"We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men-living and dead- who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract."

-Abraham Lincoln "The Gettysburg Address"

Aramis couldn't breathe.

Normally, he wouldn't have noticed. He had been a soldier for nearly half his life, after all, traveling often and widely, seeing wonders and horrors usually hidden from public view. This, he recalled, was not the first nor the last time he had ever found himself at a loss for air.

When in the embrace of a spirited or lovely woman for instance, he found that his lungs would suddenly malfunction. In the adrenaline-fueled rush of battle, it was as if breathing were elusive knowledge, far beyond him. More often, when encountered with the undying fidelity or decency of his brothers, Aramis suddenly felt as if his very heart were being constricted.

Not that he would ever tell them that.

Aramis had felt that… That eternal kinship with Marsac once. Hell, in the beginning that bond had been the only thing spewing from their mouths. They would stand on street corners and regale recruits and strangers about how the Musketeer Garrison would one day embody the French creed.

Fraternity, equality, liberty.

But when they needed me, I could only lay there and watch. Waiting for a reprieve I didn't deserve.

"Better to die a Musketeer…" He cringed as his friend's final breaths resonated within him. Marsac. One of his oldest friends, a man whom he had once called brother. He was lying in the ground now, cold and frozen like the other twenty Musketeers. Gone.

Better to die a Musketeer. Aramis gulped as he stared a moment down at the sword he had stuck into the hard ground. He should get back to the Garrison, but suddenly he was exhausted, and what was more, he felt as if his soul were empty. Just… Bare. Hollow.

The pain of first seeing and then seeking the truth alongside his old friend had scourged him clean.

Aramis knew he should leave, but he could not bring himself to move. He couldn't even tear his eyes from the grave. Where would he go anyway? Not to the Garrison. Not to any tavern or his mistresses in Paris. They would not be able to help him. Aramis gently rubbed his forehead as a desperate pounding began behind his temple. A sob built in his chest. He choked it back down.

When he was a child, and sadness would envelop him, he would hide in his father's wine vineyards. Curled in the underbrush of tangled grapes he would inhale sharply and pray in his mother's language. As he matured, the shooting range would become his sanctuary. Yet neither of those places- he was sure he could find an equivalent if he dared- were what he needed. Aramis sighed. He was a man broken in too many places for human company. His soul was meant for God's hands now.

Have mercy on me, he prayed as he turned on his heel and stalked into the wet and cold toward hallowed ground.

Treveille's eyes racked them both up and down, noting the perfect stillness of their military stance, honed from years of being at attention and eyes intelligent and wary from battle. These were experienced soldiers. Their commander had told him they were good men. He would be the judge.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Marsac, sir. This is my friend, Aramis." Friend. These men were not new to each other then.

"And what makes you think you are worthy to be the King's personal guards?" Musketeers. That was the name he would give to his new regiment. Treveille had been traveling all of France for weeks now, and had only managed to find eight men. The smile that Marsac gave in reply was infectious, but Treveille managed to keep a straight face. His friend, on the other hand, smiled easily. His eyes sparkled.

"Why, Aramis here is the best shot in all France, sir. No lie," Treveille cocked a brow.

"There are a great many marksmen in France, soldier," he informed him dryly. Marsac nodded confidently.

"And Aramis could out-do them all"

"There is not a better scout in the world than Marsac, sir," Aramis broke in, just as loyally. "He's so good at sneaking about and ambush that the lieutenant asks after his advice when planning his attack strategies," and now he was impressed.

"We make a good team sir," Marsac said. "I sneak up on the enemy and startle them so bad they panic, and then Aramis picks them off from the bushes," he said. Treveille looked at Aramis.

"Can you handle a sword?" Aramis nodded, grinning.

"As well as any soldier. My specialty is the rifle, but…" he shrugged. "I have to keep up with Marsac somehow."

Marsac snorted, and some of their experience faded, leaving behind the beginnings of… Something. Something Treveille had not seen nor thought to look for in the others. Brotherhood. "He's being modest. I often find he's taken out half my opposition before I can so much as pull out my dagger."

"Ooh, what a story. Didn't you tell it to that maiden in Lyon last week?"

"I was thinking of Rochelle, month before."

"Marsac, you traitor! I told you to wait for me in Rochelle!"

"One thing Aramis isn't particularly good at is having realistic expectations, sir," Marsac snickered to Treveille, conspiratorially. Aramis opened his mouth but before he could continue with the bickering, Treveille cleared his throat.

"Gentleman," while he did appreciate humor, what these two had bordered on the edge of unprofessionalism. Or perhaps friendship, true and unfettered.

Treveille was intrigued. "Let's see if your words are true or not." The answering smiles he received were enough to make him believe that perhaps, his Musketeers could be more than just a regiment devoted to King and Country after all. It could be a true symbol for all that France stood for. Equality, liberty, fraternity.

One for all. And all for one.

Treveille sighed as he stared down at what had become of his unprecedented idea and a moment of the King's undivided attention. Two ingredients that, years later, he knew were a miracle in and of themselves. That was what his Musketeers were. A miracle.

And he had thrown away twenty miracles for the sake of one French spy. Leaving two- now one- survivor.

The Garrison bustled beneath him. Marsac's assassination attempt had not gone unnoticed, and Aramis's evident grief for his friend had also not been ignored. By now the rumors would have started. Wild speculations about Aramis's relationship with the deserter, Treveille's involvement with his sudden reappearance…

Quelling wagging tongues was not an extra chore he needed or wanted. Treveille sighed, reaching up to massage his temples, where a migraine was beginning to throb. I will not worry about this now, he decided. He trusted that Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan would handle those rumors with expedience.

Or else he would, with mercilessness.

There was not a soldier stronger than Aramis, and Treveille had caused him enough pain for a lifetime. The least he owed him was a barricade against embarrassment. Speaking of which, he thought as suddenly three horses ambled into the Garrison, their riders looking worn but motivated. Treveille sighed. His day had not begun easy and it did not appear as if it would end that way either.

It was only a matter of time until… Yes, yes it looked like it was happening now. Gerald was speaking to a dismounted Athos, his gestures wild as he indicated the storage room where Marsac's blood was being scrubbed from the floors by recruits eager to please. Athos's brows scrunched in obvious worry as the story progressed, Porthos and D'Artagnan wandering over after a moment.

Treveille turned away from his window and closed his eyes. He did not want to witness the abject horror when they discovered what had happened to Marsac. Neither did he want the recrimination when they found out that he had helped Aramis bury him, and then just left him standing there in the cold.

Yet how do I explain it? He despaired. How do I tell them that every moment I see Aramis, he reminds me of the sacrifice I was forced to make? The terrible things I have done? How do I tell them that my soul aches when I stare into his eyes because of how dearly I have failed him- you all?

As if his thoughts had been a summons, he suddenly heard the pound of footsteps as the three of them raced up the stairs to his office. Treveille let a small smile grace his features when Athos (certainly, he was the one insistent upon etiquette) rapped upon his door. Bracing himself, he turned to the window again. "Come."

They piled in without hesitation. "Captain," Athos greeted. Without looking, Treveille knew that his eyes were studying the back of his body like a hawk, searching for any signs that he was injured. Porthos and D'Artagnan would be doing the same, no doubt.

At length, D'Artagnan cleared his throat pointedly. "Captain? We heard there was a…" he glanced between Athos and Porthos. "Commotion. Are you alright?" Treveille would have snorted had he the energy.

"I am fine, D'Artagnan, it isn't me you should worry about," he heard Porthos inhale a sharp breath. "First," he said firmly as the big man opened his mouth to inquire. "The mission. How did it go?" He looked to Athos, silently imploring him to understand. Thankfully, Athos did. With the same objective, clipped tones as always, he summarized their findings and outcome. Treveille listened intently until he was done before nodding.

"Well, good to know I was not the only one busy today," he harrumphed, gingerly taking a seat in his desk chair.

"Now," Porthos said firmly. "What's this about an assassination? And where's Aramis?" He asked. Treveille folded his hands atop the desk and regarded them all solemnly, weighing his options. When he had analyzed each choice- and the possible disaster it could induce- he eventually settled on the unpopular preference for many leaders, the right choice.

"You may want to take a seat," he informed them tiredly. "And close the door. What I am about to tell you does not go beyond this room-ever. The only reason I am telling it to you is because," he gave a reluctant half-shrug. "If you three are in any way going to help your brother, you must know the truth," and now they all looked terrified.

"Captain?" When he saw he would get no immediate response, Athos hastened to close the door. Porthos swiveled one chair around, straddling it. His stare was attentive, pleading. Athos leaned against the back wall, arms crossed and face expressionless. D'Artagnan took a seat on the other chair, clasping his hands in his lap attentively.

"Tell us this first- is Aramis alright?" Porthos demanded.

Treveille hesitated. Define alright. "Aramis is alive and well. Physically, at any rate," the relief on their faces (or in Athos's case in his eyes) made Treveille feel all the worse for what he was about to tell them. "But mentally…" He sighed. He was doing this for Aramis, because he owed that man this and so much more. "Five years ago, I was given orders to reveal the location of Musketeers in Savoy. I had sent them there…"

An hour later, his story was done, and for the first time in over five years, his soul felt scoured clean. As if his punishment for the death of those innocent men had finally been absolved from his mind and heart. Treveille inhaled a deep breath, freed.

And met three horrified sets of eyes.

"You…" Porthos voice trembled with ire. "You sent Musketeers out to slaughter?!" And just as he assumed, his involvement in the Savoy Massacre was a threat against one of their own. Treveille hoped Porthos wouldn't want to give him a slow death.

"I did not send them with that intention," he corrected dryly. Porthos didn't look convinced. "Dammit, Porthos, you know I would never do such a thing! I care about those under my command too much," he said, a bit hurt that their loyalty in him had been so easily shaken.

"But you care about France more," Athos pointed out. He stared hard at the ground before him, as if reliving the same deep unsettlement that forced him to the tavern night after night. "Your duty is to uphold the law, follow your orders. In order to do that, you had to make the call for Savoy. Even knowing what it could possibly mean," Treveille nodded slowly, taken aback by Athos's soft understanding. D'Artagnan and Porthos both blinked at their friend, sympathy in their eyes.

"Tell that to Aramis now, aye?" Porthos said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, returning to Treveille. "You couldn't have told him earlier, at least? Spared him all this when Marsac came knockin? Didn't you think he at least deserved to know?" Of course he had. Treveille had fretted over it so often that finally he had just come to accept that he was going to Hell for what he had done.

But Aramis's easy forgiveness had also freed him from his demons. "You must understand… I was ordered never to tell anyone. I could be arrested and executed even for telling you, and not only that… Should the duke ever learn that Aramis survived the attack, he would demand his head on a platter. And Louis would oblige if only to keep his sister safe," that made Porthos pale. Athos's shoulders rose and dropped slowly, as if he were trying to release a sudden bout of tension in his chest.

"Isn't this just spectacular?" Porthos grumbled, collapsing into his chair heavily. "Not only is he the sole survivor, but he has to live knowing he killed the man who saved him?" Porthos shook his head, running a trembling hand through thick black curls. "As if he didn't have enough undeserved demons," he lamented.

Treveille sighed and pushed himself back from his chair, standing. "Aramis was one of my original ten, Porthos," he reminded the other man, sadly. "I would wish no more pain upon him than you would. But… He has already buried Marsac. Already buried any ill-will," Treveille told them. "He forgave me," it made his heart contract with admiration and gratitude.

He had expected to be scorned and hated after this confession- especially were he to tell Aramis. He would not have been surprised, and perhaps that is why he fought so hard to keep the truth a secret. Facing justice was different when the man you had wronged was someone whose respect and loyalty you cherished.

Porthos let out a half laugh, half snort. "That's our Mis," he agreed, with a reluctant smile at Athos, who nodded with a faint quirk of the mouth.

"And he may have forgiven you, captain, but that doesn't mean he's forgiven himself," the swordsman added.

"Surely he must know he's done nothing wrong," D'Artagnan cried, astounded. "He did the admirable thing! He saved the captain!"

Porthos met D'Artagnan's young eyes, sorrowfully. "In his mind, he won't see it that way. He'll see it as murdering a brother and not only that, but the man who saved his life, the most despicable of sins. Do you know how long it's going to take us to convince him to pick up a pistol again? To trust us?" The last question made Treveille inhale sharply in confusion. The mere idea of these men not trusting one another was ludicrous to him.

"Why in the world would he doubt your loyalty?" he demanded.

Athos, D'Artagnan and Porthos all cringed. "We may have… Taken your side a bit," D'Artagnan explained sheepishly. "When Marsac came crying foul play. Hell, had this investigation gone a bit longer, we were thinking of just turning Marsac in against Aramis's wishes," Porthos and Athos stared at D'Artagnan with raised brows and amazed expressions.

"We never said that aloud."

D'Artagnan shrugged uncomfortably. "What? I know you two were thinking it too! No one liked Marsac- and we all thought Aramis wasn't in his right mind." Now Treveille understood, and he cringed from the guilt he felt growing in his heart again. If he had somehow inadvertently caused a rift in between these four, the closest four he had ever seen… It would be a worse sin than Savoy itself.

"We weren't wrong, per se," Athos pointed out, though he shifted feet as if restless to leave. "Marsac was using Aramis's guilt and compassion against him, and we all knew it."

"Doesn't matter," Porthos grunted simply. "We're brothers. Should have trusted him, helped him through it instead of turning away when he started spouting stuff we didn't like. After all, how many times has he bent the rules for us?"

Treveille wanted to know that too, but he dared not ask. Not when the three of them looked like kicked puppies and he was the root of their despair. He shook his head free of those thoughts. "Well, what are you moping around for?" he snapped. "You say you are brothers. Go find him. I'm sure he could benefit from hearing all this himself. You've two days before I assign you to another mission. Until then the regiment will have to do without," he nodded, softening his tone. "Bring him home, and remember, for Aramis's sake as much as your own, this never happened."

"No," Athos spoke out, finally looking Treveille in his face. Treveille had to consciously stop himself from looking away from such dangerous eyes. "Savoy happened, Captain. For as long as Aramis will remember, so shall we." his eyes blazed. "I trust it won't happen again." He didn't phrase it as a question. Treveille smiled sadly.

"You know I cannot promise you that."

"Then we'll promise each other," D'Artagnan stated boldly, standing. "After all, I know from personal experience that there's something to be gained from pain. One for all, right?" Treveille cocked a brow. Athos and Porthos grinned.

"You're learning, sprout," Porthos chuckled, ruffling the younger man's hair fondly. "You're learning."