A/N: Thank you pallysAramisRios and SnidgetHex for reviewing! Last one for Whumptober.

No. 30 - DIGGING YOUR GRAVE

Marsac drew his horse to a stop, prompting the one trailing behind to come to a halt as well. "We're here."

Aramis lifted his head. They had been traveling for five days and he'd given up trying to keep an eye on his surroundings, especially since Marsac had been unwilling to say where they were even going. All Aramis knew was it was south. He looked around the woods, which had nothing special about them. Except…

His blood ran cold. "What are we doing here?" he asked tightly, wrists reflexively straining against the rope binding his hands to the saddle pommel.

Marsac dismounted. "It hasn't changed," he commented, voice distant. He turned to look back at Aramis. "Can you see them?"

"See who?"

"Our brothers." Marsac swept his gaze over the ground again.

Aramis fidgeted in the saddle. Ever since Marsac had abruptly come back to Paris on the fifth anniversary of the massacre at Savoy, there had been a madness in his eyes. A madness that had quickly reared its ugly head when Marsac had drugged Aramis's wine and kidnapped him. Aramis had woken the next day with a brutal headache, tied on top of a horse with Marsac leading him somewhere, though he wouldn't say where or why. All of Aramis's attempts to reason with him had gone unheeded, and all Marsac wanted to talk about was the good old days, before the Musketeer regiment lost twenty of its men. It was like he didn't view what he was doing as a kidnapping, but a reunion.

Until Aramis had tried to escape and Marsac had caught him. For a moment, there had been a glimmer of true violence in his old friend's eyes, and he'd screamed and raged at Aramis for trying to abandon him. Aramis had of course lost his temper and spat back that Marsac had abandoned him first, leaving him alone in the woods with twenty dead musketeers. Marsac had gone still like ice, that insanity gleaming in his eyes, and then said, "I'm here to make that right."

He hadn't explained what that meant, but it apparently had something to do with the location of the massacre. Marsac went back to his saddlebags and removed a shovel that'd been shoved in the large holster instead of a musket. He moved a few paces away and dropped it on the ground, then came back to untie the section of rope lashing Aramis to the saddle. Once done, he stepped back and raised his pistol.

"Get down."

Aramis reluctantly slid out of the saddle, landing clumsily. He eyed Marsac warily as the man directed him to walk over to where he'd dropped the shovel.

"Start digging."

"For what?"

"Just do it," Marsac said harshly.

Aramis slowly bent down and picked up the shovel. "If you're trying to give our friends a proper burial, they already had one."

Marsac shook his head, wild eyes darting around the clearing. "Not everyone. You're right, Aramis, I shouldn't have left. We both should have died here that day."

That coiled knot of dread that'd been building for the past several days began to unfurl. "Marsac…"

Marsac quickly took a few steps back, putting a safe distance between him and Aramis holding the shovel. "Dig!"

Aramis gritted his teeth and turned to the ground, shoving the spade into the soil and shoveling out a small bit. He wouldn't be able to use the tool as a weapon unless Marsac got closer, and with his hands bound he was at a disadvantage. If Marsac was going to kill him anyway, Aramis didn't exactly want to comply with digging his own grave. And yet it was the only way to buy some time. Surely his friends knew he was missing. Though how they would find a trail for him and Marsac was beyond all logic. Still, Aramis couldn't bring himself to give in just yet.

So he kept shoveling, albeit slowly. It wasn't difficult to feign exhaustion, given they'd been on the road for five days with little sleep and food.

"Marsac, you don't have to do this," Aramis tried.

"Yes, I do. My spirit died here that day. My body just hasn't caught up yet."

Aramis stopped his digging and looked at his old friend, heart constricting. "Marsac…"

"Keep going."

Aramis exhaled heavily and stabbed the shovel into the dirt again. His arms and shoulders were aching, his hands raw and blistering. He didn't dig a very deep grave, just a shallow pit in the middle of nowhere. Aramis stopped and looked up at his friend, sweat pouring down his face despite the chill in the early spring air.

Marsac nodded and gestured with the pistol for Aramis to get out of the hole. Aramis tossed the shovel up, then struggled to climb up. Marsac didn't move closer to help him. Aramis sprawled on his side on the cold ground, breathing laboriously.

"Pick it up," Marsac said.

Aramis lifted his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

Marsac thrust his chin toward the shovel. "One more."

Aramis's heart dropped into his stomach. Two graves. One for each of them. Marsac did intend to kill him, along with himself.

He didn't move for a long moment, and Marsac cocked the pistol at him.

"Don't make me do this, Aramis."

"You're going to do it anyway."

"Not like this. We died here, Aramis, five years ago. I want to finish it with honor."

Aramis stared at him. Could he not hear the madness in his own words?

No, he couldn't. Aramis had been trying to get through to him for days without success. His friend was lost.

They stared each other down for a long, tense moment, and then Aramis relented and picked up the shovel. Each stab of the spade into dirt felt like a nail being driven into his own coffin. A coffin he wouldn't have. He'd be left in the woods here, again, never to be found. The terror and horror of that fateful day bubbled up, making Aramis sick to his stomach. He stopped digging and bent double over the shovel, gripping the handle to hold himself up.

"Marsac, please…" he begged, voice cracking.

"It'll all be over soon, Aramis," his friend consoled. "We'll die like musketeers, like we were supposed to."

Aramis closed his eyes under an upwelling of grief, and a prayer began to spill quietly from his lips.

"Not yet, Aramis," Marsac said. "Don't worry. Unlike those bastards in the night, I'll let you say Last Rites for us."

Aramis's hands reflexively tightened on the wooden handle, the coarse grain digging into the wounds of his palms. He wanted to rage and scream at Marsac, but it wouldn't do any good. Marsac was beyond reach now. He supposed they both were.

With heavy resignation, Aramis resumed digging.

A twig snapped somewhere in the forest. Aramis didn't pay it any mind, until a furious bellow resounded through the clearing.

"Marsac!"

Aramis jerked his head around as Porthos came storming forward, pistol raised.

Marsac reached down and grabbed Aramis by the collar, yanking him up and back against his chest as a human shield. Athos and d'Artagnan stepped into view on either side, two more pistols aimed Marsac's way.

"Let him go," Athos said in a tone of deadly calm.

"You'll have to kill us both!" Marsac spat.

"The only one who's going to die here today is you, if you wish," Athos rejoined, voice and gaze level. "Now let him go."

"Marsac, please," Aramis pleaded. "Don't do this.

Marsac's wild eyes flitted around the musketeers. "No. No, I won't let you take this from us."

He suddenly shoved Aramis forward to the ground and raised his pistol. He only had one shot. Aramis flipped over and braced himself as the barrel aimed up with his heart. Several reports cracked the air like thunder. Marsac jerked and fell backward, his shot going wide and striking the ground inches from Aramis's face and pelting him with dirt.

Aramis scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled toward his old friend, whose wide eyes were staring up at the tree canopy as blood pumped from the holes in his chest.

Marsac shifted his gaze to Aramis. "Come with me," he pleaded.

Aramis's chest tightened painfully. "It's not my time," he whispered back.

Marsac's chin quivered, and then his whole body hitched with his dying breath, and the light in his eyes faded.

Aramis rocked back on his haunches, tears welling in his eyes. Marsac had been his friend once, had saved his life at Savoy. How had he fallen so far?

The crunch of leaves announced the others' approach. Aramis looked up at his brothers' solemn expressions. Athos moved forward first, taking a knee next to him and using his main gauche to cut away the rope around his wrists.

"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.

Aramis numbly shook his head.

Athos took his hands and gently bent his fingers back, exposing the blisters. "D'Artagnan," he called over his shoulder. "Water and bandages."

The young Gascon hurried off into the trees, then returned shortly thereafter with three horses.

"How did you find me?" Aramis finally found the wherewithal to ask.

"Marsac wasn't subtle in his actions," Athos replied as he began to clean Aramis's hands. "There were several eyewitnesses to your abduction."

"Once we knew he'd left Paris, it got trickier," Porthos put in. "But d'Artagnan noticed one of his horses had a shoddy shoe and was able to track it."

Aramis closed his eyes. Small miracles indeed.

He flinched as Athos wiped the cloth across a particularly large blister. Athos of course didn't apologize, but he eased up on his ministrations.

"What was he trying to do?" d'Artagnan asked in disbelief, and Aramis opened his eyes to see him looking in confusion at the graves.

"He came here to die," Aramis answered, still feeling numb after everything. "We might as well make use of the grave."

"Only one of them," Athos said sagely, meeting Aramis's eye.

Aramis nodded.

Once his hands were cleaned and bandaged, Porthos helped him to his feet and over to the horses. Then Athos and d'Artagnan moved Marsac into one of the graves and used the shovel to pile the dirt over him. Aramis wanted to say a few words; it only seemed right. But he couldn't for the life of him think of any.

"Why don' you ride with me," Porthos suggested. "Give those hands a rest from having to hold the reins."

Aramis almost pointed out that he hadn't been in charge of the reins for five days, but it didn't seem important. The offer was made out of kind intentions, and he was still reeling from shock, so he nodded his consent.

For the second time in his life, Aramis rode away from Savoy, once again the sole survivor. Marsac had been right; his soul had died that day five years ago. It had just taken this long for his body to catch up.

Sometimes Aramis wondered whether the same was true for him, whether half of him had been left in that forest.

But with Porthos's bolstering presence at his back and Athos and d'Artagnan flanking him, he thought maybe his friends had made up for the missing piece. He didn't belong to himself. And so unlike Marsac, who wanted to die for his comrades, Aramis would continue to live for them.