His mind, perhaps in a last effort to shield him from reality, replayed memories he had long buried.

"He still looks unhappy," D'Artagnan pointed out as he shifted feet nervously.

Aramis blinked a few times, pulled from his contemplation of the Garrison. He twisted around to see what D'Artagnan meant; and squinted suspiciously at where Athos leaned against the same post where D'Artagnan's main gauche had been buried yesterday. A well-aimed throw, especially for someone of his age and inexperience, but maybe a bit imprudent since it had nearly gone into Aramis's neck and Athos's back.

He rolled his eyes and turned back to their young friend. "Don't mind Athos," he assured D'Artagnan. "He always looks that way in the morning."

D'Artagnan, if possible, looked even more terrified. "It's the afternoon."

Aramis's brow crumpled in confusion, but a quick glance at the sunset revealed that D'Artagnan was indeed right. Damn. He had probably missed a meeting with Adele. He shrugged, both at D'Artagnan's comment and his own realization.

"Right. Well, he always looks that way. You'll get used to it. Anyway, come forth, come forth! Porthos, is this everyone?" He called to his best friend, standing a few feet ahead of them and waving his hands to beckon the straggler Musketeers into the courtyard. Already forty men and a few boys stood assembled before him, casting semi-amused glances at the three men. Quite a few glared at D'Artagnan, no doubt recognizing him as the brash fool who had attacked Athos only yesterday.

"Aramis, are you sure this is a good idea?" D'Artagnan whispered, worriedly. Aramis flung a companionable arm around his shoulders, pressing him against his side comfortingly. He understood what it meant not to feel as if one belonged or was welcome, and he loathed the idea of this fiery Gascon entertaining such a notion. He quite liked this one, and besides, he had helped save Athos from the firing squad. A fact that he and Porthos had reminded Athos of when he had protested the boy's presence at the Garrison.

"Of course! Why wouldn't it be?" Aramis inquired cheerily.

"Oi! Where the 'ell is Jean-Paul and Eustace?" Porthos bellowed over the murmurs of the crowd. A few men called out answers in the form of deprecating jokes and inappropriate pig noises. "Some help you louts are!" Porthos laughed when none of the calls proved effective. "Athos, were they sent out this morning?"

Athos's frosty glare made Aramis grin, but he felt D'Artagnan burrow a bit closer into his side. "No."

"Then where are they?" Porthos demanded, unimpressed. Athos's glare only intensified in its iciness.

"I don't know."

"Aramis. C'mon. Wake up now."

Porthos threw his hands up in mock defeat as the other Musketeers snickered. "What kind of lieutenant are you?" Aramis grunted agreement. Porthos turned his back on the other man, facing the crowd with hands on his hips. "Does no one know where Eustace and Jean-Paul went?"

"Look," D'Artagnan tried to negotiate to Aramis, mumbling so only they could hear. "We don't even have everyone here right now. Why are we doing this again?"

"Because dinner is the only time all the Musketeers are in one place for more than twenty seconds," Aramis replied, ever patient. "Look at all these men, D'Artagnan," he gestured to the small crowd. "If you're to become a Musketeer, each of them will be your teacher and champion and bitterest enemy. Each will be your brother. You must know and trust them all, and vice versa. This is for the best, believe me."

"But we're making a show out of it," the lad hissed uncomfortably. He inhaled deeply. "And Athos is still glaring." Honestly, whatever fear this one had of Athos was unwarranted. The other man had a wicked glare, and probably would run the boy into the ground during training, but Athos was probably the least dangerous of the three of them. The real one to fear, Aramis reflected, is Porthos in a temper.

"Athos is only angry because he knows my skills of persuasion are superior to his!" Aramis yelled over his shoulder. Athos huffed doubtfully. D'Artagnan groaned. "Don't worry about Athos. The Captain approved of your presence, and that's all that matters… Ah, there you two are!" Aramis cried as two men came strutting into the Garrison, joining the mob with curious joviality. "Where've you been?" Aramis demanded.

Jean-Paul, the younger of the two, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You should know, Aramis! She's a mutual friend of ours!" He replied, much to the collective amusement of all gathered. Aramis pretended to gasp in mock offense.

"Aramis… Open your eyes. Don't let go now."

"Oi! Porthos, clock that man! Did you hear him insult me?" He demanded.

"Insults are stuff that ain't true, Aramis. Everyone knows that," Porthos teased. The crowd burst into uproarious laughter that took a good five minutes to dispel. When it had, Porthos shouted for silence and waved a hand in D'Artagnan's direction.

"Alright, mates! Listen up, this here is our newest recruit D'Artagnan!" He snagged D'Artagnan's arm and dragged him in front of the crowd. "D'Artagnan, tell 'em about yourself." D'Artagnan paled as Porthos clapped him on the shoulder and took a step back, safely ensconcing himself with Aramis and Athos.

Aramis had to admit that D'Artagnan managed to compose himself quickly. He tipped his head to the men assembled, his expression schooled into the perfect imitation of humble fearlessness. "Well, then," he stammered. "I'm D'Artagnan. I'm from Gascony…"

"Hey!" Someone interrupted. "Didn't you nearly get Athos killed yesterday?"

D'Artagnan flinched. Porthos hissed beneath his breath and leaned down toward Aramis. "That's not goin away anytime soon," he murmured. Aramis nodded. That was exactly why he had suggested this in the first time. Not only was it hilarious to watch D'Artagnan squirm, but the other men needed to know that he was trustworthy.

"It was a misunderstanding?" D'Artagnan offered, the statement sounding oddly like a question.

One of the older men standing upfront harrumphed. "A misunderstanding!?" He echoed. "Athos was almost shot, he was!" Aramis looked away, pretending not to take any interest in the lad's distress.

"Are you two going to do anything?" Athos drawled, a bit of bite in his voice.

"Aramis, you promised us…"

"A little confrontation is good for 'im," Porthos supposed, yawning. Aramis nodded sagely.

"By Red Guards!" Another of the men pointed out, with utmost distaste. "Are you with the Red Guards?" D'Artagnan shook his head vigorously.

"No!" He began, but the mutterings of dissent had already begun to grow into roars, angry stares thrown at him like daggers. "Wait! Wait, listen to me please!" he pleaded. Athos rolled his eyes.

"You two are useless," and then he was moving forward, putting a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. D'Artagnan turned and gave a start when Athos stepped beside him instead. Porthos nudged Aramis's ribs, and Aramis nodded, chuckling.

"It wasn't D'Artagnan's fault," Athos told the crowd, long-sufferingly, his voice quiet but somehow managing to cut through the calls. Aramis had once wondered how he did that. Only Treveille commanded the same kind of respect.

Then he had gotten to know Athos, and now he understood and shared the sentiment.

"Why isn't he….? Aramis, 'cmon!"

"He acted with honor and courage. He is not to be blamed for any confusion between us, it was Richlieu's dirty hand mussing things as usual," Athos explained, calmly. "He is a skilled and decent cadet and I expect all of you to treat him accordingly. He'll be here awhile," and now they were nodding, sparing D'Artagnan a few glances of surprise. D'Artagnan remained completely still beneath Athos's hands, obviously astonished.

"Huh," Porthos observed. "Never said nothin that nice about us, did he?"

"Not in my memory, no."

"Alright then, lad!" One of the dissenters yelled, mollified. He reached out and tousled D'Artagnan's hair, smiling. "C'mon then! Have dinner with us!" And then D'Artagnan was being manhandled from all sides by jovial men yanking him from the courtyard toward the mess hall. He craned his neck in the madness, and when he caught Aramis's eye, he waved gratefully.

They waited until the lad had been carted off by their brothers before approaching Athos. "You two planned this," It wasn't a question. Aramis hitched his thumbs into his weapon's belt and snickered.

"You know how much we love to play tricks," he reminded their leader.

"Knew you liked the boy," Porthos added, grinning.

"Aramis, we need you…"

"I was merely trying to save him from being killed by a mob of dramatic fools," Athos replied dryly. Porthos lightly cuffed him on the arm, his smile dropping.

"Hey, don't you pull that on us now," he warned. "We know you too well."

"That boy," Aramis pointed to the kitchen, where their youngest had been dragged. "Looks up to you, Athos. It only took a day and he was willing to face his own demons to find justice, for you and his father. Having someone like that will be good for everyone, but especially you."

"So, we intend to see it done, don't we 'Mis?" Porthos asked. Aramis wrapped an arm around Athos's shoulder, guiding him to the mess hall, with Porthos following them cheerily.

"That we do, mon ami. That we do."

"ARAMIS!" The last yell was what finally plunged him from the sweet dark of his psyche into the fire of his present. Aramis gasped, his body instinctively surging upward at the summons. The second he had done so, agony ricocheted through his skull and sides.

Aramis fell back, a silent scream caught in his dry throat. He quickly slammed his palms to his eyes, trying to ease the pain behind his temples. Somewhere beyond, someone called his name quietly. Aramis couldn't answer, but he did feel other hands, calloused and gentle, cup his skull and rub the nape of his neck.

Some of the pressure eased in his head. Aramis gulped the bile slithering up his throat and let his eyes flutter open. His vision was blurry, but he made out Porthos and D'Artagnan immediately. Pain and terror instantly sizzled in his gut.

Had Alejo gone back on his word? Were they all headed to Spain, and the terrible bloodshed promised to be in wait there? Or, his mind whispered devilishly. Has the King rightfully decided you cause too much trouble? Have you finally dragged your friends into the grave with you?

His breath hitched in his throat at that. "What…?" He whispered, throat scratchy. Someone pressed a cup to his mouth and he gulped cool, blessed water. As soon as he felt the liquid cascade down his throat, his vision cleared.

"You with us?" Porthos asked, him and D'Artagnan leaning so close that their faces covered his entire eyeline. Where was Athos?

"Er…. Where…" Aramis gulped. "Where are we?" He asked.

"We're at the Garrison," D'Artagnan assured him. A warm palm settled on his bare arm, and Aramis realized his shirt had been stripped away and his bandages reapplied. "You're safe, Aramis."

"Alejo…"

"Is gone from Paris," Porthos finished curtly. His deep brown eyes were filled with concern as he dipped the cup to Aramis's mouth again. It was his hand massaging Aramis's neck then, relieving the pressure in his head. Aramis's breath left him in a whoosh of surprise and relief.

He slumped into the soft cushions beneath him, reaching up to squeeze D'Artagnan's hand on his arm. "I don't know how you did it," he breathed, eyes swiveling from D'Artagnan to Porthos tiredly. His voice cracked. "But thank you."

"We made you a promise, remember?" D'Artagnan replied, smiling. Aramis returned the gesture, sinking into the bed and allowing his eyes to close for another moment. Finally, he was safe. He was free.

The relief was a living thing singing in his heart. "Better send for Athos," Porthos said from above him.

Aramis's eyes popped open as something occurred to him. "The King… Is he displeased? You three certainly caused a stir in his throne room. Athos isn't being punished, is he?" That was the only reason he could think of why Athos would not be at his side when he woke. D'Artagnan stood, and now Aramis could see that he was back in Porthos's room, lying in his bed.

Outside, stars twinkled in the night sky. How long had he been unconscious?

Porthos exchanged a worried glance with D'Artagnan, and Aramis's anxiety spiked. "What? What is it?" He began to sit up, but Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He heard the door open and a gust of wind replaced D'Artagnan at his side.

They were alone now. "Porthos… Tell me," Aramis pleaded, gasping as more waves of pain crashed over him.

"Athos is fine," Porthos promised when he was flat on his back. Porthos preoccupied himself tucking the blanket around Aramis's legs and upper body. "He's… Well, I'll let him explain it to ya when he returns. He's fine. We're all fine, Aramis, I swear."

"Then why do you look so worried?" Aramis demanded. Porthos scoffed.

"I was terrified for you, idiot. You never took head wounds well, and you're still injured from the first family reunion you had," oh, yes. Aramis had forgotten about it, to be honest. "Besides, we almost lost you. Again. How dare you trade yourself like that?" Aramis sighed.

"One for all," he reminded his friend.

Porthos rolled his eyes and settled back into a chair, one hand still pressed to his thigh. Aramis was grateful for the connection. He felt weak, vulnerable. "Don't pull that on me. Do you have any idea how it felt to watch those bastards… Damn it, Aramis! And don't think D'Artagnan didn't tell us about that little promise you pulled from 'im!" He yelled. Aramis examined the bags beneath his friend's eyes, noted the shadows behind his gaze.

"Better safe than sorry," he replied. Porthos shook his head, bowing his head as if praying. Maybe he was. Aramis tended to have that effect on people. Nevertheless, he had forgotten- or perhaps just ignored- the toll that he knew this entire situation must have taken on Porthos, who had never had family after his mother's death until he met the three of them.

"Porthos," Aramis called softly. His friend looked up, an expression of infinite weariness painted on his face. Aramis prepared to apologize; but… That wasn't right. His mouth quirked into a small, sad smile. "I love you."

Porthos's bottom lip quivered, but he did not cry. He merely squeezed Aramis's leg. "Yeah," he breathed. "I know."

The door creaked open, and a moment later Athos was at his side, his own expression a mask of weariness and relief. "Aramis!" he cried, plopping unto the bed beside him. He took one of his hands into his own and D'Artagnan appeared over his shoulder.

"Captain," Aramis said. "You haven't shaken me off yet, as you can see," Athos rolled his eyes, but his mouth was quirked into a rare grin.

"Thank God," he agreed. "How do you feel?"

"I'd feel better if someone would tell me what Porthos is too afraid to say," he answered. Athos's brow scrunched, and he huffed a breath. Aramis had never seen his friend so at a loss for words. Despite his quietness, Athos was naturally brilliant with language, as poetic as Aramis sometimes. "What is it, 'Thos?"

Athos looked away. "Aramis, we'll get her back," he began. "As soon as Treveille gets here, we'll make a plan. We'll get her back," Aramis scowled.

"What the hell are you…?" Then, his stomach dropped as the gnawing uncertainty in his heart found its cause. He hadn't woken from an injury without Adelina by his side or in nearly four years. If she wasn't here… "Where?!" He snapped, fear rocketing. "Where is she? Is she hurt?" All three of them avoided his gaze. Aramis tugged at Athos's arm pleadingly. "Athos!"

"She gave herself up," D'Artagnan blurted, as if the words pained him. "Aramis… Alejo was about to take you and we had been defeated. She barged into the room and… And told everyone she was Rene, and Alejo… She's on her way to Madrid now. I'm sorry," he said.

Aramis could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heart thundered in his chest as his fingers scrabbled at the bed sheets, images of Adelina being tied and hauled across the world and Alejo with his filthy hands on her…

He snatched the blankets from his legs, shoving himself unto one elbow. He ignored the pain and nausea, eyes skimming the floor for his shirt and pistols. "I have to go." Porthos reached over, panicked.

"Aramis…" He began, but Aramis swiped his hands away irritably.

"No! I'm going now!" He shouted.

"But..."

"How could you let them take her?! Didn't you know I would rather have died than live knowing she took my punishment? How could you?!" He screamed, voice cracking.

"What could we do?" D'Artagnan asked, desperately. "It was her or you, Aramis!"

"Then you should have saved her!" Aramis yelled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Porthos stood, laying a hand on his shoulder. Aramis smacked him away. "Get out of my way! I need to find her!"

"We will!" Porthos broke out. "Brother, we will! But you're still hurt!"

Aramis's jaw ached from how hard he clenched his teeth. "I. Don't. Care," he growled.

"If you leave now, you could die," Athos told him sternly. "The Queen released Treveille from prison. Sylvie and Elodie left with a group of men to trail the Spaniards. She isn't alone, and neither are you," he said.

"If that's true, then you'll help me get out of this bed," Aramis informed them. "She's my sister. I'm going."

Porthos made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat, grabbing his hands to help level him upright. The room spun, and Aramis slumped against his friend, breathing hard. "And what exactly is your plan?" D'Artagnan asked.

"What time is it?" Aramis gasped.

Athos cringed guiltily. "Nearly midnight. You've been dead to the world for a full day…" Aramis pushed himself away from Porthos, scooping his sword and pistol from the bedside table. He would go bare chested if he needed too.

"And you haven't gone to her yet…!?"

"I thought I recognized your voice," A new voice said from the doorway. Aramis looked up, and felt his heart skip a beat when Elodie and Constance filed in behind Sylvie. "You shouldn't be up, Aramis," Constance scolded.

Elodie was at his side in an instant, peering at his wound. He gripped her upper arm. "Adelina? Do you know…?"

Elodie, to his ever-lasting gratitude, hardly blinked. "I told Thibault not to let her out of his sight for a second. He and some others are following the Spanish envoy," she grabbed a shirt from the bedside table and began to pull it over his head. Aramis hardly paid any mind. His thoughts spun in dizzying circles, making pain throb behind his temples maddeningly.

Thibault wouldn't let him down, but he had to stop that envoy before it reached Spain. "We leave now," he hissed as the fabric of his shirt caught on the stitches in his side. Elodie murmured an apology. Porthos jumped as if it had been him hurt.

Athos stood. "You can barely walk."

He glared. "I'll manage."

"Aramis," Porthos said quietly. "We just got you back," his voice wavered and something inside Aramis wavered too. He sighed, swaying on his feet. Athos and D'Artagnan reached out, steadying him by the shoulders. Porthos gripped the back of his shirt. Aramis bowed his head as nausea built in him, hot tears building behind his eyes.

"If she dies, then you will lose me. Please, I- I cannot bear her loss," he confessed with a shuddering breath.

"We're going to retrieve her, Aramis," Athos told him. "She's a Musketeer. We'd no more abandon her than we would any of our own, but we must strategize. Otherwise, we could throw France back into war or worse," he pointed out. Aramis fisted handfuls of hair. He agreed with what Athos was saying, but every muscle within him trembled to move, to go, to get her home as he had promised.

Then kill her for sacrificing herself for him.

"Athos is right," Elodie volunteered.

"Which is why we've already strategized," Constance added.

D'Artagnan barked a laugh. "Of course you have," he chortled, peering at his wife with boundless affection. Athos and Porthos looked more hesitant, but Aramis's heart was thundering in his chest.

Sylvie grinned. "If you gentlemen are finished? Adelina getting captured wasn't an accident," she informed them. Aramis blinked confusedly. "Brujon told Constance about Aramis being hauled away by Red Guards. We knew you three," she pointed to Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan. "Would follow him and try everything to get him free, but we decided to have back-up plan just in case Aramis decided to be self-sacrificing. It was Adelina's idea."

Aramis felt a spike of exasperation mixed with gratitude. He had never deserved Adelina's adoration, but she never listened to him when he tried to warn her. He never should have brought her – a child, basically – into his lonely, convoluted life. "Of course it was," Aramis groaned.

"I've assembled our spies," Elodie assured him. "The ones who aren't with Thibault are ready to move out," she told them.

"Who will be watching over the Louvre?" Athos asked. Porthos scrunched his face distastefully.

"Who cares?" He grumbled.

Aramis had to agree where the King was concerned, but his son was also in danger. He stared intently at Elodie, who shrugged as carelessly as Porthos had spoken. "Do I have to think of everything?"

"We'll stay," Constance volunteered. She met D'Artagnan's suspicious gaze, rolling her eyes. "I can get close to the Queen. I'll take Sylvie and Elodie with me and make sure she and the Dauphin are safe. The Red Guard can handle the King. You go save Adelina," It was the best news he had heard all day. Aramis squeezed Porthos's shoulder until his friend caught him by the elbow.

"A'right," Porthos agreed, even as his eyes swam with fear. "We're goin. Try to keep France from falling into oblivion while you're at it, eh, ladies?" He asked.

"What's this bout tryin?" Elodie snorted. "We'll handle it good and proper, Porthos," she stretched to grant him a delicate kiss on the cheek, then bestowed them all with a similar favor. Aramis didn't have the words to express his gratitude, so he merely nodded. Constance slapped D'Artagnan's arm, Sylvie pressed a hand to Athos's chest, they exchanged a meaningful look and then the ladies vanished.

Aramis looked up, softened a bit in his anger.

"None of you have to come," he started to assure them. "I know this is all my doing. You needn't endanger yourselves…"

Porthos rolled his eyes loudly with much guffawing. "You on this again? You're startin to make me angry now," his eyes flashed dangerously, as if he were preparing to fight Aramis instead.

That didn't mean he couldn't still try to talk them out of their foolhardy. "I can…" Athos pressed a hand to his shoulder. The rest of the words faded on his tongue, bitten off by a sudden lump in his throat.

He turned eyes brimming with tears to their eldest. "You can't," Athos disagreed, calmly. Aramis nodded. They all knew as such. He felt foolish trying to deny it. Old habits die hard, I suppose, he thought.

"And you won't," D'Artagnan added, with a fond smile.

Porthos gestured to the open door as if he was the one being held up. "Yeah," he replied to Aramis's earlier statement. "Me too."