A/N: Thank you SnidgetHex, shewriteswords, and BrokenKestral for reviewing!

No 9. For the Greater Good — Aramis

The mood is as somber as the gray winter thickets the troop of Musketeers pass through on their way into Savoy. Snow crunches under the wheel of the empty cart trailing behind them. A cart that will be full on the return journey.

No one says a word, leaving the voices in Treville's head to sound all the louder as he goes over and over it in his mind. Twenty-two musketeers, dead. He hadn't meant for this to happen—and the knowledge of the role he'd played in setting his own men up for disaster sickens his stomach.

Treville stormed into Richelieu's office with such force that the doors banged against the wall. The Cardinal looked up from his desk and merely arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, Captain Treville, what is it?" he asked blandly.

It was fortunate the Cardinal was alone, lest Treville's display cause a stir of gossip throughout the palace.

"Cluzet has been interred in the Chatelet, but I just received word that the Musketeer troop in Savoy have been slaughtered! Every last one of them!"

Richelieu appeared unfazed—and unsurprised. "Victor was…thorough."

Treville's blood ran cold. "The King ordered me to inform the Duke of the musketeers' location…" He almost couldn't believe it. "That was your distraction?" He'd known one was needed to grab Cluzet, but he'd never imagined… Twenty-two dead musketeers…

Richelieu's mouth twitched as though he were trying to suppress a smug smirk. "The Duke may have been led to believe those musketeers were in Savoy to assassinate him. As anticipated, he chose to handle the matter personally, leaving his home and chancellor unguarded."

Treville saw red and he seized Richelieu by the front of his robes. "You sacrificed twenty-two good men for a distraction!"

"It was for the greater good of France!" he snapped back. "I don't need to tell you that sometimes sacrifice is required."

Treville couldn't breathe, couldn't form words. Twenty-two dead…

Richelieu shoved him off and tugged his robes down. "They died in the service of their King and country," he said unapologetically and turned away.

Treville shook his head. No, they didn't…

His horse pulls up short and shifts anxiously. The forest is whitewashed and still, almost tranquil. Until a guttural caw breaks the silence and Treville's vision tilts. Through the trees are frost-covered mounds sprawled along the ground with rust-colored slush beneath them. Crows hop over the lumps and peck at them.

Porthos breaks from the line and charges into the clearing, shouting and waving his arms to chase the carrion birds away. They scatter in a rush of disgruntled squawks and black feathers.

Treville dismounts and steps forward, eyes raking over the trampled campsite, the torn tents…the bodies in stained white shirts. These men had been taken unawares, in the middle of the night. Cut down before many of them had a chance to even draw their weapons in defense. This is not dying in service. This is a massacre.

The men he brought with him stand frozen before the carnage, overcome with grief and horror. Treville gestures at them, breaking the stupor, and signals for them to get to work.

They spread out mutely and begin to call out the names of the fallen as they are lifted from the snow and carried to the back of the cart. Treville's heart cracks with each one. He was following orders. He didn't mean for this to happen…

"Captain!" someone shouts urgently.

Treville can't imagine what would be so pressing out here now, but he makes his way across the campsite to where Alain is kneeling over another body. The face is turned into the snow and a blood-stained bandage wrapped around the head obscures his features.

Alain looks up with wide eyes. "He's alive."

Treville's breath stops in his throat. Alive? He drops down on the ground, snow instantly seeping into the knee of his trousers, and reaches out to roll the wounded soldier over. His heart seizes.

Aramis.

He's pale, nearly blue, and Treville yanks his glove off to check for himself, because there's no way Aramis could still be alive, not after two days lying in the snow. But he is; there's a slow, faint throb beneath Treville's fingers. Aramis is alive…but might not be for much longer.

"Get a fire going!" he orders. "We need blankets!"

There's a flurry of activity now that they know one of their own still lives. Athos starts a fire in some burnt out remains of a previous one. Porthos brings over an armful of saddle blankets taken from the horses and crouches down across from Treville, his eyes swimming with tentative hope as he looks on Aramis. Treville has no words of comfort for him, only more sharp orders barked out harshly as they wrap Aramis in the blankets and move him next to the fire.

"Did you find anyone else?" Treville asks, voice hitching slightly.

Athos shakes his head. "The others are dead. But…"

"But what?"

Athos holds out a pauldron. "We didn't find Marsac."

Treville furrows his brow. If Marsac isn't here then where is he? Realization sinks like a stone in Treville's gut. Someone stopped in a village on the French side of the border and reported the massacre. Someone else sent word to the garrison in Paris.

…Someone bandaged Aramis's head.

And then left him behind.

Treville gives a clipped nod. He'll worry about Marsac later.

Porthos has pulled Aramis into his arms in an effort to share body heat. The marksman doesn't rouse at any of it. Treville shifts closer and picks at the bandage to get a look at the wound underneath, but the cloth is either glued or frozen to it, so he leaves it alone. There will be time to tend the wounds once Aramis isn't on the brink of death's door.

Alain heats some water over the fire and brings it over. With careful patience, he dribbles the liquid into Aramis's mouth bit by bit. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but Aramis starts to moan, a sign of life that fills everyone with renewed hope and fervency. Alain coaxes more water into him, though he doesn't fully regain consciousness. A dark part of Treville wonders if he ever will.

"Who did this?" Porthos growls. "Captain, tell me we're going to hunt them down for this."

A spiky lump gathers in Treville's throat. Staunch gazes all turn to him for leadership, and he nearly buckles under the shame. There are two witnesses: one who may yet not survive, the other a deserter. Twenty souls lost. Two lives irreparably shattered.

For the greater good, he keeps telling himself. For the greater good…