One For All Chapter 33: Brother, a musketeers fanfic

Summary: They are brothers in all but blood.

A/N: Thank you Laureleaf and Jmp for your reviews! And thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed this collection. 300 reviews! You all make my day. ^_^

"Brother" - NEEDTOBREATHE

Ramblers in the wilderness we can't find what we need
We get a little restless from the searching
Get a little worn down in between
Like a bull chasing the matador is the man left to his own schemes
Everybody needs someone beside em' shining like a lighthouse from the sea

Three sets of harried boots trampled through the underbrush, unconcerned about stealth in their haste to catch up with their quarry. The harbor was only half a day's ride from here, lending urgency to their mission. Porthos had been taken the night before, abducted from a tavern he had been playing cards in. Aramis and the others hadn't realized it until the following morning, and they'd been horrified to learn that the group Porthos had been playing with were rumored to be slavers. With the Bonnaire incident still fresh in their minds, Aramis could only imagine the horror their friend was facing if they didn't reach him in time.

But the trail was proving elusive, disappearing for stretches before a broken branch or clear print could be found. The amount of time spent searching for signs to pick it up again only slowed them down further and aggravated Aramis's already frayed nerves. They could not fail.

He stopped as something metallic glinted on the ground and bent down to pick it up. It was a stud from Porthos's coat. The dirt here was disturbed and the foliage thrashed. There had been a struggle. Aramis's gaze tracked along the scene to the drag marks that followed. He clenched his fist around the stud.

"Here," he called.

Athos and d'Artagnan moved to stand behind him and look over his shoulder.

"We have to be getting closer," d'Artagnan said.

Neither Aramis nor Athos responded to that, as it was more hope than fact at this point. But Aramis believed in faith.

And he was rewarded for it when, half an hour later, they came upon what looked like the slavers' base camp. They crouched behind the cover of some shrubbery and surveyed the situation. Two men were sitting on some logs around a stump playing cards. Three tents were pitched, two of which had more men coming and going. The third was left alone.

"That one," Aramis indicated.

"D'Artagnan and I will attack from the front," Athos said. "You get Porthos."

He nodded and drew his main gauche, then slipped away to come around from behind. Aramis kept low, stepping as lightly as possible as he made his way up to the rear of the tent. He waited for the sounds of pistol shots cracking the air before cutting a slit in the canvas and ducking inside. The tent was empty save for one hulking figure tied to the central support post.

"Porthos," Aramis whispered, hurrying over to get a look at his friend's condition.

Porthos stiffened and craned his neck. His face was a mottle of bruises and dried blood that incensed Aramis, but a quick survey didn't reveal any serious wounds. Of course, the slavers wouldn't want to too badly damage their cargo.

"Was beginnin' to worry you wouldn't get here in time," Porthos confessed as Aramis knelt and cut through the ropes around his wrists. Outside, the clang of steel covered their voices.

Aramis flashed him a grin. "Did you think we wouldn't tear up the countryside to find you?"

Porthos grunted as he was freed. Aramis caught a glimpse of abraded wrists but nothing that had cut deep.

He passed his dagger to Porthos and drew his rapier. "Let's see if Athos and d'Artagnan left you any pieces."

The glower that entered Porthos's eyes was feral, and the two of them charged out of the tent into the tail end of the skirmish, fighting side by side as they dispatched the remaining slavers who had dared to take a musketeer.

When it was over, Porthos stood over the last body, shoulders heaving with exertion and probably exhaustion. The others moved in to circle him.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked.

It took a moment for Porthos to get himself under control but he finally nodded. "Thanks," he said gruffly.

Aramis clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. You, my friend, need some patching up."

In both body and spirit, Aramis was sure. The physical hurts he could doctor, and the rest…well, brotherhood mended many wounds.

Brother, let me be your shelter
Never leave you all alone
I can be the one you call
When you're low
Brother, let me be your fortress
When the night winds are driving on
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home

Porthos stood under the balcony beneath Treville's office, out of the droning rain that had turned the courtyard to mud. Athos and d'Artagnan were spaced out behind him in mirrored postures of arms crossed, leaning against the wood support posts. The garrison was quiet in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. Just at the end of the barracks, men were in the armory washing out the blood on the floor.

Porthos bristled with anxious energy as he watched the gate for the captain's and Aramis's return. They'd left with Marsac's body, which was why they hadn't been at the Duke's sendoff. All for the better, really. This whole mess had been one big powder keg just waiting to explode.

Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan had averted an international incident with the frantic sleight of hand concerning the prisoner Cluzet. But while they'd been doing that, they had missed the explosion back at the garrison between Marsac and Treville…and Aramis. Aramis had killed Marsac, and Porthos could only imagine how devastating that was for him.

And so he waited for his friend to return.

But the figure that finally trudged through the archway was alone. Treville paused to meet their eyes for a brief moment, and then continued his way up the stairs to his office.

Porthos waited a few minutes in case Aramis was trailing behind, but when there was still no sight of him, he finally pushed away from the post. "We need to find 'im."

"Maybe he just needs some space," d'Artagnan suggested.

"Like we gave 'im space with Marsac?" Porthos rejoined. "Look how that turned out." He shook his head. "Aramis alone with his own thoughts is never good, especially when it has anythin' to do with Savoy."

"It's been years," Athos pointed out mildly. "Aramis isn't like that anymore."

"Like what?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Keepin' company wit' ghosts more than the livin'," Porthos said. "To the point he starts to forget which side he's still on," he added with a pointed look at Athos.

D'Artagnan quirked his brow in confusion, but then his expression morphed into alarm. "Surely you don't think Aramis would do anything to hurt himself," he said in a hushed voice.

Athos picked up his hat. "No, but he can become…careless, when it comes to his own wellbeing. Porthos is right; we should look for him."

They donned their hats and cloaks and ventured out into the rain. The usual taverns yielded no results and Porthos was starting to get even more worried.

"Maybe he went back to the garrison," d'Artagnan said.

Porthos shook his head dourly, water drops flinging from the brim of his hat. "He's avoidin' us." Which was a very bad sign. They'd left him alone with Marsac—and the ghosts of twenty dead musketeers stirred up by the man's return. It was their own actions that deterred Aramis from seeking them out now when he needed them.

He needed us before, Porthos's conscience condemned. And they'd chosen to staunchly stand by their captain in the face of Marsac's traitorous accusations. They hadn't seen that Aramis wasn't asking them to choose sides; he was asking them to help him find the truth about why twenty good men had died and Aramis hadn't. As the lone survivor, of course he would feel that burden, to speak for his friends when their voices had been heinously silenced.

And Porthos and the others had walked away, as surely as Marsac had in that wretched forest five years ago.

"Alright," d'Artagnan said, "then where would he go to be alone?"

Porthos thought about it for a moment. "Church."

They turned and headed toward the chapel Porthos knew Aramis favorited. As they drew closer, he spotted a figure sitting out on the steps, wrapped in a sopping dark cloak that pooled around him like the puddles at his feet. Porthos felt a flicker of irritation that Aramis had allowed himself to sit out in the rain for God knew how long, but it was quickly extinguished the moment the marksman looked up at their approach with hollow eyes. Porthos's heart clenched at the all too familiar and hated expression.

"You look like a drowned cat," he grumbled, taking Aramis's arm and pulling him to his feet.

"I'm fine," Aramis dully replied.

Porthos snorted. "You can't lie to us." He paused, ducking his head to catch his friend's eye. "Nor do you have to."

Aramis didn't say anything as they brought him back to the garrison. His gaze strayed toward the armory when they entered the courtyard and didn't break until they started up the stairs to his room. Once inside, Athos immediately set to getting a fire going in the hearth while Porthos maneuvered Aramis out of his wet things. D'Artagnan lit some candles and the light cast haunted shadows over Aramis's drawn face.

"I'm sorry," Porthos said. For Marsac, for Aramis being the one forced to kill him. For not being there to take that burden from his friend.

Aramis lifted his gaze briefly and gave a small nod.

Athos brought over a dry shirt. Aramis shrugged into it and used the motion to step away from them.

"I can manage," he said quietly. "You should retire to your own rooms for the evening."

"Not a chance," Porthos retorted.

Aramis opened his mouth to protest further, but Athos took his arm in an earnest grip.

"Let us."

It was near impossible to resist such a quiet command from him. Aramis wordlessly turned toward the bed, and Porthos retrieved the extra blankets he knew were kept in the trunk in the corner. The rain pounded on the roof and Porthos watched Aramis slip away into a sleep plagued by the memories of Savoy. He climbed on the bed and settled against the wall, pressing his leg up against's Aramis's to remind him he wasn't alone in a snow-covered forest. Athos took a seat in the room's single chair and d'Artagnan, taking his cues, sat on the floor. They would remain. This time, they would not leave Aramis alone. This time they would be there and give their brother a reason to come home.

Face down in the desert now there's a cage locked around my heart
I found a way to drop the keys where my failures were
Now my hands can't reach that far
I ain't made for a rivalry I could never take the world alone
I know that in my weakness I am strong, but
It's your love that brings me home

Athos let the locket he'd held onto for years drop into the dirt and walked away without looking back. The woman he grieved no longer existed, and maybe he couldn't bring himself to kill the creature that remained, but from this point forward he would not carry the stains of her crimes. Only his own.

He found the nearest tavern and ordered a bottle of wine, intending to drink himself into the numbest stupor he could manage.

Yet he was barely on his third cup when three bodies suddenly dragged over chairs to his lone table and took a seat.

"Shouldn't you be with Constance," Athos said to d'Artagnan before knocking back a swig. "She's had a hard day."

"Constance is a strong woman," the boy replied.

"She wouldn't have had to be if not for me," he muttered.

"You cannot take the blame for Milady's actions," Aramis put in sympathetically.

Athos stared at the dark wine sloshing in his cup, like watered down blood. "I made her what she is."

"She made herself what she is," Aramis countered. "We are each the product of our own choices in the face of impossible circumstances."

Athos found his gaze drifting up to look at the three men surrounding him. Aramis, who never guarded his heart even after experiencing so much loss and tragedy, and now bore a secret as dark as Athos's had been from one lapse in judgement in a convent far away. Porthos, who grew up in the slums and had more chances to fail than not but built an honorable life as a soldier. And d'Artagnan, who lost everything but persevered and became a musketeer, who despite his youth and setbacks had the potential to be the best of them all.

And Athos, who never would have found this brotherhood if not for his life falling apart. They got broken down and got back up, helping each other to rebuild from the pieces.

Athos pushed his drink aside. "I'm done."

He got several surprised brow raises at that, followed by smiles as his brothers stood and proceeded to take him home.

The rain drummed heavily on the roof of the stables, the wind juddering the latches of the closed windows. D'Artagnan stroked the forehead and muzzle of his horse, whispering soothing nothings into her ear as though she was the one bothered by the storm.

It felt like a cruel barb from the heavens that it should be raining on the anniversary of his father's death. At least here in the sheltered stable with the warmth of the horses and smell of hay, d'Artagnan could try to keep the sense memories of squelching mud and hot blood mixing with icy rain at bay.

He glanced at the pauldron on his shoulder. His hard work had finally paid off and he'd earned his place among the musketeers. He wondered if his father would be proud. D'Artagnan had abandoned the family farm to pursue this life, and therefore hadn't been there to protect it when Labarge burned it to the ground. His father's legacy, reduced to chaff like his life had been that fateful day outside of Paris.

His father was an honorable man, and d'Artagnan hoped he approved of the life choices his son had made, defending King and country in place of tending the farm.

Hot moisture pricked the corners of his eyes and he hastily brushed them away. He wished the rain would stop. He wished it was morning already and he could throw himself into training or some mission so the memories would quiet until the anniversary had passed, dormant until the following year.

The stable doors creaked open and d'Artagnan looked over in confusion at the sight of his three friends, bearing two bottles of wine each.

"Anniversaries cannot be observed without wine," Athos commented dryly.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow. He hadn't said anything to them about it…

"Did you think we'd forget the day you came blustering into our lives?" Aramis jauntily quipped, passing him a bottle. The marksman leaned close and lowered his voice. "Or why."

D'Artagnan didn't know what to say. He accepted the bottle with a wan smile and popped the cork out to take a swig. Aramis and Porthos took up positions leaning against the opposite wall, sharing a bottle between them. Athos, of course, kept his to himself as he sat on a barrel.

"Bluster is right," Porthos chuffed. "All fire an' no sense, but he kept up wit' Athos well enough."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. It was perhaps an odd occasion to reminiscence fondly over, him charging in intending to kill Athos for a murder he'd believed the musketeer had committed. And then he'd ended up helping to save Athos's life instead.

As his friends laughed over shared memories of d'Artagnan joining their ranks, the grief started to ebb just a bit. He still missed his father, but he was also grateful for the family he'd gained in place of the one he'd lost.

And that was something to commemorate as well.

And when you call and need me near
Sayin' where'd you go?
Brother, I'm right here
And on those days when the sky begins to fall
You're the blood of my blood
We can get through it all

Aramis had been sinking deeper and deeper into a depressed state for the past couple of weeks and only Athos had an inclination as to the cause. Which he of course could not share with Porthos and d'Artagnan when they worriedly speculated as to what could be wrong. A woman, they guessed, which was all too true and yet Athos had to hold his tongue. The Queen's pregnancy had been a shock, and while it could not be known for certain, the timing was too coincidental to ignore.

Yet ignore they must, and pretend it never happened. Because Aramis sleeping with the Queen was treason, but fathering a child with her? That would garner the most excruciating execution man could think of. Aramis had to find a way to get over it.

So he sought solace in his faith, as he so often turned to in times of crisis. It was just bad luck that some Huguenot dissidents bombed the chapel he had retreated to. When word reached the Musketeer garrison, Athos immediately recognized the name of the church, as had Porthos and d'Artagnan. They'd rushed to the scene, desperate to find their brother among the rubble.

The crumbling building was hardly stable, but that didn't stop them from plunging into the wreckage. They found an injured parishioner and d'Artagnan had to turn back to guide them to safety. Part of the roof had collapsed, forcing Athos and Porthos to split up.

Athos picked his way around splintered beams and cracked stone. He spotted a bit of brown up ahead, a familiar looking doublet. "Aramis!"

Athos scrambled through the debris until he reached the marksman, who was trapped under two pews smashed together. He seemed conscious, but his movements were sluggish as though he wasn't fully aware. A thin trail of blood left a muddied track in the dust down the side of his temple.

"Over here!" Athos bellowed, hoping Porthos would be able to find his way to them. He then started looking around for something to use as leverage to lift the rubble keeping Aramis pinned.

Abruptly, a hand flailed out to grasp his sleeve. Aramis's eyes rolled wildly up at him. "Don't leave."

Athos took his hand and squeezed. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm just looking for something to help free you."

Aramis blinked slowly, and Athos kept a hold of his hand while he roved his gaze around the debris.

"I would deserve it though," Aramis said hoarsely, then coughed.

Athos frowned at him.

Aramis lolled his head back to look at the broken remnants of the stained glass. "I prayed for forgiveness, for wisdom and strength." He let out a bitter laugh that triggered another cough. "If this was the response, the answer is loud and clear."

"Don't be ridiculous," Athos chided. "Huguenots blew up the church, not God."

"What does it say about me that I cannot bring myself to regret what happened? Even though it has brought forth another child that I will never be able to hold in my arms."

Athos furrowed his brow. Another child? Dear God, he hoped Aramis hadn't fathered another illegitimate heir in some noble house. But this was not the time to ask such questions. Athos looked around to make sure no one had found them yet and then leaned close to Aramis's head.

"We will get through it."

Aramis's eyes had a glazed sheen as he looked back at him. "I'm sorry you bear the burden of this with me. I would have spared you that."

Athos held back a sigh and clasped Aramis's neck. "We are brothers. And if there is anything I have learned, it is the wisdom in not bearing such burdens alone."

Besides, who else would keep Aramis from the brink of madness or stupidity?

A clatter drew his attention as Porthos and d'Artagnan came wading through the rubble toward them.

"Aramis?" Porthos shouted worriedly.

"Alive but trapped," Athos replied. He squeezed the back of his brother's neck again and leaned close. "Don't worry, we'll get you out and bring you home."

Aramis closed his eyes to rein in his emotions and nodded.

Brother, let me be your shelter
Never leave you all alone
I can be the one you call
When you're feelin' low
Brother, let me be your fortress
When the night winds are driving on
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home

Porthos stood outside the Court of Miracles, heart clenching with grief at the burnt out ruins marring the northern side of it and the lives lost, those who hadn't escaped the fire that swept through a third of the Court before it was miraculously put out. He wondered if Richelieu had anything to do with it like the last time he had tried to clear the slums by murdering its denizens so the King could build up some fancy thing for himself. The very notion sickened Porthos, and he didn't like having that feeling toward his sworn sovereign.

He caught sight of Flea standing on the other side of the wreckage, expression as mournful as his. They locked eyes for a moment. Porthos felt an urge to meet her, but the gulf of destruction between them gaped like an abyss neither could cross. She turned away and disappeared back into the alleyways.

Porthos should go. This wasn't his home anymore. And yet he couldn't bring himself to move because for all its bad qualities, it had been his home, once. The people here didn't deserve this. But the world had no kindness for the poor and Porthos didn't know how to change that, if it could ever be changed.

D'Artagnan stepped up beside him out of nowhere.

"You shouldn't be here," Porthos rumbled.

D'Artagnan just gave him that boyish half-smile. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Silence fell again for a few moments.

"I wish there was somethin' I could do," Porthos spoke again.

"What is it Aramis would say, have a little faith?"

Porthos slanted a frown at the smile that was threatening to break out on the lad's face. But then movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he turned to find Aramis and Athos walking toward them, bearing baskets loaded with bread, cheese, and dried meats.

"We bought as much as we could with our combined funds," Aramis said without preamble. He gave Porthos a sympathetic look. "I know it's not enough, but it's something at least."

Porthos just gaped at them, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He cleared his throat around the spiky lump settling there. "A little goes a long way."

Aramis smiled, and he and Athos handed him the baskets to carry into the Court himself. Suddenly the gulf didn't seem so impassable.

He found Flea around the corner and gave her the offering. They had little to say to each other, but she asked him to convey her thanks to his friends. He nodded and left, respecting the boundaries she wanted him to abide by.

When he returned, his brothers were waiting for him, as they always were, and together they all headed back to the garrison—to home.

Aramis moved from one bed to the next and back and forth, doing what he could to treat Athos's and d'Artagnan's wounds. They'd been severely injured in an ambush on the road and the small inn they'd taken shelter in did not have the supplies of the garrison infirmary. Aramis found himself hard pressed to creatively use what he had on hand in his kit.

D'Artagnan was overwhelmed by the pain of his injury that refused to let him find relief in sleep. Aramis mixed two of the herbs he carried, praying their effects would be strong enough.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan grimaced through clenched teeth, his tone whittled down to that of a boy pleading for help.

"It's going to be all right," Aramis promised as he helped him drink the pungent brew. "You'll be fine."

D'Artagnan tossed his head back against the limp pillow and groaned. Aramis held his hand and let him squeeze until the medicine finally began to take effect and dragged him into a troubled sleep.

Aramis winced and flexed his fingers. The boy had a strong grip.

Athos made a sound of distress and tried to push himself off the bed. Aramis crossed the room swiftly and gently pressed him back down.

Athos shook his head in agitation. "Pursuit," he gritted out deliriously, his fever already raging too high.

"Porthos and I have it covered," Aramis assured him. "We're safe here." He picked the wet cloth off the floor and rewet it before placing it back on Athos's brow.

Then he bowed his head in exhaustion and prayed with all his might that his brothers would live, that his skill would be enough.

"Do not take them," he prayed. "It is selfish, but I need them."

The door creaked open and he hastily wiped his eyes before looking up at Porthos. Porthos could always read him though, and his mouth turned down.

"How're they doin'?"

Aramis shook his head. "Fighting. There is little else I can do for them here…"

"Hey. Athos and d'Artagnan are strong," Porthos said. "And stubborn. They'll be all right."

Aramis gave him a wan smile. "I do pray you're right."

He spent the rest of the night tending to them in their fevered states and trying to soothe their pain while Porthos kept watch and assisted where he could. And when morning broke, so had their fevers.

Aramis sat on a stool between their beds, head hanging low in prayer of gratitude.

"You look exhausted," a weak voice commented.

Aramis looked up to find Athos watching him. "It was a rough night."

Athos's gaze tracked to d'Artagnan for a moment and then back to Aramis, a look of understanding in his eye. He reached out and Aramis quickly took the proffered hand.

"I heard you, you know," Athos said softly. Aramis understood the unspoken words. Death was no match for the call of a brother.

He gave Athos a tired smile and nodded.

They did always manage to bring each other home.