~§~

A week later….

The sound of his friends' angry voices as they talked to the Captain down in the courtyard, reached Aramis' ears, even if their words did not.

Sick of being confined to his rooms for too long, staring at the same boring four walls, the injured Musketeer decided that it was high time for him to stand up, put on proper clothes like a gentleman and join his friends for a meal. And if that decision happened to satisfy his curiosity on what matter had them all so riled up, it was nothing more than an appealing incentive.

The cuts on his feet were all but healed and the infected wounds on his back had stopped smelling like death. Other than the fact that he was still wearing more bandages than clothes, Aramis felt certain that he was ready to get back to his life.

Of course, if he were to follow everyone else's advice on the matter, Aramis would remain in his bed for a few more days and finish getting his strength back properly. But that would mean asking Athos and Porthos what was happening and what they were so angry about and, honestly, Aramis was not certain that they would answer him with the truth. As it was, they had barely been honest about their own injuries, despite the fact that he could clearly see the limp in Athos walk and the way Porthos protected his side.

It was not that he had lost faith in his friends or thought any less of them, but ever since his return to the garrison, Aramis felt like they were treating him somewhat...differently. Where once had been the beginnings of a true brotherhood, there was now an awkwardness that felt unfamiliar and intrusive, making Aramis' heart ache with the feeling of loss for what might have been.

He had not been aware of much over the course of the last days, memories past a certain point into his ordeal in the tunnels gaining the cloudy consistence of dreams, making it impossible for him to discern what had been real and what his feverish mind had conjured up to torment him.

There was no recollection in his mind of being found by Athos and Porthos, or of his and Constance's –apparently- dashing rescue using nothing more than fireworks and a good bit of sharp-shooting; on that matter, in fact, Aramis was quite certain that Porthos and Athos were having a laugh at his expense. He also had no recollection of even knowing a woman by the name of Constance.

What Aramis did remembered was a youthful ghost who stole coins from his pocket and Marsac, wanting him to follow somewhere. While he had been told that the 'ghost' was in fact a young girl named Charlotte, Marsac's presence could be nothing more than a figment of his imagination, for it seemed improbable –impossible- that the other man would've returned to Paris with the single purpose of seeking Aramis in the tunnels underneath Paris and aid in his escape.

For a brief time after returning from Savoy, Aramis had entertained the idea of leaving it all behind and go in search for Marsac on his own, to give up his dream as a Musketeer, find the man who had saved in life during the massacre and repay his debt. But he had been weak and had felt safe inside the walls of the garrison and that idea, that compulsion, slowly died away. Still, Aramis often wondered where his former companion might be and what was his life now. Was Marsac even alive still? Had he remained in French soil? It was hard to imagine any sort of happy answer to those questions when the last image he had of Marsac was that of a broken man, walking away into a wintery forest.

With his mind so taken by those memories, it was possible that he had mentioned Marsac to the others, perhaps even confuse one of them for his lost companion. Could they recognize the name? Had they finally discovered his involvement with Savoy? It preoccupied Aramis that there was so much about the week before that he could not remember and piece together. What could he have said or do that justified Porthos' and Athos' odd behavior?

There had been a strange expression in both Porthos' and Athos' eyes when he caught them looking at him of late. Aramis had initially thought that they might have been angry at him, for keeping his mission a secret and putting their lives at risk when they were forced to go rescue him. That he could have understand and, after asking for their forgiveness and comprehension, he was certain that things could have returned to their proper place.

But the expression was not one of anger, of even disappointment. If he allowed his own insecurities and fears to have the run of his thoughts, Aramis would say that it was pity he was seeing in his friends' eyes.

The only justification that Aramis could think was that his actions during the time he had been a prisoner of the Cardinal's man were the cause of such sentiment. But only two people had been present to witness his humiliation and, while he was fairly certain that he'd not said anything about the matter during the days he had been lost in fever, the same could not be said about his torturer.

Porthos had left one of his head scarves behind, the tips folded and tied so that Aramis could easily use it to support his broken arm whenever he was sitting up. Still, slipping into a pair of breeches and pulling on his boots using only one hand proved to be an epic effort that had left the injured Musketeer sweating and shaking.

Outside, the voices had lowered in tone, quickly surpassed by the familiar noises from a busy garrison. The distant sound of hammers, that had been his constant companion during the week he had spent in bed, were still banging away, the odd heartbeat of a wooden building in repair somewhere inside the garrison's grounds.

His ungainly walk, hindered by sore feet and supported by only one hand, gave Aramis away before he could surprise any of them. Athos, Porthos and the Captain were sitting by the table nearest to the kitchen, clay glasses and a bottle of wine scattered in the space between them. As he neared the edge of the steps that would take him to the courtyard, Aramis could feel the change in their mood, their voices quietening down as soon as they were aware of his presence.

It was not the first time it had happened. In the past days, more often than not, Aramis would wake up in his bed with the feeling that a conversation had been happening on the edges of his consciousness, only to be cut short as soon as someone noticed that his eyes were open. From the guilty looks on their faces, both in his quarters and now, Aramis could almost guess that his name had been involved in the discussed topic.

"Aramis!" Porthos let out, a forced quality to the enthusiasm in his voice. "Wha'ya doing up, mate?"

Aramis swallowed all the questions that he wanted to ask and bit down his desire to call them out on their subterfuge. "I got bored," he simply said, partly in truth.

Maneuvering the wooden stairs down made him question whether if getting out of bed had been such a great idea after all. Midway through it his feet already felt like they were on fire and his legs were shaking like a newborn colt. Deciding to save himself from an ungraceful fall down the steps, Aramis bent down his knees with a sonorous pop and sat down on the step, looking for all intents and purposes like that had been his plan all along.

He had expected several rebukes, maybe even an attempt to force him back into his quarters; instead, Aramis' poorly disguised failure at keeping himself on his feet had been met by silence. Looking up from his intense study of his own boots, he almost growled in frustration. There is was again, that collective look that made him feel exposed and inadequate.

Even the Captain seemed to have joined in, gazing up at him like Aramis was a broken thing that he had no idea how to fix. It was a familiar look in the Captain's eyes, the same look he had given Aramis after their return from Savoy. It made Aramis feel flushed and nauseated, thinking about what it could possibly mean.

"Would you like some food?" Athos offered, the distraction saving Aramis from making a fool of himself in front of them. "Maybe some cheese and watered down wine?"

The idea of opening his mouth to do anything else other than expel the bile rising up from his stomach, seemed unappealing and impossible at the moment. "Of course," Aramis found himself saying with a smile. After all, he too knew how to play the deception game.

The idea that his friends were aware of something shameful about his actions grew inside Aramis, taking room inside his chest and leaving space for nothing else, not even air. He needed to know for sure or be forever unable to look them in the eye.

The following day he planned to do something about it. Now that he found himself walking more or less on his own and no longer under such close scrutiny from both Athos and Porthos, Aramis decided that it was time to put his doubts to rest. It was perhaps an ill-advised plan, a terrible idea even, but one that Aramis could not bring himself to let go.

When asked directly, the others were all-too evasive and vague in their details of what had happened or even what had been the fate of those responsible for the garrison's explosion. Athos and Porthos had told him that the Cardinal had managed to escape unblemished from the entire matter but that his man - Rochefort they had called him - had been imprisoned, his guilt more than clear for all to see. Not only had the man confessed to the explosions, he'd admitted to being the one to have murdered Gerard in his prison cell.

And that, above all else, was the image that the Musketeer needed to see to sleep better at night. For all that he could tell himself and the others that it had all been a mission and that he had no regrets or misplaced feelings about what had happened, the truth was that Rochefort had made him suffer and doubt himself. More than physically, it had been the man's words that Aramis could not forget.

Athos would tell him that he had nothing to prove, that he should let the matter go. And right as he was about that, Aramis could still see the anger and the bloodlust that took over his friends' gazes whenever the Comte's name was mentioned. Something important had been lost, and Aramis wanted it back.

Aramis owed Rochefort nothing, but he also did not wish for the last image he had of the man to be his smirking face, enjoying himself as he broke a Musketeer. No, the last image that Aramis wished to have was of the man in tatters, behind iron bars, pissing into a bucket.

It was hardly the most pious of sentiments, but then again Aramis admitted to being nothing else but a flawed man, with much room for improvement. And it would certainly make him sleep better at night.

In his head, Aramis had already planned the entire conversation that he would have with Rochefort, how he would pry from the man every answer that he needed and how he would make sure that he was being told the truth. He was prepared to look straight into those cold eyes and feel nothing at all other than pity and disdain, to rise above the filth inside that prison cell and know in his heart that he was the better man.

Aramis had barely taken notice of the streets he walked past, until his feet stopped in front of the gates of the Bastille, Paris' singular prison for those of noble birth. His heart raced inside his chest at the prospect of facing his foe, partly in doubt of whether his mind would once more betray him, partly in excitement for the imminent verbal duel.

The one thing Aramis had not been prepared for was to hear the jailer at the door telling him, in no uncertain terms, that the Comte de Rochefort was no longer a prisoner there, for he had been released earlier that week, on the King's orders.

~§~

Athos had waited at the arranged meeting place for hours, before resigning himself to accept the fact that Charlotte was not coming. His first thought had been one of deep fear for the young girl's safety, imagining that Bourdon had learned of her involvement in Athos escape from the Court and had taken his revenge on the child.

He had been fully prepared to march into the Court of Miracles and search for the young girl for himself when a boy, around Charlotte's age, pulled at his sleeve.

Athos recoiled and made a grab for his sword, having taken no notice of the boy's nearness until he had touched him.

"Y're the one they call 'Thos?" the boy asked, looking up at him with large brown eyes. He had seen the aborted movement towards the weapon, seemingly content that the blade remained sheathed. "'Tis is fer ya, sir, from Charlotte."

Athos let go of his sword, suddenly feeling foolish for having reached for it in the first place. He blamed his edginess on recent events and the fact that Rochefort was out of his prison cell, but truly he had just been too distracted by his thoughts and the touch had startled him.

The boy was holding up a purse in hands, the softening leather signaling its emptiness. Aramis' coin purse. "She said tha' t'coins were fer her help and tha' was all the payment she'd been requiring," the boy went on, pushing the piece of leather into Athos' gloved hand. Once empty, his hand remained extended, expecting a payment of his own.

Stunned, Athos fished the first coin that his fingers touched inside his pocket and handed it to the boy, not even looking at its value. Charlotte's message had been as evident as the boy's extended hand. She had no need for his help.

Touched by the girl's aid and sharp personality, Athos had offered to procure an apprentice position for her at the palace before they had parted ways. Collecting every favor he had managed to gather, a position had been secured for her as a chamber maid and Athos had send word for her to tell her the good news.

It was clear that she was of a different opinion.

Athos clenched the empty purse in his hand, realizing that the boy was long gone. His heart felt small and tight, thinking of what might become of Charlotte's future inside the Court. But his only options were to either march into the Court with his fellow Musketeers and prove the child's misgivings about soldiers right, or he could respect her choice.

~§~

Porthos cut through the long piece of wood methodically, the serrated edge of the blade in his hands moving back and forth amidst a cloud of sawdust. His face and back were already covered in sweat and dust, even if his thoughts were too far away to take notice of such mundane things.

In the following days after Aramis' rescue and the Red Guards' attack, the Captain had become more distant and quicker to lose his temper around the garrison.

It had not taken long for him and Athos to figure out that one of the reasons behind Treville's ill disposition was due to the news he'd received from the King the day after they had brought Aramis back home.

Rochefort was free.

The King had fallen for the Cardinal' rhetoric once more and had allowed himself to be convinced that the Comte could be of better service to France as a spy on Spanish soil. A dangerous mission that, given the odds, could still end in the death sentence that Treville had fought for, but that for all intents and purposes, meant that the vile man had regained his freedom.

To the Captain, the position in Spain was nothing more than the Cardinal's reward for the loyalty his man had shown. Rochefort's words had guaranteed Richelieu's safety in the meeting with the King and, rather than have him killed and raise further suspicions or give the Musketeers time to gather more proof, the First Minister had used his influence with the King to cleverly placed Rochefort out of their reach.

All that Aramis had been through, all the heartache and pain, the shame that had been brought to his name by being falsely accused of murdering another man, his imprisonment, his suffering at Rochefort's hands, none would matter for a thing, because one of those responsible for it was the King's right-hand man and the other was currently on his way to another kingdom, where they could not follow without the risk of being labeled spies as well.

Porthos had not received the news well, punching his fist through the stable's wooden wall to avoid going to the palace and punch the Cardinal himself. The same wall he was currently repairing, because the Captain had not been pleased by his angry display.

While they had all agreed that it was best not to tell Aramis until the man had regained some of his strength back, none of them were particularly good at hiding their personal feelings on the matter whenever he was around.

Fortunately for them, Aramis was not around much yet, his body still tiring too easily after the fever and his mind allowing for little rest during the night.

It shouldn't have surprised Porthos that, strong-willed as he was, Aramis had taken the matter into his own hands as soon as he had been able to walk more than five feet without losing his breath.

With the rain falling heavily, as it had been for the past hour, there were not that many Musketeers wandering around the training square. The familiar lone figure walking across the yard was all-too-easy to spot.

The sight of his friend, face still pale and gaunt hidden in the shadow of his feathered hat, bracing his broken arm against his chest as he dejectedly walked by gave Porthos enough pause to pull him from his wandering thoughts. "Aramis?"

Last time he had seen the younger man, he'd been in his quarters, claiming that he wished to do some reading for the remainder of the morning. Clearly a planned lie, for he had just walked through the front archway, coming from the street.

Upon hearing his name, Aramis looked up, water falling from his hat and down his back as he moved his head. "'tis not a good time for a conversation, my friend," he offered with a fake smile, pulling his cloak closer. "Perhaps later..."

Porthos set the saw down, cleaning his sweaty hands on his breeches. His heart thundered inside his chest, worried at the defeated tone he could hear in his friend's voice. Looking up, he could see that the Captain's door was closed and the man himself was nowhere in sight.

Athos had been gone all day, attending to a personal matter that Porthos was fairly sure involved the new friend he had made at the Court of Miracles. For some reason, the man seemed determined to save that one little girl from the same life that Porthos had led, a sentiment that the tall Musketeer could only praise.

But that left him alone to find an answer when Aramis turned to face him once more and quietly asked, '"Did you know? Did all of you?"

Porthos made no attempt to pretend he did not know of what Aramis spoke of; he would not offend his friend in such manner. He could only nod. They had hidden the truth to protect him, but he could see now that doing so had only made matters worse.

When the punch hit him straight in the jaw, the pain and strength behind it was as surprising as the action itself. "Wha-?"

Aramis, however, didn't seem ready to stop and explain himself. His fist was flying again, aiming for Porthos' left eye. Porthos raised his right arm, blocking the attack. The force behind the punch that hit his forearm was enough to make the bone sting. "What are ya doing?" he yelled, blocking yet another punch. More than the strength of the blows, it was the fact that Aramis was using his broken arm as well as his left that was worrying Porthos. The pain didn't seemed to be registering with the man now, but Porthos was sure that it would manifest itself soon enough.

Strangely, Aramis was not blindly attacking him in some fit of rage; that much was easy to realize. He was methodical and expertly pushing Porthos from under the cover of the stable's roof and into the mud-filled yard, where the larger man's weight would make it harder for him to keep his balance and defense. Whatever was going through his friend's mind, Porthos could see that his aim was not to vent his anger but rather to defeat him in combat.

However, the last thing that Porthos wanted to do was hit Aramis back and make matters worse. He'd sparred with Aramis before, either in training exercises requested by Treville, or simply because they were bored. They had also fought side-by-side, mostly in tavern brawls brought on by Porthos' gambling or Aramis' amorous adventures. This was nothing like either of those situations.

Porthos deflected and defended himself from the other man's fists as best he could, but he refused to attack with anything else but his pleas for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, Porthos just resigned himself to be the outlet for whatever it was that his brother was feeling. If that would help Aramis at all, Porthos would gladly accept a broken nose in the trade.

"Fight me, damn you!" Aramis breathed out, his arms hanging by his sides, sweat and rain running down the side of his face. His hat, lost shortly after the first lunge, was a soggy mess by the side of the stable. "Why do you refuse to fight me?"

Porthos frowned, blood dripping down from his split eyebrow. "Why would I do tha'?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Isn't that how Treville tests the new recruits?" Aramis offered, clutching his right arm close to his chest, even as he circled to attack again. "Isn't this how they prove their worth?"

The question had been so earnestly asked that Porthos could only assume that Aramis was not jesting. It was enough to stun him, frozen in place, staring at his friend. Why in God's name would Aramis think that he needed to prove his worth to anyone?

The world shifted on its axis around Porthos and it took him a second to realize that the reason for that was Aramis' leg, swiping his feet from under him and throwing him onto his back. Mud splashed across his eyes and the world dimmed a few shades as his head hit the ground.

When Porthos managed to force his eyes to stop blinking and focus, Aramis was straddling his chest, left fist poised for attack. He was trembling hard, the fury that seemed to have fueled him until that point slowly ebbing away.

"Ya're not a new recruit," Porthos reminded him, his gaze trading the menacing fist for his friend's eyes. There was such pain in there... "Everyone here knows ya've nothin' to prove to anyone, mon ami...why would ya think otherwise?"

"I-" Aramis started, breathing deeply, nostrils flaring. "I failed with Rochefort...I failed as a Musketeer...you all believe me too broken, or too fragile, or too much of a fool to be treated as an equal and I-"

The words were pouring out of his mouth and Porthos was no longer certain that they were even directed at him. One thing was certain though... "We don't believe you broken, Aramis," he voiced, hoping his friend could hear his sincerity through the turmoil in his head. "We never did."

"Then why did you hide Rochefort's release from me? Why do you treat me like an old, dry piece of parchment, something bound to give in at the slightest hint of pressure?"

Suddenly Porthos knew exactly how badly their attempts to act naturally and keep their emotions hidden had been, the damage that they had caused by even trying. He knew where Aramis had gone and what he had discovered there. He was right; they should've told him. "Ya're one of the bravest men I know, Aramis," Porthos whispered, tears welling up in his eyes under cover of the rain. "And ya're right, we should've told ya sooner, we should've been honest with ya, but after all that had happened and the way yer mind kept going back to Sav..."

Aramis' body went rigid, his raised hand dropping to the ground, his balance suddenly lost. "What do you speak of?"

Porthos closed his eyes, escaping for a moment from the intensity of the gaze scrutinizing him, judging his words. He had promised himself that he would wait for the right time to approach the matter of Savoy and the massacre with Aramis, perhaps after a good amount of wine had been shared by both and words became slurred, and emotions too drowned and slow to overcome the conversation. Instead, his mouth had run ahead of him and chosen now, of all times, to bring the matter to light. Perhaps Aramis would be furious enough to punch him into oblivion and Porthos could pretend he had never said those words. "Aramis..."

The crowd that had gathered around their fight became suddenly apparent, their argument being witnessed by all the Musketeers who happened to be in the garrison. The collective weight of their attentive gazes crashed upon Porthos and Aramis with the strength of herd of wild horses and if Porthos felt crushed by it, Aramis seemed to have completely lost the ability to move or even breath.

It was all too easy for Porthos to push his friend aside and drag him along towards shelter, under the stable's roof. Their audience outside lost its interest as they no longer seemed intent in killing each other and disappeared from view. Their audience, inside, was more concerned with the tasty bundles of hay in front of them than with the two humans in their midst.

"Aramis, please, breathe," Porthos found himself pleading. What little color there had been in his friend's face had washed away and try as he might, Porthos couldn't see Aramis' chest moving. "I swear t'ya, no one else knows. Please, trust me on tha'."

Aramis pushed him away, stumbling towards the wall Porthos had been repairing, his left hand searching the feel of the wood as an anchor, guiding his way down as he collapsed. "How did you..." he finally whispered, hiding his face behind his hands. "Was it the Captain?"

Porthos lowered himself down, sitting next to his friend. "T'Cap'ain didn't say a word," he confessed. "So, it's true then...ya were there, with'em?"

Aramis nodded, forcing his hands down as he looked sideways, meeting Porthos' eyes. "Do you think even less of me now? Do you believe me a coward...a traitor? Please, say it plainly if it is so and do not torture me with kind words!"

Porthos couldn't believe what his ears were hearing. He felt deeply worried for a brother who had been put through so much pain and sorrow; he felt shame at the joy he had experienced at knowing that Aramis had survived when so many others had perished; and he certainly felt proud that, despite all that, his friend was still one of the bravest and kindest men Porthos had ever met in his life. In all of that and the countless other feelings and emotions he was experiencing at the moment, Porthos could not fathom a single reason to think less of Aramis. "I think ya're a bloody fool, tha's wha'I think," he said bluntly.

That certainly gave Aramis pause. "A fool? For what? Questioning your actions or failing to question mine?"

"Both, fer tha' matter," Porthos said, giving it some thought. "Ya have y'er reasons to keep this a secret, and they're y'er reasons to have, but know that every man in this garrison respects ya and is proud t'fight by y'er side...I know Athos and myself couldn't be prouder t'call ya a brother," he went on, a smile spreading across his lips. "But y'er reasons don't mean you have t'face those memories, t'weight of wha'happen', all alone."

Aramis bit his lip, running his good hand through his wet hair, leaving it sticking out in all directions. "I-"

"The writing above the front arch, what does it mean?"

Both Porthos and Aramis jumped at the third voice, neither having noticed when Athos had entered the stable, leading his wet horse inside.

"I have seen you read books written in Latin, I know you can understand its meaning," Athos went on, stubbornly looking like he wasn't going anywhere until he got his answer.

"Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno," Aramis recited, the words flat against his tongue, like they meant nothing at all.

"One for all," Athos translated, "and-"

"And all for one," Porthos finished. While he couldn't understand Latin, the meaning of the inscription that greeted every Musketeer upon his return to the garrison had been one of the first things he had asked. The motto seemed so simple and yet it was there to remind them always of something very important. "It means," he said, gripping Aramis' shoulder, "y'er never alone, no matter how hard ya try."

"And that you can always count on your brothers to stand by your side," Athos added, sitting down on Aramis' other side, effectively flanking him between his two friends.

Aramis smiled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "One for all?"

"And all for one, brother," Athos and Porthos said. "All for one."

~§~ EPILOGUE ~§~

Six years later

Athos was beginning to wonder if the Captain was trying to personally punish him for some foul deed that currently escaped his recollection.

There had been that tavern brawl the past week with a couple of Red Guards, but that had been mostly D'Artagnan and Aramis' fault rather than his own. The only thing he and Porthos had done was stop their friends from overtaxing themselves in their task of breaking as many Red Guards' noses as they could.

And the week before that, there was the whole mess with Marie de Medici's return and Aramis' running off with the King's legitimate –even if slightly unknown- nephew and heir to the throne, but that had been as much the Captain's fault as their own and they had managed to keep everything under secrecy and come off smelling of roses.

No, the real reason why the Captain had assigned such a vile task to him and not the others was because deep down inside, the man hated actually him.

Probably as much as Athos hated training new recruits.

It had been a couple of years since Treville had veered from the usual path of handpicking men to join the Musketeers and had begun to offer the opportunity to any who wished to try, high and low born in equal measure. Gone as well were the fights with Porthos to prove their worth, as it had been for Athos. For some reason, the big man refused to continued to do so after the events that led to Rochefort's exile from France and Treville had not been able to convince him otherwise ever since.

Which meant that the responsibility of maintaining the excellency that the regiment was known for had fallen on the shoulders of those training the new recruits, unfortunate souls like Athos at the present time. Of the new batch, there was one in particular that seemed to be not entirely bad, a young fellow with a spring to his step and who seemed incapable of being still for more than two minutes.

As if Athos did had enough trouble with D'Artagnan...

The fact was, the kid showed promise. He was light on his feet and not entirely bad with a sword. His agility and swiftness made up for his slender body and shortness and more often than not, he would best those twice his size.

"You're holding it wrong, Charles," Athos let out with a sigh. So much for promise... "The wrist must remain loose, your strength coming from the arm instead, or you'll find yourself losing your sword within seconds of your first fight," he reminded, holding the youth's arm to explain.

Startled blue eyes rose up to meet his and Athos froze in place. It had been years since the memory of her had entered his mind, and yet now, looking at those eyes, Athos felt himself taken back to the time when he had first met feisty little Charlotte. But it could not be, could it?

"Stare any longer and people will start talking... sir," the youth said with a wicked smile.

And if the eyes had left doubts in his mind, that smile had been certain to clear them. It was Charlotte, her hair cut in a manly fashion and her feminine shapes hidden beneath the loosen clothing and a long doublet, but there was no mistaking the fact that it was her.

"You offered me help once," she said, her voice low in deference to those who might have been listening to them. "I've decided to accept it."

Athos felt divided in between the need to smile at her gumption and the urge to throttle her neck. "That was six years ago," he reminded her. The number of times he had wondered what had become of this child, if she was safe, if there was a roof over her head and food on her table. "And you said no then."

She lowered her eyes. Her hair had become darker as she grew older, but it still curled as it covered her eyes. "I also changed my opinion on Musketeers," she reminded him.

Athos frowned, not because the truthfulness of her words, but because of the position she was placing him in. By all rules and orders that he had, Athos should report her deceit and escort her out, never to return. There was no room for women in a soldiers' garrison. But then again, by all rules and orders, he should have died in the Court of Miracles six years ago and Aramis left to rotten underneath the streets of Paris until someone stumbled across his corpse. Following rules, as Treville often reminded him, was not Athos' best quality. "And you think yourself worthy of becoming one?" he asked her, the same question that was thrown to every recruit at least once a day.

Her smile brightened, eyes rising up to meet his once again. "I can only hope to one day be scary enough to look like a Musketeer," Charlotte replied with a wink. "But then again...you still don't look scary enough to be one either."

Athos smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he remembered those as being the first words that they had exchanged. "Are we meant to be scary?" he asked now just like he had asked then.

"Only to those who deserve it," Charlotte replied, her voice mirroring the fervor if her conviction.

Athos nodded. Yes, she would make a fine Musketeer one day. He and his companions would make sure of that. But in the meantime... "Aramis! Come here!" he called out, knowing that his friend was at the stables, tending to his horse and spoiling him with sweet apples. "Found a ghost who'd like to rob you..."

The end

AN: Well, that's it folks! When I was a kid, there was this amazing Animé version of the Musketeers on TV, in which Aramis was secretly a woman. When it came to find a resolution for Charlotte's fate, I could not resist to use that!

I hope to have entertained you with this tale and that it was as joyful and pleasant for you as it was for me writing it. To all who have reviewed, liked or simply read this story, my heartfelt THANK YOU!

Also, I could not end this without leaving another word of sincere gratitude to Laurie_bug, who was simply amazing throughout the whole thing!

See you all soon!