Summary: The devastation of Savoy is far-reaching.

A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews!

Another song that instantly started bringing to mind images for The Musketeers.

Also, if I had known just how much I would end up writing for this fandom so quickly, I might have posted some of these longer chapters as separate one shots. But since we're already here…onwards.

"Rescue Me" - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Whatever you do, don't ever play my game
Too many years being the king of pain
Ya gotta lose it all if you wanna take control
Sell yourself to save your soul

Treville stands in confusion before the King as he is ordered to divulge the Musketeer training assignment, including its exact location, to the Duke of Savoy. He can't make sense of the decision. The group of musketeers are near the border but are not making an incursion. They will only be there for a week, and when they are done with the training exercise, they will return as though they had never been there. And the location is remote, little chance they will disturb anyone. If this is merely out of courtesy, the Cardinal is the last one to cater to the Duke of Savoy.

So what could possibly be the purpose in this?

Treville catches himself before he can voice his question. The order comes from the King and so he must obey. But there's a look in Richelieu's eyes and Treville is no stranger to the games the Cardinal plays. It pings in his gut with warning, but what can he do except bow to his King and take his leave?

He wrestles with the order late into the night, trying to divine what hidden angles might be behind it. The Cardinal may be quick to find any method of disposing of the Musketeers he hates so much, but Louis values his royal guard, so it can't be anything as overt as that.

For all his battle strategics, Treville cannot see the game pieces on this particular board. So when morning comes, he sends the missive, though it continues to gnaw at him for days afterward.

And then the message arrives—the group of musketeers on the training assignment have been attacked and killed. It can't be coincidence, not with the unusual order to disclose the troop's location, and Treville can't breathe as his complicity sinks in. He needs to see the King, needs to demand answers. How could Louis sacrifice his own loyal men? It doesn't make sense. And if the Cardinal is behind this atrocious act, then Treville will be there to see that justice is done.

He steps out of his office, only to be cornered by Porthos.

"Is it true?" the larger musketeer demands.

Treville pulls up short and then closes his eyes at the thought of Aramis, one of the first he'd recruited when the regiment was formed. The extent of loss is devastating. "Yes, it's true."

Porthos reels back against the railing and runs a hand down his beard. Behind him, Athos is standing at the top of the stairs, and the laconic man drops his gaze to the wooden planks.

"Ride to Savoy," Treville says before considering protocol. There is but one thought on his mind. "Retrieve the bodies and…bring them home."

Leaving them to it, he goes straight to the palace. He's not denied an audience with the King, and his heart burns with hatred at the sight of Richelieu in attendance as well. It seems as though word has already reached them, and Louis at least looks grieved. Treville knows better than to speak out of turn to His Majesty, so he skewers Richelieu with a scathing glare instead.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demands. "I sent word to the Duke of Savoy of the training assignment, as ordered, and now more than half of my men have been slaughtered in their sleep. Care to explain that coincidence?"

Richelieu holds himself unapologetically as always. "It was a tactical decision."

"Murdering twenty-two good soldiers is not a tactical decision!" Treville explodes.

"Treville, I know you're upset," Louis interjects, holding up a staying hand. "It was…regrettable, but necessary."

Treville just looks at him in astonishment.

"It was done to protect France's most valuable spy in Savoy," Richelieu continues. "The Duchess."

Treville blinks. "The Duchess?" he repeats. The Duchess is spying for France?

"We've discovered that Victor's chancellor, Cluzet, is a Spanish spy and was close to discovering the Duchess," Richelieu explains. "We could not risk her exposure. So we allowed the Duke to believe the training assignment were assassins coming for him. It provided the necessary distraction for us to go in and extract Cluzet."

Treville could only stare in slack-jawed stupor. Twenty-two men sacrificed as…a distraction. And him the instrument of their demise. For the security of France, yes, and Treville is not unaccustomed to losing lives in the line of duty.

This, however, has never felt so dishonorable and heinous in that regard.

Rescue me from the demons in my mind
Rescue me from the lovers in my life
Rescue me from the demons in my mind
Rescue me, rescue me, rescue me
Rescue me

Athos and Porthos ride into the village from which the message of the massacre was sent. A huntsman had stumbled upon the scene and reported it, the one bit of fortune in this massive tragedy, for without him the bodies would have lain in the forest for days before they were overdue and a search party sent out. The nearest village had gathered the bodies to wait for the musketeers to come claim them.

Athos keeps a watchful eye on Porthos, aware of how difficult this is for him. He and Aramis were close. Athos had only recently begun to engage in their company, and so he also feels the loss of the exuberant young man. But Porthos has few friends in the garrison, and Aramis is—was—one of those few who looked past his darker skin and upbringing in the slums.

They go straight to the undertaker, who takes them into a barn where the bodies are being kept, the sheer number more than this small town can handle at once. Athos roves his gaze over the covered lumps piled on top of each other and feels sickened. Porthos is shaking with rage or grief or both, his fingers flexing as though he wants to tear into the sheets and find the one face he doesn't want to see.

"We need to procure a cart," Athos says into the silence.

"What about the survivor?" the undertaker asks.

Athos exchanges a confused look with Porthos. "What survivor?"

"There was jus' the one. Didn' know it when the bodies were first found, an' he was mistaken for dead when we were gatherin' 'em up. Looked as though they'd all been out there a day or two in the snow."

"Who was it?" Porthos demands, though there is no way for the undertaker to know the identities of any of these men.

"Where is he?" Athos asks instead.

"At the doc's house."

"Take us there."

They stride through the street, each step increasing in fervency. There is little chance of it, one in twenty-two odds, and yet Athos's heart begins to hammer in his chest. He can see the unbridled hope in Porthos's eyes and knows that if it's crushed, it will be doubly worse than if he'd uncovered Aramis's face back among the corpses.

But then they are entering a house and Athos feels the breath leave his lungs at the sight of the figure in a small bed. A bandage is wrapped around Aramis's head and he's tucked under a mound of blankets.

Porthos immediately goes to his side and reaches under the blanket to take Aramis's hand, clasping it between both of his and bowing his head as silent sobs of relief shake his frame.

Athos barely hears the undertaker introducing them to the doctor whose home they've just invaded. "What is his condition?" he asks.

"I stitched up a stab wound in his side and a gash on his head. But the cold had nearly taken him and I'm afraid that the head injury has caused too much damage."

"What do you mean?"

The answer is interrupted by Porthos speaking up urgently. "Aramis?"

Athos strides over and sees Aramis's eyes are open, but there is a vacant glaze in them, as though he's looking right through Porthos.

"This is what I mean," the doctor says, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. "The heart may still beat but I fear the soul has left his body."

"You don' know what yer talkin' about," Porthos growls, and Athos puts a hand on his shoulder to temper him. The doctor has saved Aramis's life and deserves gratitude, not hostility.

Porthos clutches the marksman's hand tighter and leans close. "Aramis? Can you 'ear me? Squeeze my hand if you can 'ear me."

Athos can't see any movement, but the way Porthos's jaw ticks reveals that nothing has happened. His heart constricts at the injustice of it all, to find Aramis alive, beyond all hope and what was reported, and yet for him to still be lost to them. He lays a hand on top of Aramis's head. The branch of friendship this man and Porthos had extended to Athos was unlooked for and yet he took to it without much difficulty. For half of it to be ripped away like this…he cannot stand the thought, finds it too close to the memories of other loved ones torn away from him.

Aramis's eyes fall closed but then open again. His gaze focuses, tracking up to meet theirs.

Porthos stiffens. "Aramis?" he calls hopefully, desperately.

Aramis is looking at them, but there is such depths of raw emotion that Athos can feel it transcend the space between them.

"We are here, Aramis," he says, his hand lingering on his friend's brow.

Tears well up, and Aramis closes his eyes again.

Porthos clings to the pale hand. "We've got you. Everythin's gonna be okay."

While Athos knows the words are a vital offer of comfort to both of them, he is not so sure of their validity. To have watched his friends be murdered, to have been lying among the dead for at least a day, succumbing to the cold and his own wounds…there will be scars deeper than the physical ones, and Athos can only hope that the God Aramis is so devoted to will spare his soul and mind along with his life.

Whatever you do, don't ever lose your faith
The devil's quick to love, lust, and pain
Better to say yes than never know,
Sell yourself to save your soul

The news of Aramis's survival is like a punch to the kidney, shocking in its miraculousness and devastating in its reality. Tasked with seeing to the other bodies and the subsequent discovery of Marsac's disappearance, Treville has little time to spare for Aramis personally. He is in good hands with Porthos and Athos though, and they give Treville daily reports of Aramis's condition. Which are not encouraging.

The lethargy and fleeting lucidity for the first few days could be attributed to the head injury, but the wounds have begun to mend and Aramis remains withdrawn. According to his keepers, he barely speaks or eats, and his sleep is plagued with nightmares. Treville feels the guilt like a vise against his rib cage.

"Has the musketeer survivor recovered enough to be questioned?" Richelieu inquires one day, having summoned Treville to his office.

Treville's ire sparks, and only the desk standing between them prevents him from grabbing the man's robes and slamming him against the bookcase. Man of God, his arse; the Cardinal is more akin to the Devil himself.

"He will not be questioned," he answers firmly.

Richelieu glares at him. "All of our hard work could be undone if the musketeer can identify any of the assailants. The story of the Spanish raiding party must hold true."

"He knows nothing!" Treville hisses, slamming his palms on the desk. "And it's going to stay that way. Question him and you will arouse suspicions."

He will not let Richelieu near Aramis, and the Cardinal must see that in his eyes, for he backs off.

Treville straightens. "Tell the Duke of Savoy there were no survivors."

Richelieu scoffs. "Everyone is already aware there was one."

His heart clenches as he says, "The survivor was a deserter. His name is now held in contempt. The name of the musketeer who returned will be stricken from the records."

Richelieu squints at him. "That will put an extra bounty on the deserter's head."

"There already is one." And that, Treville cannot change. But he can protect the last man he has left standing.

The Cardinal's mouth quirks upward. "It seems you can be just as manipulative as me when you set your mind to it."

Treville pivots sharply and storms toward the door. "I am nothing like you."

He finally goes to see his wounded man. Porthos and Athos are in the yard taking a quick supper while they can, and Treville slips into Aramis's room.

He finds Aramis half sprawled on the floor by his bed, head bowed over the mattress. At first Treville thinks the man must have fallen, but then the broken words whispered softly in the near darkness reach his ears.

"Why, Lord? We were soldiers, would have gladly given our lives in service to king and country. Why this senseless loss of life?"

It wasn't senseless, and it was in service of king and country, but Treville can't tell him that.

Aramis presses his clasped hands to his forehead. "Why have you forsaken me?"

Treville had thought to give him privacy but at this he cannot keep his silence. "God has not forsaken you, Aramis."

The marksman flinches slightly and looks up, eyes shining but face dry. "Twenty dead musketeers says otherwise."

Treville has no answer to that. It was not God's hand in this tragedy, but his own.

"Trust your faith, Aramis. God has not abandoned you."

He drops his gaze. "Marsac did."

And Treville cannot blame that other young soldier for his dishonorable desertion, for Treville's actions were the worse betrayal. But Marsac will be remembered as a coward and a traitor and Treville shares his secret with two people who had no qualms with it in the first place.

"But the rest of us did not. Trust us, your fellow musketeers."

"My fellow musketeers are dead," Aramis says in a voice as hollow as his eyes.

From what he's heard, Treville gathers this is the most the wounded man has spoken in over a week.

"Not all of us." And Treville knows he has no right to count himself among them, but he presses on, "Porthos and Athos have hardly left your side since they found you alive."

"Alive? Is that what I am?" Aramis's mouth twists bitterly. "No, Captain, I am but a shade. I should have died with my brothers."

Treville reaches down to grasp his shirt firmly, only remembering his injuries at the last second. "Do not say that, Aramis. Would you deliver such a mortal blow to Porthos with those words?"

Aramis pushes weakly at him, and his lack of strength is apparent as he just ends up slumping against the edge of the bed. "I can't stop seeing them," he says, voice breaking. "Please, Captain, just make it so I stop seeing them."

Treville sinks to his knees and Aramis folds forward against him. Tremors wrack his frame though he makes no sound, and Treville pulls him closer. His heart shatters at the ruinous ramifications of what's he done. He wants to leave, to hide, but he won't. Because Aramis's recovery is now his only means of salvation. He'd done his duty, which he will not disavow, but his soul will carry the burden of it for the rest of his days, just as Aramis's will.

Rescue me from the demons in my mind
Rescue me from the lovers in my life
Rescue me from the demons in my mind
Rescue me, rescue me, rescue me
Rescue me

Porthos sits in the dark, back against the wall, and listens. He's become attuned now, ear as sharp as a hunting dog's. So when the muffled sounds of distress come through the wall, Porthos gets up and leaves his room to slip into the one next door.

He goes to the table first and lights a candle, then moves to the bed where Aramis is tossing back and forth and mumbling pleas under harried breaths. Porthos removes his boots and climbs onto the bed, scooting up against the wall and then taking Aramis and pulling him up against his chest in the gentlest embrace he can manage.

"I'm right 'ere, brother," he murmurs in Aramis's ear. "Yer not alone."

Aramis lets out a half strangled sob as he comes awake, his thrashing ceasing. But his body continues to shudder and Porthos holds more firmly until the breathing eases. Aramis turns his head to press his face into Porthos's shoulder.

Neither of them speak. It isn't about words anyway. It's about heartbeats and warmth and waking up to the living instead of the dead.

Porthos and Athos take turns doing this, waiting up outside Aramis's room for when the night terrors come. But despite their vigilance, those demons seem to follow him even into his waking hours, and Porthos, who is used to throwing a fist at anything he determines a threat, is at a loss on how to battle them. Once again, Aramis is left alone to fight a faceless enemy, and it tears Porthos up inside.

The physical wounds heal and Aramis returns to light duty. Porthos and Athos try to coax him into training but he refuses, preferring to sit in the armory cleaning and polishing weapons. They're tasks he can do without focus, giving his mind space to wander as it has been wont to do ever since his return.

Porthos remembers the village doctor's words about the head injury and they make him growl in frustration. Aramis's soul isn't lost; it's in there somewhere. If only Porthos knew how to find it. But Aramis hasn't exactly been an active participant in the recovery.

It is not as though he has tried to push them away, but nor has he held fast to them, save in the tormented throes in the dark of night when the nightmares come. Otherwise he hardly makes an effort. He's a shell of the vigorous and jaunty man he used to be and it pains Porthos. He misses his friend.

"I don' know how to help 'im," he confesses to Athos one night at the tavern as they watch Aramis across the room flirt with the barmaid.

He's been doing that a lot lately—flirting with anything in a skirt. But it's different now; there's a hunger in his eyes and none of his rakish qualities that make Aramis's pursuit of women one born of admiration and infatuation.

"Neither does he," Athos replies quietly.

Aramis kisses the barmaid for several long, impassioned beats, and when it looks as though those two might forget they're not in a private room, Porthos gets up and goes over to pry them off each other. Aramis, surprisingly, doesn't even protest, though the woman does with a squeak. Porthos tells her that's enough service for tonight and reaches down to pull Aramis to his feet. The marksman still doesn't say anything and allows himself to be escorted back to the garrison.

Porthos waits for the expected nightmare, but the sounds don't come. He wonders if they've finally reached a turning point from which things can only improve, and he lays down to catch a few hours of sleep with that hopeful thought on his mind.

The next morning, however, when he and Athos go to retrieve Aramis for breakfast, they pull up short in his room and stare dumbfounded. Aramis must have taken a set of shears to his hair in the night, cutting off a good chunk of it. The discarded locks lay on the floor around the chair.

"What in the blazes is that about?" Porthos blurts.

Aramis merely shrugs and puts on his hat. "I needed a change."

"It is a…new look," Athos says mildly, though his gaze is as scrutinizing as ever. "Interesting approach, doing it yourself."

There's a prompt there, but Aramis doesn't take the bait.

He gets several double takes down in the yard and the captain is the one who stares the longest. Porthos and Athos take him to a barber after that to clean it up. Again, Aramis doesn't argue, as though he wouldn't have cared either way. To Porthos, that's even worse. Aramis is not so much vain as he is proud of his looks, and to hold his appearance in such callous disregard frightens Porthos.

He can't help but feel as though his friend is crying out for help. But he doesn't know how to save him. Aramis is drowning right in front of him.

And by association, so is Porthos.

Sell yourself to save your soul, you gotta, ooh
Sell yourself to save your soul, you gotta, ooh
Sell yourself to save your soul, you gotta, ooh
Sell yourself to save your soul

Treville stands on the balcony and watches his three best men in the yard as they train. It's been two months and Aramis is practically wasting away before their eyes. Not in body or skill; his strength has recovered and he spars with an intensity bordering on cold ferocity. But his spirit is deadened.

Treville sees it clearly, knows Athos and Porthos do too, given the careful way they move in and around the marksman, ever loyal but at a loss to do anything other than just be there. And keep him away from the new recruits.

Treville doesn't know how to help either. He is the source of this tragedy if not the author, and he can't see how to rewrite the ending. All he can do every night is pray for twenty dead souls and one lost one still wandering around in the darkness.

Rescue me from the demons in my mind
Rescue me from the lovers in my life
Rescue me from the demons in my mind
Rescue me, rescue me, rescue me
Rescue me

Aramis sits in his room and contemplates what his existence has become. He can't call it living, for he doesn't feel alive. He draws breath, he walks, he talks—when needed—but there is no joy, no love, no desire.

If it was just himself, perhaps he could find the wherewithal to press on, to at least throw himself into battle in the hopes of meeting an honorable end. But that is the rub—his presence among the musketeers is a perpetual reminder of what was lost. He is a grim reaper sent to haunt his brothers' every waking steps. He can't stand it.

The door creaks open and Athos and Porthos enter, coming to collect him as usual. Aramis doesn't acknowledge them, but he can feel the way they pause and take in the sight of him sitting in the chair, hands folded across his knees, staring fixedly at his pauldron on the table.

"Did it bite ya?" Porthos finally asks.

Aramis knows once upon a time—before Savoy—he would have laughed and jested in return. He doesn't have it in him anymore. He doesn't have anything inside him save a cold abyss. He'd tried filling it with female companionship but it hasn't worked. He dare not touch wine the way Athos does. There is nothing left for him. There is nothing left of him.

"Aramis…" Athos starts.

"I need to leave," he interrupts.

"You want ta get out of the garrison?" Porthos asks. "We can ask Treville to give us patrol duty in the market."

Aramis shakes his head, reaches up to clutch at his tousled hair, and digs his fingernails into his scalp, prickling an echo of pain from the scar that now sits beneath his dark curls. "No, I mean…I need to leave the Musketeers."

The words are surprisingly painful to speak aloud. This has been his home for the past few years and to leave would tear out part of his soul. But that's the problem there—his soul is already sundered.

"You can't mean that," Porthos exclaims.

"I can't stay here."

"Why not? This 'ere is your home. We're your friends. Don' that matter?"

Aramis shakes his head. Of course it matters, but…

"I cannot stand the whispers," he blurts. "The stares that nobody thinks I notice, but I do."

"Everyone is concerned about you," Athos responds.

"I do not want their pity," he snaps. "I do not want to see their grief mirroring my own. I am a walking grave marker, a reminder of everything we have lost! And I cannot live with that burden."

Athos swiftly crosses the room and kneels before him so they are eye to eye. "You are not a reminder of what was lost, Aramis. You are a reminder of what was saved."

"Not one person 'ere would rather you have died in that place," Porthos picks up. "We thought you all dead. To have jus' one of you back…don' make us lose you again."

Aramis drops his head. "I don't know how to do this," he confesses, voice breaking.

"I know," Athos says. "But you will not do it alone. Porthos and I are here, and we will not abandon you."

Hot moisture pricks at the corners of his eyes and a spiky lump settles in his throat. He knows if he leaves the demons will follow, only he won't have Athos and Porthos by his side to help stem the tide of the horrors that haunt him. He won't have them to pick him up when he falters, and he cannot do it on his own. They are his saviors, his brothers.

So Aramis closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. He will trust and lean on them. For they have held him up this long.

Indeed, they had saved him, in more ways than one. They always would.