Nothing Athos' brothers tried to say to relieve his feelings of guilt seemed to abate his guilty conscience.

I did this, was always his silent refrain. Hurting someone I love more than my own life was their revenge.

I deserved to have been the one who was tortured. Who could have been killed (murdered, he amended in his mind). Who might Still...NO! He cannot die.

He shuddered at the very thought. He cannot die for what I did. Regardless of whether it was felt that I unjustly killed Beaufort's brother or not, if he wanted revenge, it should have been on me. Not Aramis. Never Aramis.

Aramis' body shifted slightly in his sleep, eliciting a soft moan from the marksman.

Athos' hand immediately reached out to run his fingers through his brother's hair in a soothing motion, something he knew comforted his brother.

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Aramis gradually began to recover, although the pain he was still in was evident to all of them.

As was usual with their beloved brother, pain or not, once he began to recover, he wanted to do too much way too soon.

After they found him, when they were all out of the infirmary for a short while, on his feet although swaying badly, they decided to resume dividing up the time between the three of them staying by his side.

And Aramis, being Aramis, noticed very quickly and called them on it.

"I do not need a nanny," he told them. "I am recurating."

Athos, as usual, spoke for all of them when he replied, "Aramis, we realize that you are gradually getting well, for which we are exceedingly grateful. But..."holding Aramis' gaze steadily with his own, "getting well and being recovered are not at all the same thing."

"But..." Aramis began.

"We desire you to have a complete recovery and minus the pain we can still see in you, despite your attempting to hide it from us. We also do not want your stitches to break from falling when you try to get up and unsteadily walk on your own...and unassisted. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Aramis, at this point, was starting to wonder if his brother would always have the uncomfortable ability to make him feel like a recalcitrant child. He hung his head, though, realizing that his words were indeed true. He was uncomfortably aware that Athos' words were the truth-he just never seemed to be able to stay abed when sick or injured.

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Aramis, to his credit, worked hard on being a model patient from then onwards, despite rebelling sometimes inwardly. It helped him, too, seeing how happy this made his brothers.

But he still saw a sad and guilty expression on Athos' face sometimes, and he noticed it only appeared when he thought the marksman wouldn't see it.

He resolved to have a talk with his brother when a good opportunity arose.

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Aramis' opportunity came a week later.

He had been making progress in his recovery, so Treville had finally broken down and let him clean the pistols and muskets in the armoury, after Aramis had insistently kept asking him if he could do so.

He was happily working away, and even whistling softly, when Athos came into the armoury looking for a pistol he had misplaced.

Frowning as he spied Aramis sitting towards the back of the room, he said, "What are you doing in here, Aramis?"

"Cleaning the pistols," Aramis retorted, as if Athos couldn't already see that before he had asked the question.

"Aramis," Athos spoke in a stern, uncompromising tone of voice to Aramis' lighthearted response.

"You can ask the Captain, if you do not believe me. He gave me permission, Athos," Aramis quietly said. "I would not be here if he had not. You know that, mon ami," a faint undercurrent of hurt running through his words now that his brother was questioning him.

"I also know how you can maneuver someone when you really wish to do something," Athos answered, an eyebrow cocked as he spoke.

Aramis very slowly and carefully laid the pistol and the rag he had been to clean it down on the floor beneath him, before rising to his feet.

"Athos", he softly spoke, "we need to talk."

Athos' eyebrow rose higher, but he said nothing.

There was a long silence before Aramis again began to speak.

"Athos," he began, "I am almost healed now."

"Almost," Athos immediately honed in on the descriptive word.

"I am sitting down, not moving around much at all. I can clean and polish pistols in my sleep. You know that."

"Aramis, you were nearly tortured to death. Of course, I am concerned if I feel you are doing something that could set you back. It is my f..."

Aramis had known the words would come, had anticipated them.

Very slowly he enunciated his words. " . not. your. fault, Athos. It has never been your fault."

"But..."

"The men who held us captive was badly deranged, mon ami. He saw something that no one in their right mind would consider the same way. You assisted a young woman who, without your intervention, would in all likelihood have been raped that night."

"I know that. But for Beaufort to take his revenge out on you..."

"Did you suggest that he do that?"

The question shocked Athos, who stared at Aramis as if he couldn't believe he had asked such a question.

"How can you ask me such a thing?"

"Because of your feelings of guilt, Athos. You are behaving as if you had a hand in it."

"I would never..."

Of course you wouldn't, mon ami. The man wanted you to feel guilt. He manipulated what happened, wanting you to feel you were to blame for the rest of your life. That was the object of his revenge."

Athos had been listening intently. The look in his eyes now as he stared at Aramis told the marksman that his words had finally struck a chord in his brother.

"You love me, Athos, as you also love Porthos and d'Artagnan. And we love you. We only wish the best for each other. Others see this, and try to use it against us. Beaufort did the same. It was a sick thing he did, but it came from a twisted mind. Don't let him win. He was not half the man I know you to be. You are guilty of nothing-absolutely nothing."

Then he ceased speaking, letting his words sink in.

When Athos again raised his face to look into his eyes, Aramis could see that the guilt that had haunted him was finally not reflecting in those eyes.

Athos walked slowly forward, then slung his arm around Aramis' shoulder.

"Let us go find Porthos and d'Artagnan, and head for the Wren. I hear they are serving that chicken stew you love so much."

Aramis' arm reached around Athos' shoulder, as well, as they headed out the door smiling.

Fin.

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I will have a new chapter either next week or the week after. Thanks so much for reading!