shaky hand.

"How are you here?" was his reply, putting the water to his lips and not waiting for an answer. It was awkward to drink as Aramis did not seem to want to tilt his head back. Porthos snaked a hand around the back of his friend's head, lending a measure of support that was as much necessary as it was comforting. Athos could not miss the soft look that registered in the big man's eyes. Had it not been for his timely but completely impossible arrival, Aramis would likely be dead. Feeling Athos's gaze upon him, Porthos looked up, a question in his eyes.

"He's managed to knock himself out twice today," Athos answered, "I imagine even Aramis's hard head can't take that much abuse." Aramis groaned at the statement but did nothing else other than to offer the waterskin back to Porthos and let his head flop forward into his own hand again.

"Another dead musketeer?" a young voice said from above them. Athos looked up to find the boy who had accompanied Porthos standing over them, looking critically down at Aramis.

"He's not dead," Porthos said narrowing his gaze.

"He is about to be dead," the boy qualified.

"You gotta stop sayin' that," Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Not saying it does not make it less true," the boy shrugged. Athos raised a brow and his lips twitched into a smile. He didn't know who this was, but he decided he liked him.

"Did ya get the horses like I asked?" Porthos said with a glare. The boy looked completely unfazed.

"No, why would I do what you asked me to do?" the level of sarcasm was impressive.

"Why did I bring you?" Porthos growled, "Look over the ridge there. Are they still fighting?" Porthos gave a nod toward where Aramis had set up his shot. The boy rolled his eyes before walking confidently to the edge, hand on his hip as he surveyed the situation.

"Athos, what is going on?" Porthos said quietly, "Was that priest a Medici? I ran into some of them on the other side of the river."

"No, the Medici's found us earlier today," Athos said, shifting his hand to rub gently at the back of Aramis's neck, "That priest was working for Richelieu. He wanted Aramis to assassinate the Duke of Savoy — and his heirs." Porthos's gaze narrowed as he glanced over at the corpse beside them, looking as if he might want to kill him all over again.

"That bastard," Porthos ground out, "I thought the Captain —"

"The Captain did," Athos said firmly with a squeeze to Aramis's neck, "It was a plot by Rochefort. One that nearly worked."

"Aramis?" Porthos turned his gaze back to his friend, a sad question to clinging to his words. Aramis gave a slight shake of his head, then moaned, bringing up his other arm form a cradle for his head on his knee. Athos watched Porthos's eyes shift from confusion to anger to worry. The big man put a hand to Aramis's shoulder as the marksman dropped his head again.

"Alright," he said, his tone implying nothing was alright but he would leave this discussion for later. He looked back to Athos, "Where is the Captain?"

"Injured, back at the camp," Athos said, "We should return."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, "Let's get out of here." The big man stood and then reached down a hand to haul Aramis to his feet. Athos got his own feet under him and rose, taking a grip around Aramis's bicep. Athos felt the trembling in Aramis's body as he tried to get his balance between the two of them before the marksman took an awkward lean forward and, lowering his head, retched again.

"He is as disgusting as you are," Amos criticized from beside them, standing with his head cocked beneath the hat he had pulled low over his brow. His thumbs were hooked into his belt and he took a casual stance, very much a soldier's stance if Athos had the measure of it.

"The other men?" Porthos asked, ignoring the boy's statement and passing Aramis one of his bandanas. The marksman's hands trembled as he wiped the sick and sweat from his face.

"They are dead," he reported.

"Who is dead?" Porthos asked.

"The men," Amos replied.

"Who specifically is dead?" Porthos asked, a false smile playing on his lips. It appeared he was trying to restrain himself from killing the boy. "The Duke?"

"None of them look like a Duke," he said with a shrug.

"His wife? The child?" Aramis asked raising his head to squint at the boy.

"There are no women and children on the field, Monsieur," Amos said. Aramis sighed in relief and visibly sagged, leaning into the two men at his side.

"Are they really all dead?" Porthos asked, raising a threatening brow. The boy shrugged. Porthos let out an exasperated sigh, "I suppose we should check," he said to Athos.

"Send the Jesuits down," Athos said as they started to walk Aramis back to the horses.

"Ya really think it's a good idea to just let them go?" Porthos asked.

"They are not our enemy," Athos said, "they were mislead, as we were. With their commander dead, they have no reason to come after us."

"Easy for you ta say," Porthos said lowly, "You're not the one who killed 'em."

They paused for a moment as Porthos took a better grip on Aramis. The marksman seemed to be fading fast.

"Look at them," Athos said, nodding toward the four men sitting with their hands tied in the middle of the clearing. Two were bandaged from the fight earlier in the day, their faces lined with exhaustion and despair. They had lost almost their entire company today. "Even the boy could take them in their condition. Release them. Let them go down to the abbey and find their dead."

Porthos didn't seem to agree, but he didn't argue either. Athos knew he wanted to get Aramis back to camp where he could rest, he wanted to see the Captain and assure himself he was alright and he wanted to know what had been going on while he was gone. Athos couldn't argue with any of that, they were his priorities too. They resumed their slow walk with Aramis back to the horses, the injured marksman utterly dependent on them to guide him. Athos was deeply grateful they were both there to do it.

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you feel like leaving a review I'd really appreciate knowing if anyone is still reading this fic and what y'all think about it! Really makes my day to hear from readers.