A/N: Thank you SnidgetHex and pallysAramisRios for reviewing!

Chapter 5

The voices were too much—harsh, grating words spat viciously from the mouths of men he once considered friends and brothers. Aramis clamped his hands over his ears but he couldn't shut them out. They were inside his head.

"You left us."

"Coward."

"Deserter."

"No," he choked out. "That's not the way it happened."

Bloodless faces bored holes into him, even in his mind's eye when he tried to look away from the pale specters standing all around him. But they were relentless, and there was nowhere he could go to escape them.

Then, all of a sudden, in a breath of hushed wind, they silenced. Aramis stilled, unsure of what was happening. He slowly lifted his head to look around the room. The ghosts were gone. He furrowed his brow, not recognizing his surroundings initially, then he realized he was in Athos's rooms at the garrison. Constance was standing in the doorway, arms hugging herself tightly and expression pinched with anguish as she watched him.

Aramis hesitated, fearing it some sort of trick or shift in reality again, but he cautiously began to unfurl from his position on the floor. "Constance?" he called hoarsely.

She straightened sharply. "Aramis? Are you…?"

He levered himself up onto his feet. "I'm here," he said, though even that much he wasn't entirely sure of.

She crossed the room swiftly and took his hands in hers, guiding him to take a seat on the bed. "What happened?" she asked, sitting next to him.

"I…don't know," he said, casting a nervous look around the room again. "It just…stopped."

Constance exhaled heavily. "Thank God."

Aramis tried to get his muddled thoughts in order. "Where are the others?"

"They went to rescue Porthos."

His heart clenched. Of course, the exchange where he'd failed to take the shot and Porthos had been taken hostage as a result.

"I'm sure they'll be back soon," Constance added.

Aramis nodded mutely.

She reached over and squeezed his hand in commiserative silence, and the two of them simply sat like that for a long time until the sound of dragon wings echoed from outside.

Aramis stood and headed for the door, heart in his throat. Five dragon riders and Rhaego had landed in the yard, and to his immense relief, Porthos was with them. And Alaman's daughter. Aramis and Constance made their way downstairs to meet them, Aramis frowning at Porthos's prominent limp and bloodstained bandage tied around his leg.

Athos looked at him in surprise. "Aramis?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm all right," he said, though his voice perhaps belied the strength of that statement. He couldn't deny he was shaken by what he'd gone through. But he turned his attention to Porthos's obvious injury. "Has that been treated?"

"It'll keep," Porthos replied, eyeing him with concern. Even having not witnessed the ordeal, Aramis knew Porthos could see the toll it'd taken clearly written in the lines of his face.

"Do you think Rochefort found Milady?" d'Artagnan put in.

Porthos snorted. "Wouldn't that be somethin'."

"Or she's keeping to her previously stated intentions of only temporarily torturing us for the time being," Aramis said, cringing at the exhaustion tinging his voice.

There was a grim silence at that.

"Come on," Constance interjected. "Both of you to the infirmary."

"I'll send Doctor Lemay over," Athos said. He reached out to give Aramis a furtive squeeze on his arm.

Aramis gave a small nod of gratitude, then turned and offered a supportive shoulder to Porthos as they shuffled their way to the infirmary.

.o.0.o.

Athos was not looking forward to giving his report to the King. This entire venture had been botched from the start, but as captain, Athos bore the responsibility for it all.

He stopped to ask Doctor Lemay to check on Porthos before making his way to the library where he knew the King and Treville were waiting for him. To his irritation, Rochefort was present as well. It was like the man had a sixth sense about when he could bear witness to the Musketeers' humiliation.

Louis was already worked up after hearing about the disaster in the square, and his expression only became more livid as Athos recounted what happened at the house.

"I wanted that gunpowder, Athos," he said tersely. "Now the machine is destroyed, Alaman is dead, and the secret is lost forever."

"But at least the Spanish do not have it either, Sire," Treville put in, and Athos appreciated the effort to take some of the heat off of him, but it was undeserved.

"Yes," Louis said tautly. "That is some compensation. But I am disappointed. Not to mention the witch Milady had a hand in bungling this entire affair!"

Athos's jaw tightened. "The spell she cast on Aramis has been reversed," he said, then turned his attention to Rochefort. "I don't suppose you finally made progress in your hunt for her?"

"I have," he replied smugly. "I found her campsite in the woods outside the palace this afternoon. Unfortunately, she had already vacated it. Still, my latest tracking method has proven effective, and it's only a matter of time before I catch her."

Louis blanched. "So close to the palace?"

"Not too close, Sire," Rochefort quickly assured him. "But continued caution is advisable."

The King shook his head, obviously unsettled. "It is clear that my Musketeers can't protect me if they can't even protect themselves. Rochefort, I know you have a lot on your plate with hunting this witch, but would you consent to taking over the captaincy of the palace guard? It has been a hotchpotch of men ever since the Cardinal's Red Guard was disbanded."

Athos's jaw was likely to crack in the next few seconds, he was clenching it so hard.

Rochefort inclined his head in acceptance. "It would be my honor, Your Majesty."

Louis nodded gratefully. "Walk with me, then. We have much to discuss."

The two of them left the library, leaving Athos and Treville standing there alone, frustration evident on each of their faces. With each failure on the part of the Musketeers, Rochefort gained an extra foothold in the King's confidence. And yet he hadn't produced results in his own task to apprehend Milady. Athos didn't know whether to believe his story about her campsite in the woods. Perhaps he would have to make time to go out and look around for himself.

"Aramis is all right?" Treville asked, breaking the silence.

"He seems recovered," Athos replied carefully. "'All right'…might take some time."

Treville nodded in understanding. "Sometimes we do the best we can and it doesn't end up being enough," he said sagely.

Athos was quiet for a moment. "Is that what you would tell yourself?"

Treville huffed, acknowledging the double standard. Disappointing others was a hard draught to swallow.

.o.0.o.

Porthos limped around to Vrita's other side so he could run the bristle brush over her scales. She shifted, trying to help, but he still had to duck under her head. He gave her an appreciative pat at her effort though.

His leg was sore but healing. Doctor Lemay had stitched him up proper and said there shouldn't be any permanent damage. He wouldn't be riding his dragon for a few days.

Porthos cast a glance across the yard to where Rhaego was laid out in the sun with Aramis sitting on the ground leaning against him. Porthos was worried about him; he'd been withdrawn since his experience with the ghosts from Savoy. Athos hadn't been able to give him details of what Aramis had gone through. The marksman hadn't tried to describe it to any of them. Porthos couldn't imagine being haunted by those faces, and he mentally cursed Milady every time he thought about it.

He went back to brushing Vrita, all the while keeping a close eye on Aramis.

Vrita snuffled in his hair and cocked her head at something over his shoulder. Porthos turned and smiled when he saw Samara standing a safe distance away.

"Hello," he said brightly.

She smiled back but cast a hesitant look at the dragon.

"Don't be afraid," he said, beckoning her to come closer. "She doesn't bite pretty ladies."

Samara blushed and cautiously came over. "She is yours?"

Porthos nodded proudly. "That she is. Samara, this is Vrita. Vrita, Samara."

Vrita dipped her head in acknowledgement.

"You want to brush her?" Porthos asked.

Samara quirked a brow at him. "Brush her?"

He grinned and took her hand in his, sliding the brush into her palm. Then with his hand guiding hers, he proceeded to scrape the bristles over Vrita's scales. The dragon vibrated with pleasure.

Samara giggled.

After a few more strokes, she stepped back and turned to Porthos. "I'm leaving for Morocco this evening," she told him.

Porthos raised his brows sharply with incredulity. "Do you actually know anything about the place?"

She laughed. "No. But I'll learn. And it will be my children's home. They will belong there."

Porthos shrugged at that.

"You should search for your own home, too, one day," she went on.

Porthos shook his head and wagged a finger around at the garrison. "You're looking at it." He smiled, and for a moment Samara shared it, but then she said,

"These are not your people, Porthos. However hard you try, you will never truly be one of them."

He tried to bite back a sigh at this same old thing. "I'm a Musketeer," he said. "A dragon rider." He tossed a fond smile Vrita's way and she beamed back at him. "That's home enough for me."

His people were those he chose to stand by, to love and protect with every fiber of his being. His gaze drifted back toward Aramis. That was his brother in all but blood. And even then, that had spilt plenty together in battle that by soldier standards, they were blood brothers.

Samara finally nodded. "I have something for you." She held out a book.

Porthos quirked a brow at her in surprise as he took the offered item and opened the cover. "Ah, poems," he said, not quite sure what to say to that. He settled on a wide smile and, "Thank you."

Samara nodded. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "For…trying to save my father."

"He was a great man," Porthos replied seriously. "A hero."

"He taught me everything." Her eyes watered and her voice wavered. "Life is going to be so hard without him."

Porthos shifted in discomfort. "I, er, I never knew my father growin' up," he said.

"Not at all?"

"No, he, er, abandoned us. I finally met him a year ago and…let's just say a great man he was not. Samara, no matter how much you're hurting right now, I'd rather be in your position. When the grief fades, you'll still have his memory. Treasure that."

A tear finally slipped free to slide down her cheek.

"It's a gift," he went on, and she nodded shakily as she fought to hold back more tears.

She reached out to take him by the arms and stretched up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "Goodbye. Brother."

He nodded in return and watched her turn and walk out of the garrison. He looked down at the book she'd given him and huffed out a laugh. Then with a glance at Aramis again, he cocked his head for Vrita to follow and hobbled his way over to Rhaego.

"Samara's gone," he said without preamble. "She's going back to Morocco."

Aramis looked up, his eyes still dull and haunted, a small crease in his forehead revealing he was struggling to catch up with Porthos's words. "That's quite a journey," he finally said.

"Mm." Porthos reached behind him to use Vrita as a brace so he could lower himself to the ground without bending his leg too much. He couldn't hold back a small grunt as he straightened it out in front of him. Aramis frowned.

"She gave me a book of poetry," Porthos went on, waving the item in his hand. "I didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't really my thing."

Aramis's lips quirked a small fraction at that.

Porthos held the book out to him. "Will you read some? I'm curious."

Aramis gave him a soft look and leaned forward to take the book, then settled back against Rhaego and opened to the first page.

"'From his light, the niche of my essence enlightened me; by means of me, my nights blazed morning bright. I made me witness my being there for I was he; I witnessed him as me, the light, my splendor…'"

Porthos listened to Aramis read aloud, listened to his voice gaining traction and steadiness as he went, and felt affirmed in this found family that made up for anything else he might have been missing in a land far away from France, from the Musketeers, and from his brothers.

NEXT TIME

Milady retaliates against Rochefort, inflicting a magical wound that will prove fatal unless the Musketeers make a journey to the Jura for a miracle cure. But Milady isn't about to make it easy for them.