A/N: Been a while since I've written The Musketeers, heh.

Summary: But since it fell into my lot, that I should rise and you should not

"The Parting Glass" - Shaun Davey

All the money that e'er I had
I spent it in good company
And all the harm I've ever done
Alas, it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now, I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Goodnight and joy be to you all!

"Oh, Aramis," Lisette gasped as he pressed kisses up and down her neck. Her fingernails raked down his back.

He swung her around toward the bed, the two of them dropping onto the mattress in a tangle of passion. He moved his mouth to hers, relishing the sensual touch of her lips.

The thud of the front door barely registered for Aramis, but Lisette bolted upright like a shot.

"My husband!"

Aramis jerked back as if he'd been doused in cold water. "What? I thought he was away from Paris on business."

"He was supposed to be!"

Heavy footsteps trod across the wood floor outside the bedroom.

"Lisette?"

"Oh no," she moaned.

Aramis flew from the bed and snatched up his weapons belt and coat. He belatedly remembered his hat and darted toward the door to scoop it up and place it on his head just as Lisette's husband turned the knob to enter.

"Lisette…"

Aramis ducked behind the swinging door, grimacing as it almost smacked him in the face.

"Marchand!" Lisette exclaimed. "I didn't expect you until tomorrow."

"My business concluded early… Why are you out of breath?"

"Oh, I'm just feeling a little faint tonight. Thought I would lie down early."

Aramis held his breath as he listened to Marchand move further into the room. He couldn't see from behind the door, pinned against the wall, but he knew he couldn't stay there. And so taking the gamble, he slipped out from behind his hiding place and darted out of the room.

"What the—hey!"

Aramis skidded to a stop at the front door long enough to fling it open, and then he was sprinting into the street. Enraged shouts behind him told him Lisette's husband was in pursuit.

Aramis darted down a dark alley—probably not the safest move when his weapons were bundled in his arms and not at the ready should he run into any rough folk, but his mind was on escape at the moment. He made it to the other side, only to realize Marchand had somehow found a way to cut him off.

Aramis pivoted and went down another street. He spotted a wagon up ahead and ducked down behind it, wedging himself as tightly as he could into the shadows. Lisette's husband came barreling down the road, drawing to a stop just past the wagon and looking around intently.

"You there," he shouted, and Aramis tensed. "You seen a half-dressed fellow come this way?"

"Sure did. He went down that street," a familiar voice replied.

Aramis blinked in surprise but didn't dare move from his spot. After a few moments, a shadow filled the gap at the back of the wagon and Marsac tipped the brim of his hat up, revealing a grin.

"He's gone."

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief and crawled out. "Thanks." He draped his stuff over the back of the wagon and began shrugging into his coat and donning his belt.

"You're gonna be run out of Paris at the rate you're going," Marsac commented.

Aramis flashed him a cheeky grin. "I don't usually get caught in such compromising positions."

"It's too bad; Lisette seemed nice."

"Oh, I haven't seen the last of her," Aramis assured him.

Marsac just shook his head and slung an arm around his shoulder. "You, my friend, have a death wish."

"Death has no power over love," Aramis replied. "Now, the night is still young."

Marsac grinned, and the two of them set off for the nearest tavern to drink the night away.

Fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be to you all!

Marsac approached the group of musketeers congregated in the yard. "So, we leave for Savoy in the morning," he commented.

"Why did the captain schedule this training exercise over Easter?" one man complained. "We'll miss Mass."

"You're hardly religious," another scoffed.

"Aramis is."

Aramis placed a hand over his heart. "I can worship God in the church of his Creation."

"I just hope it's warmer in the south." Marsac stomped his feet on the ground in a show of warming his limbs.

Aramis reached for the pitcher of wine sitting on the table and poured his friend a cup. Marsac took it and knocked back a long swig.

"How ever will you survive so long away from your paramours?" he then teased.

"Distance doth make the heart grow fonder," Aramis recited.

Marsac smirked. "To a successful training mission and impassioned lovers upon our return."

Aramis raised his own cup and they all drank to that.

Of all the comrades that e'er I had
They're sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had
They'd wish me one more day to stay
Since it fell into my lot
That I should rise, and you should not
I'll gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be to you all!

Aramis lay in bed, staring up through the darkness at the ceiling. He had hoped the presence of a warm, soft body beside him would banish the horrors and make him as he used to be. But no matter whose bed he sought sanctuary in each night, none of them were more than just a temporary distraction.

He flicked a look at his companion, fast asleep, then gently eased himself out of bed. He dressed quietly, careful not to make a sound, and slipped away in the dead of night. He wandered the streets, staggering as flashbacks assaulted him. Bodies lying in the snow splashed with crimson. Marsac's deadened eyes as he walked away.

Aramis's chest constricted and he stopped to lean against a wall. Why had he survived? Why had twenty musketeers lost their lives like that? Not even in the honor of battle, but slaughtered in their sleep like animals. Marsac had saved Aramis's life, and then left him there. They both should have returned to Paris. Aramis shouldn't have to bear the weight of this alone. No one understood; they hadn't been there.

Twenty lives lost; twenty-one musketeers who never came home. And Aramis alone to bear that memory.

Sometimes he wished he had died with them.

But since it fell into my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be to you all!

Aramis knocked back a drag of wine, grimacing as it hurt swallowing so much at once. He stared down at the grave marker for a long moment, then tipped the wine bottle over to pour the mulberry liquid over the grave.

He moved to the next one in the row and repeated the ritual, taking a long drink before sharing a splash with his fallen comrade. There were twenty to honor, to miss, to mourn.

When the first bottle was empty, he retrieved the second he'd brought and continued down the line. At the end there was no marker for Marsac. He wasn't dead, not physically anyway. But his memory was, his name a curse now among the Musketeers. The deserter. No one mourned him.

Aramis took a drink and poured some wine onto the bare grass. He wondered where Marsac was right now, if he was doing something to commemorate this anniversary. Aramis wondered if he was alright or just barely getting by like Aramis was. Maybe they were both dead, walking ghosts whose bodies had yet to catch up with their spirits.

Living was supposed to be the miracle, the blessing. But most of the time Aramis felt as though he'd been the one left behind by the rest of his friends.

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be to you all!

A hand settled on his shoulder from behind. Aramis lolled his head up heavily and squinted through slightly blurred vision at the large figure standing over him.

"Come on," a gentle voice prompted, the hand moving to grip his arm and pull him up off the ground. Aramis didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, but his trouser legs were damp. Porthos pulled one arm over his shoulder and turned Aramis back toward the garrison.

A few feet away was Athos, watching. He fell into step behind them as Porthos half carried Aramis to his room. Aramis didn't have the wherewithal or sobriety to protest as Porthos deposited him in a chair and then began to pull his wet leathers off. He was numb.

Once down to his smallclothes, Porthos hauled Aramis to his feet again and moved him to sit on the bed. Athos appeared in front of him, holding out a cup of pale liquid. Aramis stared at it blankly for a moment before Athos picked up his hand and wrapped it around the cup, holding it in his grip and lifting it toward his mouth. Aramis sipped at the warm milk. Athos kept a hold of the cup until Aramis had finished all of its contents, then took it away.

Porthos took Aramis by the shoulders and guided him to lie down. "Try to sleep," he said. "We'll be here."

The wine and milk were making him groggy, but he managed to keep his eyes open long enough to look at his friends, the ones who yet lived.

The ones who were still with him.

"Thank you," he murmured with more gratitude than he could ever possibly convey.

Athos took a seat in the chair by the window and propped his feet up against the sill. "Goodnight, Aramis."