When Thomas had died, grief had left Athos paralyzed beneath the sheets of his bed. He had spent days staring up at the ceiling, his mind twirling with thoughts of her. Of Thomas. Of his father. His thoughts had driven him mad and his bones had ached with a weariness begotten of despair. Only the bottle had saved him then.

Then, it had been his friends, his oath, which had sustained him night after night in his despair, so much so that had not felt that lethargy in a long time… Until now. His entire body ached, a cold sweat had broken out along his temples, and pain danced just beneath the skin of his arms and back.

It seemed his constant movement –coupled with the abuse he had suffered at the hands of the Red Guards – had left his body strained for food and rest. Judging from the sagging tilt of Porthos's shoulders and D'Artagnan's eyes, his brothers were suffering from similar afflictions. Nevertheless, where Aramis went, they followed. Speaking of which…

Athos glanced at their brother, seated in front of Porthos on his horse.

"Are you alright?" He called. Aramis looked up, his eyebrows thundering. Whether that was from pain or determination Athos couldn't tell. Porthos had insisted they ride together so as not to exacerbate anymore of Aramis's injuries.

Aramis turned his gaze back to where it had been, the deep orange of the horizon reflected in his eyes. Usually, the other man would grin, as in love with the sunset as a beautiful woman. Now, the glow of the sun looked like a rotten peach in his eyes, dull and lackluster. "I'll be better when we find my sister!" He replied over the howl of the wind. Athos nodded.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan suddenly yelled, his voice muffled by the wind. They were riding hard. Their youngest's horse suddenly slowed as he pulled back on the reigns. "Is that Thibault?"

Athos squinted into the sun, and gasped when he noticed another horse galloping toward them. Athos saw a dark shadow dragging along behind it in the dirt, jumping and being jostled by dirt and rocks. His stomach dropped.

His foot still tied into the stirrups, Thibault's motionless body came into view. Aramis went stiff in his seat, already trying to scramble out. Porthos wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him in place.

Athos jerked his ride to a stop and swung down. "Woah, girl," he murmured, approaching the frightened animal warily. "D'Artagnan! Come calm her down," he ordered over his shoulder. A second later, his brother flashed past him to the horse, taking her reigns and patting her snout.

"Hey, hey," he whispered reassuringly, as the horse trotted uneasily in place. "It's alright my friend. Calm down. We aren't here to hurt you," he gave Athos a nod as he continued to whisper reassurances.

"Athos," Aramis called when he crept to the body, gently turning him unto his back. "Is he...?" He was dead. Irrevocably so. Athos sat back on his haunches and released an explosive sigh. Thibault had been stabbed through the heart; and shot several times as well. Dark purple and black bruises dotted his face and upper neck, the tears in his clothes had shallow cuts beneath them. He had not died peacefully.

"Gone," he reported, ruthlessly scouring all emotion from his voice.

"Oh, no," Aramis murmured. He patted the arm around his waist. "Let me down, Porthos," he requested. Porthos did so, gently easing himself and Aramis from the saddle.

Athos sighed as he felt Aramis kneel beside him, gently tucking a strand of Thibault's hair behind his mutilated ear. "Oh, my friend," Aramis groaned. "My loyal friend. I am so sorry. Go with God." Athos gripped his shoulder. Porthos and D'Artagnan came closer.

"Cruel bastards," Porthos cursed quietly. "I'm sorry, Aramis."

Aramis shook his head. Athos squeezed his arm before standing. He assumed that Aramis would need a minute, besides, Thibault's stab wounds reminded him a little too much of other corpses he had seen. Athos dug in the pouch on his mount's flank and procured a large blanket. Deep blue. The same cloth they used to bury Musketeers.

"We'll bury him in the Garrison graveyard," Athos promised as he knelt beside Aramis and began wrapping the body.

"With Marsac," D'Artagnan added, semi-helpfully. Aramis's throat bobbed. Porthos nudged D'Artagnan in the ribs harshly.

"Here, let us. We gotta keep moving," Porthos volunteered. Aramis's hands were shaking, and Athos was so exhausted that his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated. Without waiting for an answer, Porthos and D'Artagnan took the sheet and finished the work. When Thibault had been covered, they carried him between them back to the horses.

Athos studied his brother's wan expression. "You are not to blame yourself," he ordered.

Aramis exhaled a shuddering sigh. "How can I not? Athos, look at him," he gestured to Thibault's broken form. "They did this because of me," Aramis's shoulders rocked with a sudden sob. "This means they know we're coming. What will happen to my sister? Oh, Adelina…"

"We will find her."

"What if they've already…?"

"Stop, Aramis," Athos rasped, draping an arm around his shoulders. "You can't let those thoughts run away with you. We will not only save Adelina, we will avenge Thibault."

"And if one of you dies because of it?" Aramis whispered. He looked up. "Athos, you're still injured yourself. Porthos and D'Artagnan were beaten within an inch of their lives trying to defend me. None of us are exactly fighting fit," he pointed out. Athos cringed.

He'd hoped that with all that was happening, Aramis wouldn't have noticed their weakness. "We've won battles under worse conditions," he tried, hoping that Aramis would not ask for a specific example.

"I was idiotic enough to believe Rochefort, all those years ago. He turned me into a murderer, and I have brought that darkness with me. I have hurt so many already, Lucero and Alejandro, Adelina, Thibault. I am nothing but a scourge…"

"You are our brother."

Aramis bowed his head, bumping his forehead to Athos's shoulder in a rare sign of shame. "I am not strong enough to lose anyone else." He whispered.

Suddenly Porthos was there. "Then we'd best go then," he declared gruffly, though the way he gently carded his fingers through Aramis's hair belied his tone. "We still have a few miles to catch up," he pressed a pistol into Aramis' hand, tapped at the Pauldron on his shoulder. "You think you got darkness in ya? Fine. Then use it to save Adelina. As for us, we've gotta teach those betrayin bastards that they messed with the wrong Musketeers, don't we 'Mis?"

Aramis turned to him as if dazed by the words, eyes wide. Then, as Athos watched, the sunset in them blazed into a fire. His lips curled into a smile that once would have made Athos shiver. Now it just tickled an answering grin from him. "Yes," Aramis breathed, fingers curling around the pistol. "I suppose we do."