~Aramis~


Aramis had never had the pleasure of siblings. That is, not until he had arrived at the garrison. There he had discovered the greatest family he had ever known. But even then his brothers had always felt older than him: Athos with his wealth of scholarly knowledge and Porthos with his savvy of the streets and wisdom of the inner workings of Paris.

That was until a certain young Gascon had snuggled his way into their small circle of brothers, rather like a kitten, Aramis had once seen, curled up against three hunting dogs – though he was fairly certain the Gascon would not appreciate the comparison.

Unlike his fellow musketeers, Aramis had been a slight apprehensive about the prospect of having a younger brother. Porthos had been the most eager to embrace the young Gascon as a kid brother, he had believed in him from the moment d'Artagnan arrived. And though Athos was reserved, he had known the responsibility of being an older sibling both in blood and bond, so he easily slipped into his role.

But Aramis...?

Aramis was learning on the job.

Sometimes he felt the role of an older brother was rather exhausting. The lad may have been sharp with a sword and clever in a tight spot, but at times d'Artagnan seemed to have to smarts of a week-old filly.

"That bread has mould on it, d'Artagnan…" Aramis had had to point out to the lad one morning as they walked upon horseback down a rocky stretch of road.

"That means don't eat it!" Aramis had groaned, confused why he would have to even explain had that to the boy.

Aramis had once again had to discourage the Gascon from consuming things that were most likely going to make him sick, when he'd walked into the garrison - "Don't drink that water, it's for horses, d'Artagnan."

And then on one interesting occasion – "Prostitute, d'Artagnan."

However the present moment called for the young Gascon to be petulantly pacing the length of Tréville's office, glaring heatedly at the three of them as he prepared himself for the day's events.

"I don't see why I must always be the one to betray you…" D'Artagnan muttered peevishly as he buckled his flintlock pistol to his belt.

"It has to be believable," Athos murmured a stoic reply, leaning back against the wooden door frame to Tréville's quarters, his hat dipped low masking his features. His eyes flickered towards the heated young Gascon, revealing a glimmer of amusement, before he turned back to the longer corridor he was watching. This expertly concealed glee would have been lost to all those but the three other men in who occupied the room.

Upon receiving this look, D'Artagnan sharped his gaze and lowered his brow to convey his stance on the matter.

Aramis could see the worry deeply hidden upon Athos' face as he watched the boy fuss. Ever since the disaster of their last deception with Milady, Athos had been extra cautious with allowing d'Artagnan on stealth missions without their protection.

However this mission was unavoidable.

An imminent threat upon the King's life had been discovered. Rumours had begun to spread around Paris that Édouard Degas, a disgraced ex-musketeer - who had sworn vengeance against the Musketeers – had been forming a society of anti-royalist supporters. Notable figures who could be associated with Huguenot sympathies as well as some members of the King's court had all been seen entering Degas' residence to discuss matters that were most certainly concerning a plot against the King. Veiled in heavy secrecy no one knew what was spoken of inside the apartments and no one entered without the strict permission of Degas himself.

Which was were d'Artagnan was to come into it. He was to play the dishonoured musketeer and seek aid from Degas, gain his trust and verify the truth of these rumours – for if they be true then the musketeers could act and quell this rebellion before it even breathed life.

They had planned to publicly discredit d'Artagnan in front of Degas in the same manner in which the ex-musketeer had been shamed, in hopes to play upon his sympathies. It was to be public and unmerciful, though once the mission was complete, they would redeem d'Artagnan's name most sufficiently.

"Why can't one of you do it?" He sighed, looking towards the others for support. "You could play the part just the same as I can."

"Why would we betray each other?" Aramis frowned slightly with a cock of his head, his tone one of mock astonishment.

"Very unchivalrous conduct of a Musketeer," Porthos added with an impish smirk from where he sat half resting upon the desk of the Captain.

"Besides you're so good at it," Aramis gave the boy a smug grin, causing d'Artagnan's scowl to darken.

"A little too good," Porthos pushed himself off the desk, towering over the younger man with mock suspicion.

"No more practice, Porthos," Athos muttered, "we should depart soon, meet at the rally point. D'Artagnan we have already practiced this, Degas is set to arrive in an hour, now I cannot force you to do this and if you do not wish to say the word right now, but the King's life may be in danger and time is of the essence."

"Fine, but this is the last time I do this!" D'Artagnan he pointed a sharp finger at Aramis and Porthos, "you three are ruining my good name!"

"What good name?" Aramis smiled wolfishly at the young Gascon.

D'Artagnan's only response was a heated glare in the musketeer's direction.

"Grumpy little one aren't you?" Porthos smirked, much to the lad's annoyance.

"I shall meet you in an hour," d'Artagnan grumbled as he made his way to the door.

"D'Artagnan," Athos stopped him leaving with an arm stretched out across the doorway. "Don't get shot this time," he warned the young Gascon sternly, his brow wrinkling with concern.

"Well don't shoot me then," d'Artagnan retorted quickly with a sharp smile, pushing past Athos to make his way through the door. "And, watch the uniform," he added to Athos with a serious tone, "I'm going to be angry if any of you ruin it."

"Cheeky little bugger…" Porthos chuckled as they watched d'Artagnan run off down the corridor.

†††

The days had grown shorter and bitterly cold as the year's end drew closer. A heavy veil of frost and fog had set upon the city as November's chill had begun to turn into December's biting winter. They had all taken to wearing their heavier coats, in hopes the day's chill would not pierce through.

"God almighty, I would give my left arm for some sun and heat!" Porthos groaned as he pulled his cloak tighter around his chest, shivering into its embrace.

"Never happy, are you… in summer you complain of the heat, in winter the cold." Aramis chided conversationally as they made their way to the rally position.

"Well why can't the weather stay at a permanent temped state?" Porthos

"But then you would complain of it being too mild," Athos cut in with a small smirk.

"Oh very funny," Porthos grumbled, crossing his arms tight across his chest in hopes of protecting himself against the wind.

"There's Degas," Aramis noted softly, dipping his head down to allow his hat to shadow his face.

"I see him," Athos nodded, diverting his gaze elsewhere so that the ex-musketeer would not realise he was being watched.

"D'Artagnan is in position, ready on your count." Porthos whispered low as Athos took a cup of wine.

With a sharp and deliberate nod, Athos brought the cup to his lips, though did not drink a single drop.

Aramis hide a smirk as he watched the beginnings of their charade unfold. Athos placed the cup down as d'Artagnan sprang from the busy market crowd, storming up to them in a desperate frenzy.

"Athos, please, let me explain!" d'Artagnan pleaded.

"How dare you show your face here!" Athos roared as he grabbed the younger man by the collar of his doublet. "You are no a man of honour nor are you musketeer!"

"I didn't –" d'Artagnan tried once more, but Athos cut him off.

"You do not deserve the honour of wearing this," Athos snarled ferociously as he grabbed hold of the insignia upon d'Artagnan's shoulder, which d'Artagnan had unlatched in preparation – not wanting any harm to come to his precious uniform during the scrap.

"No!" d'Artagnan cried out as though wounded.

Though this was all an act, Aramis knew the pained look of shame and defeat upon d'Artagnan's face, as Athos tore the young Gascon's prized leather pauldron from his shoulder, was real.

D'Artagnan had worked so hard for his commission and to lose that, even in a fictional scenario such as this, was devastating for the boy.

Wait, why was Porthos looking at him like that?

Oh, it was his line.

Aramis forced his eyes to darken with distain as he pushed his young comrade to the muddied ground.

"You disgust me," Aramis readied a globule of spittle in his mouth to spit at the Gascon, only to find that most of it ended up upon his own beared chin rather than the boy before him.

In the briefest of moments, they both held the other in their gaze. Aramis was sure that d'Artagnan was about to break character and laugh at him, which in turn would have caused Aramis to laugh as well. As it was, Aramis was biting his lip painfully to stop himself from smirking.

Thankfully, Athos had seen the amusement in both their eyes and adlibbed, quickly pushing Aramis away from d'Artagnan forcefully, enough to make them refocus their efforts.

Now was not the time to laugh about such things, tomorrow they could laugh.

"What is going on here?" A fellow guardsman wondered, as he stepped forward, out of the crowds. This man was under Captain des Essarts' command if the recognisable crest upon his shoulder was anything to go by.

With Degas watching from the shadows, they could not afford to let slip of their charade, though he hated tainting d'Artagnan's name and honour in front of other guardsmen.

"D'Artagnan has betrayed us all," Aramis snarled menacingly, watching Porthos and Athos taking on his parts without missing a beat, "he is a traitor to the Musketeers."

"Then we shall aid you in being rid of this coward!" Another stepped forward with his sword unsheathed, this one Aramis recognised as François – a young guard who had recently been commissioned into des Essarts' company. A little brash and unexperienced, the boy often reminded Aramis of their own little Gascon.

François has clear aspirations of become a musketeer, though will little skill and a hot temper, he had fallen into the ranks of the general guard. Even still he worshiped Tréville's musketeers like the holiest of heroes and hung upon their every word as if they were his commanding officers.

"This is our business here, gentleman, I bid you leave us to it." Aramis informed them delicately, not wishing the overconfident young guards to come anywhere near the scene they had so carefully planned out.

"As you wish, sir," François nodded reverently. Were this any other time, Aramis would have delighted in the worship of a young recruit, though at this moment he had other more pressing duties to perform.

"Get out of here!" Aramis turned to see Porthos throw d'Artagnan across the street, thankful that the Gascon had landed correctly so that he would not injure himself. And with that cue, it was his turn to enter once more.

"If I ever see you in Paris again I shall kill you myself!" Aramis roared murderously, rather glad he had procured a bottle for after this performance as all this yelling was making his voice hoarse.

D'Artagnan took his cue perfectly and scurried off down the bustling streets. A quick glance to his left informed Aramis that Degas had fled in the boy's direction as anticipated.

†††

It was an entire day later that the trio stood stoic before the Captain's desk. They had come rather accustomed to this familiar setting. The three of them had been called in to the office so many times over the years – some good, some bad. However there was now something missing as they stood in the room. Something had they had not cognitively recognised until it was no longer there.

D'Artagnan's presence had been absent for all those years before he had arrived at the garrison and it had never felt lacking. But now as they stood before the Captain, they could all feel it, the absence of a brother.

"D'Artagnan's still in hiding with Degas, I take it?" Tréville pressed quietly, once the door to his office had been closed.

"If he knows what's good for him," Athos muttered darkly.

"The entire garrison hates him," Aramis added with a regretful tone, "they think he's betrayed them all."

"Well that simply means you all performed your roles perfectly," Tréville noted proudly.

"Some of us…" Porthos jeered with a snarky tone as he sent Aramis a mock reproachful look.

"It was funny, d'Artagnan was about to laugh also," Aramis protested with a wolfish smirk

"Which would have put him and the mission at great risk," Athos growled lowly in disapproval.

"He'll be alright, Athos," Aramis sighed, sensing the tension growing in the other man, his worry consuming him. "He's done this before –"

"And look how they turned out!" Athos bit back, allowing his frustration to come to the surface.

"Degas is not Vadim, nor is he Milady de Winter," Aramis reasoned diplomatically, "even if d'Artagnan is discovered, Degas would not harm him."

"You are the only one here who knew him as a musketeer," Athos turned to Tréville for answers. "What would he do to d'Artagnan were he to be revealed as a musketeer spy?"

"All men change in the face of adversity, I cannot be sure which path Degas has chosen for himself."

"But he wouldn't hurt him," Porthos urged for verbal confirmation from their Captain.

"I cannot be certain of anything." Tréville told them honestly, never one to lie or mollycoddle in hopes of easing fears. "But that is not why I have called you here. I hate to delay d'Artagnan's return any longer, though I feel my hands tied in this situation." Tréville's tone was heavy with regret.

"The Cardinal has learnt of the Queen's missives to Spain, I need you three to ride out to Dourdan and greet the messenger before the Cardinal gains access to the letter."

Though curious, Aramis decided to take his own advice for once and remain completely uninvolved with the entire matter. What he did not know could not bite him in the arse later.

"One of us should stay in case d'Artagnan makes contact…" Athos insisted, clearly hinting that he should be the one to stay and watch over the young Gascon, "he has been with Degas for a day now, he should have something to tell us soon."

"I need you on this assignment, Athos," Tréville countered with an urgent tone, sounding tired and rather old, which was rather uncharacteristic of their valiant Captain. "The Queen's correspondent is the Count-Duke of Olivares, a favourite disciple of King Phillip IV and minister of Spain. He is powerful, yes, but also an open aristocrat and elitist, his messengers will only accept a musketeer of noble blood and title to carry his missive."

Porthos grumbled slightly, cracking his knuckles audibly in response to the unintentional slight about his common past.

"That does not stop you going, only from carrying the message," Athos explained tactfully, sounding rather as if he were encouraging Porthos to come along just so they could annoy the Count-Duke's messenger on account of technicalities.

Porthos sniffed petulantly and looked as if he were about to continue pouting, but then his expression changed. "I'll come then," he quickly accepted without another word, causing the others to give him an odd look, as the larger musketeer usually avoided dealing with discriminatory gentry. Sensing their confusion, Porthos added with a begrudging mutter, "I might also be trying to avoid a certain Madame Duvier…"

"She becomes infatuated so easily…" Aramis sighed with mocked sympathy, patting his friend's shoulder for support. For Madame Duvier was a well known adulterer, falling for each and every kind word and pretty smile – a romantic in her own eyes – though she was also notoriously flippant, becoming bored and apathetic as quickly as she had fallen.

"Few days out of the city might allow things to cool over," Porthos shrugged casually were talking about a stray cat that had followed him home, "even if it is to deal with some smug bastard."

"Then it is settled, the Count-Duke's messenger is set to be travelling by the South road through Le March. He was set to arrive in Dourdan yesterday." Tréville deposited a small sealed envelope into Athos' hand, "I suggest you leave immediately, the Cardinal may have already sent his men."

"We shall see it done," Athos tilted his head ever so slightly in respect and recognition, placing his hat upon his head as he moved to exit the Captain's office, the others quickly following his lead.

"I guess I that leaves me to watch over our youngest," Aramis concluded as they walked the length of the balcony towards the staircase.

Athos sent a lazy look of concern towards Aramis, brow raised slightly as he silently conveyed his thoughts, as he began to descend the stairs.

"I promise it will not end as it did last time." Aramis raised his hands in partial surrender towards the sour musketeer. All those present knew exactly what Aramis was referring to, though they had sworn under oath never to speak of it again.

"Besides, it's not as if I was the one bet the boy's life in a card game…"

"Oi! Traitor!" Porthos growled with a playful shove, pushing the other man into the wooden railing of the stairs, "well you're the one who forgot about him in brothel, only to remember the next day!"

"Porthos!" Aramis gapped, his eyes wide as his mouth dropped, "you swore!"

Porthos simply shrugged, apparently all was fair in love and dobbing on your friends...

"Gentlemen..."Athos' slow drawl was a touch louder than usual, his tone oozing authority as his words halted the two musketeers on the bottom few steps instantly.

"We must ride out immediately," he informed the larger musketeer before him, "Though perhaps on the way you can explain all you've both been neglecting to tell me…"

†††

It always amazing Aramis how often he would wish for tranquillity and how quickly he would grow bored of that peace once he obtained it. This is why he knew deep in his heart he would never take the cloth.

It had begun as a wonderfully relaxing morning; enjoying his breakfast without having to compete with the rabble and constant argument between Porthos and d'Artagnan over the last piece of bread nor with having to listen to the irritable moans of Athos as the musketeer came to grips with the idea of a brand new day. However, as he sat at the quiet table, alone, Aramis quickly began to realise these were the things he loved about his mornings. Without the squabble for bread, the table felt dead, as if it all the life had been sucked from the wood. Without Athos' petulant grumbles, there was no one to tease and laugh at as the grumpy man barked at the feuding man-children.

By the good Lord he was so utterly bored. With barely a soul at the garrison there was no one to spar or compete against nor was there anyone to hold a conversation with. The Captain was at the Palace and though Aramis had wished to go along as well, he had been given the duty of waiting upon a response from the young Gascon lad.

With weapons cleaned and sharped until a state of near impossible condition, Aramis found himself in the utterly horrid state of complete boredom. Sighing, he turned to throwing his dagger across the courtyard into a wooden pillar repetitively as well as firing his pistol just so that he could clean it once more.

After barely ten minutes of this consuming dullness, Aramis readily welcomed the sight of a familiar young woman appearing in the archway of the garrison, though it took a moment for him to place her as the Bonacieux's housemaid.

He watched her for a few moments as she nervously peered around the imposing barracks as if in desperate search of something.

Being the gentleman he was, he decided to quickly put her out of her misery, "may I help you, Mademoiselle?"

"Are you Monsieur Athos?"

"Can't say that I am, though if you have news regarding d'Artagnan, I have been entrusted to hear it."

To this the young woman before him bit her lip nervously; visibly reluctant to hand over any information to someone that was not Athos.

"I am Aramis of the King's Musketeers, as you can plainly see," he gestured at the garrison around him and the crest upon his pauldron, "I am a dear friend of both d'Artagnan and Athos, surely you have seen me in Monsieur d'Artagnan's company at the Bonacieux residence?"

"I, uh, yes, your face does seem familiar and the monsieur did also mention a Monsieur Aramis and a Monsieur Porthos which I should trust with this message also."

"Well, I am glad he decided to remember me," Aramis smiled widely though he had begun to grow a little frustrated with the Bonacieux's housemaid. "Does make things a little easier." He added in jest, though the maid was so timid she did not understand.

"He says to meet him here this evening at nine and that he has news." She relayed the message slowly as if she were making sure that each piece of information was completely correct.

"Did he say what type of news?" Aramis ventured, perhaps he should seek out the boy and aid him. Two days with a word had begun to play upon his nerves and worries.

"No, though he did seem to laugh at little when he told me his message," she noted, with a slightly confused expression.

"So he was well and unharmed?" Aramis pushed for any news that he had been successful and that he had not been mistreated in any way.

"I do believe so," the maid nodded earnestly, her eyes wide with truthful conviction.

"Thank you for delivering the message, it had eased my thoughts, tell d'Artagnan I shall be here."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan has already departed the Bonacieux's residence, though he assured me he would be here, regardless of the reply."

"Very well, good day, mademoiselle."

"Good day Monsieur," she curtsied with deep respect before hurrying away.

Notre Dame's bells tolled for the hour as the Bonacieux's housemaid left the garrison.

Nine in the evening, that left…

He listened closely the final toll with a heavy heart.

Twelves hours to himself…

Lord save him from this ongoing torture.

†††

D'Artagnan was late.

Well, technically it was Aramis that had been the late one. But d'Artagnan had not been at the garrison once Aramis had arrived, late yes – but only by five minutes or so.

Aramis had finally grew too bored to sit and wait in the garrison, so he had opted to spend a few hours in the arms of Madame Dedeux down the road. Hoping to drown out the buzzing of his head against the silence. To be honest he was reluctant to spend his time in this way, as his heart felt as though it belonged to Anne and their child – though he knew this could never be so. But in the end his boredom grew too great, the beating of his heart against his chest and the drum against his head was too loud to tune out. So Aramis had escaped into the Madame's bed and became so utterly and blissfully lost in her embrace.

Unfortunately, this lapse in judgment and weak-will was to be interrupted by a resonating tolling of bells, at the strike of nine.

"Christ, by all that is above!" Aramis swore as he berated himself furiously, knocking his head forcefully against the pillow before him.

"My thoughts exactly," Sabin Dedeux exhaled contently with a wide smile.

"I apologise profusely for my abrupt exit but I am afraid I must depart," Aramis informed the woman with practiced reluctance, pretending to dally though he fastened his buckles with a rapid pace.

"Shall I see you again?"

"When our stars align once more," Aramis cupped her hands in his own, kissing them tenderly before he snatched his hat from the bed. They both knew the pretence of this exchange, neither one truly cared for the other in the way in which they needed, but the warmth and comfort had been sufficient for an hour or two.

With no further words, Aramis had fled the woman's apartments, rushing forth down the street toward the garrison, only to find that his rushed actions had apparently not been needed as d'Artagnan was nowhere in sight.

"Saw him sulking about before," Serge shrugged nonchalantly when Aramis inquired after the young Gascon. "Must've got bored and went to look for you."

"Did you see which way he went?"

Serge had simply shrugged in answer to this question, though Aramis took off nonetheless, his head filled with anxious questions.

Had Degas followed d'Artagnan and learned the truth? Was that why the boy had fled the safety of the garrison? Had he been taken?

God, it was all his fault. Had he not sought Madame Dedeux's company, Aramis would have been waiting for him at the garrison.

"Where are you?" Aramis muttered aloud as his sharp eyes scoured the darkened streets for any sign of the young musketeer.

It was then he noticed the commotion at the end of the street. Three shadowy figures could be made out in the darkness. They were furious calling out undistinguishable taunts and jeers at an unseen target.

Walking further down the street, Aramis could just begin to make out what they were saying. A strange gasping sound could be heard for a moment before violent splashes of water rang through the street.

"You don't deserve a man's death," Aramis heard a man growl, "peasant scum."

"Those men were your brothers!" Another roared – François, from des Essarts' guard, Aramis recognised – as water splashed one more. "They are the greatest this city has every known and you dare to dishonour them?"

What he came to witness as he walked closer, stilled his heart.

A group of three uniformed guardsmen stood huddled over a horse trough; two men holding a fourth man in place as another shadowed over, fingers tightly gripped to the victim's hair, holding him under the water, mercilessly.

The limbs of the drowning man thrashed violently as he struggled to break free, desperately fighting a losing battle for air.

"You are a traitor and a coward!" One man spat upon the flailing victim, bringing his knee up into the drowning man's ribs, causing their victim to jolt against the blow and fall limp in their hold.

"What in God's name are you three doing?" Aramis called out to the youthful guardsmen in horror. Surely Captain des Essarts did not encourage torture of criminals, especially not upon the streets of Paris for all to bare witness to such an act?

"Aramis!" François yelped in surprise, releasing the victim's arm he had held. The other two kept their hold, though the one holding the man's hair pulled the limp victim's head out of frigid water trough.

As Aramis stepped closer he could finally who is was the three guardsmen had been torturing under the water.

It was as if all rational thought had left his mind as it tried to process the terror that struck him.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis bellowed as he tore across the street, his heart racing wilding in leaps and bounds, threatening to escape from its bony cage. Hands grasping desperately out as they reached d'Artagnan's wet and lifeless body, pushing his captors easily aside. Aramis completely ignored all things but the boy in his grasp.

The young Gascon was frightfully pale and icy cold to touch, his clothes were soaked through, dripping, though Aramis did not even notice.

"What have you done…?" The words caught in his throat as his knees gave out, bringing both he and d'Artagnan to the muddied cobblestoned road.

Trembling fingers found their way to the Gascon's cold throat, pressing gentling as he prayed desperately to God for a sign of life. A heart beat faintly under his fingertips, though what worried Aramis the most was the fact that d'Artagnan was not breathing. With one hurried motion, Aramis placed the young musketeer upon the ground, lying him flat in hopes to ease his breathing. The complete malleability of the boy's body was frightening to behold, he did not struggled nor protest as Aramis moved him about.

"Breathe, d'Artagnan you must breathe!" Aramis beseeched frantically, hands trailing over the Gascon's body for a wound or cut, something he could mend.

"D'Artagnan," he pleaded, taking the paling boy's limp head in his hands, cupping both sides of his face delicately as if he feared d'Artagnan might shatter at his touch.

"Please come back, come back to us." he begged in a whisper, unshed tears burning in his eyes, distorting his vision.

"Athos and Porthos would never forgive me if you were to die here." I would never forgive myself, he added mentally, hopelessly brushing away wet hair that clung to d'Artagnan's forehead with trembling hands.

D'Artagnan's lips had begun to grow blue and ashen with the lack of air in his lungs.

"Do not do this," Aramis begged, uncaring of the tears he shed, "do not do this to me."

D'Artagnan had not had air for at least a minute or more, any longer and he would be in Heaven's grasp.

"D'ARTAGNAN!" he cried out into the night as he begun to beat his fist down upon the young Gascon's chest in hopeless desperation, hoping the shock would awaken him.

He could not bear to lose another brother to the ice and snow.

As if by some act of God above, the blow to his chest seemed to push the water from d'Artagnan's lungs, erupting from the Gascon's lips as he convulsed to one side and coughed out the water violently, desperate to be rid of the fowl liquid.

"Let it out," Aramis soothed gently, almost choking upon the relief that washed over him, "That's it," he encouraged softly, rubbing d'Artagnan's back as the young musketeer continued to expel water upon the icy streets in hacking coughs.

"Thank you, thank you," Aramis murmured repetitively under his breathe like a mantra, taking the gasping young Gascon in his arms, resting his chin atop the boy's head, allowing d'Artagnan to sink into Aramis' lap, completely exhausted from the ordeal, sucking in heavy audible breaths desperately, wide brown eyes staring at something unseen.

"Aramis?" A voice said, pulling him from his moment of relief, violently reminding him that d'Artagnan's assaulters were still beside him.

"Leave."

"But he betrayed you…?"

"It was an act you fool, a ruse to gain the trust of a supposed threat against the King." Aramis snarled venomously at the musketeer above him, hating the way d'Artagnan had begun to shiver violently against his chest. They would need to get out of this cold and soon, though at that present moment, Aramis found he had not the strength to move. Relief had crippled him so utterly; he did not wish to move in fear that this was a dream.

"Forgiv – "

"Don't speak to me," his voice had grown distant and hollow, a very complete distortion of his usually cheerful disposition.

"Aramis," François stepped forward, reaching his hand towards d'Artagnan's unresponsive figure.

"Do not touch him!" Aramis growled, low and guttural, like a wounded animal he bared his teeth at the surrounding company, pulling d'Artagnan closer, arms collected around the boy protectively.

"Aramis, we're sorry, we did not know!" François begged frantically, his eyes wide in fear.

"Be at Carmes-Deschaux at midday," Aramis' voice was as ice cold as d'Artagnan's skin. "You do not deserve the death of a gentleman, but your offense is too personal to see you hang for your crimes."

"Aramis, please, I do not wish to fi –"

"Leave now, before I forget our arrangement and shoot you in the street." Aramis let the threat lie, though in truth he doubted very much whether he could hold a pistol in his current state, much less fire one. His relief burnt through him as well as numbing his body completely. He felt as if he could sit upon this street for hours, holding his fingers tucked beneath d'Artagnan's chin, simply feeling the beat of the boy's heart against his fingertips.

He did not realise the three guardsmen have even leave until he saw he sat in an empty street.

A small groan from the man in his lap, sparked his attention instantly as he brushed away d'Artagnan's wet hair, noticing the young Gascon's dark brown eyes were wide. Though he doubted the boy was fully coherent, he attempted to look him in the eye all the say.

"Hello there," Aramis said softly, his voice timid as if he were awakening a young child, "you are very much determined to turn my hair grey much before its time…"

"C-cc-co-old," d'Artagnan shivered ferociously against Aramis, the frigid night air finally registering in the elder musketeer's mind and he shivered also.

"Yes well that's what happened when you have your head in a trough of ice water in November …" Aramis noted absently, feeling oddly detached from the situation at hand.

"Mhmm, sleep."

"Yes, that does sound like a decent plan," Aramis concurred, threading d'Artagnan's arm around his shoulder, allowing the older man to take most the weight as they stood and made their way down the moonlit streets of Paris.

†††

Aramis would never remember the walk back to the garrison that night, though not that it truly matter. All that mattered was d'Artagnan was safe and alive. Having thoroughly checking over the young musketeer and strapping his ribs for good measure, Aramis gave the boy a tonic to ease his sleep and tucked him in his bed, pulling the covers up in order let him rest.

"Sleep well," Aramis muttered softly, though as he went to leave, he felt something impede his timely exit.

"Stay," d'Artagnan groaned, fingers loosely latched onto the folds of Aramis' shirt, "warm," he coughed slightly, shivering against himself.

Aramis debated the offer for a moment, weighing up the physical comfort of sharing a bed made for one over the emotional comfort. With a sigh, Aramis pushed back the covers. "Alright, budge over then," he ordered, though he did not expect the Gascon to move at all.

After a few moments of adjustment, Aramis lay with d'Artagnan tucked against his side, the young Gascon using the elder musketeer's arm as pillow, which Aramis knew would cause it to lose feeling, though he did not have the heart to move.

"'Mis," d'Artagnan muttered sleepily as he burrowed himself into Aramis' shoulder.

"Go to sleep, your body needs it."

"Degas…"

"Sleep and tell me in the morning." Aramis grumbled, his body finally feeling the effects of exhaustion, now that he had succumb to it.

"He'snot plotting a'gnst the King…"

"Truly?" Aramis peered down at the younger musketeer in surprise.

This seemed to make d'Artagnan chuckled a little, though the water in his lungs aggravated his chest and he began to cough violently.

"Hush, hush now, calm your breaths." Aramis soothed gently, rubbing circles upon the younger man's lower back. "Shh, that's it."

"They're not," d'Artagnan tried but his rasping breaths and heavy chest made talking difficult.

"Tell me in the morning, sleep now."

"They're lovers," d'Artagnan said sleepily, tucking his head into Aramis' shoulder as if it were a lumpy pillow.

"But they are all men…" Aramis was suddenly more awake at the news, confused by d'Artagnan's reveal.

"H-hence the secret…" d'Artagnan coughed slightly, his body shaking against the force against his chest.

Oh. It all suddenly clicked together as Aramis' mind ran through the facts with a fresh perspective. The stories of Degas' fall from grace and fury upon being cast out were not for his betrayal of the brotherhood, but rather of his love for them.

Aramis was no stranger of the unique attractions of some. And though many saw these acts as an unholy crime, Aramis could not understand how consensual requited love between two souls, not matter the gender, could be wrong?

Degas was simply a man who sought love and Aramis could not condone him for these acts, nor would he betray him to any that would.

"But why then did you not come to us once your knew of this?"

"They were nice," d'Artagnan muttered sleepily, his eyes closed now as he rested against Aramis, "but had to be sure they weren't lying…" his voice began to fade away as he stumbled towards sleep.

"And to think we all thought he sought revenge…"

"Degas doesn't hate musketeers," d'Artagnan continued in a mumbled slur, "just sad his lover exposed him to his Captain…"

"So it was heartbreak that drove his anger that day," Aramis mused aloud, though he did not expect the young musketeer to reply. He could hear the gentle snores of the sleeping Gascon and feel the vibrations of his breath. Strangely at that moment, there was no sound more comforting than those of d'Artagnan being alive and whole.
As Aramis pulled the blanket over both he and d'Artagnan, he realised a parchment envelope was sticking out of the top of the Gascon's belt that he had no seen before while tending to the boy.

The letter was slightly damp with smudges of inked words, though ultimately it was still legible. As it was addressed to 'Tréville's Musketeers', Aramis saw the right to read its contents.

Degas had been a scholarly sort before joining the ranks and his script reflected thus. Aramis could see the sharp wit in Degas' words as he read the letter by candlelight, thoroughly amused by the man's dry humour and word play.

To my dearest past-brothers,

It is wonderful to hear from you all, I am so glad you have decided to get in touch after all these years of silence. I must say, I am flattered by your sudden interest in my social circles and wish you all the best with your marvellous investigations. However, I am truly saddened to say that I cannot aid your endeavour further as, alas, my concentrations lie elsewhere these days, than that of treason and assassination plots.

Wishing you all the best and with the warmest of regards,

Édouard Degas

P.S. Feel free to send more of your lovely blue cloaks our way. D'Artagnan is such a nice young man and were he inclined, our doors would be completely open to him.

Aramis snorted at the last line, though he quickly quietened his giggling as he could see d'Artagnan beginning to waken.

Degas sure had a wonderful sense of humour in the face of adversity. It was unfortunate that he had been dismissed long before Aramis had been commission, for the addition of Degas' dry humour around the garrison was something Aramis could see himself enjoying.

A small cough brought his mind back to the present moment. Unsure of the dangers that potentially lay in wait, Aramis took his pistol and rested it upon his thigh, keeping one eye on the door as he slowly allowed himself to be lulled into slumber by the soothing snores of the young Gascon.

†††

It was not until the church bells tolled the eleventh hour, that Aramis finally opened his eyes. With the warming comfort of d'Artagnan still by his side, he chose to remain in his position, feeling as though all other responsibilities would have to wait in service of the one currently drooling on his shoulder. Settling his mind back into a peaceful state his closed his eyes once more in hopes to be pulled back into a blissful slumber.

However, a creak at the doorway had Aramis' eyes open and sharp in moments, his finger ready at the trigger of his loaded pistol and he aimed it in the direction of the sound.

"Take another step and it shall be your last," he warned mercilessly before his eyes could even focus upon the room's intruders. With d'Artagnan still resting softly against his shoulder, he was not taking any chances.

"Aramis?" The familiar voice broke through his reverie, allowing Aramis to comprehend the scene before him and brush away his harried thoughts based upon guttural instinct.

Suddenly, the weapon in his hands grew heavy, as if it were made of dense iron. Relief made his arms weary as his eyes caught sight of his brothers before him. He dropped his pistol sluggishly, thankful that he would not have to deal with some supposed threat.

Athos stood stoic at the door, his expression unrecognisable, though there were elements of concern and confusion present in his eyes.

"Well, this looks cosy," Porthos noted affectionately as he walked into the room casually, completely ignoring the fact the Aramis had just held a loaded pistol in his direction.

"Is he alright?" Athos wondered as his gaze turned upon the still sleeping Gascon curled up next to Aramis.

"Oh sure," Aramis drawl in a bitter surly manner, his anger clear, though he did his best to deflect the fury growing in his chest, "if you don't count the water in his lungs nor the bruises that cover his body."

"Degas did this?" Porthos frowned in confusion as his mind tried to comprehend the situation.

But Aramis did not feel up to discussing the events of the previous evening, it would only lead to further anguish in his heart and the hearts of his brothers.

"Shouldn't you debrief Tréville, the Queen will be needing her letter." Aramis deflected easily, though a single glace to Athos revealed that his attempts were not as masterfully executed as he had thought.

"Porthos, go and inform the Captain of our arrival," Athos spoke the order gruffly, his eyes never leaving the bed that Aramis and a sleeping d'Artagnan shared.

The larger musketeer groaned in protest, though he pushed himself out of his chair and towards the door nonetheless. It was clear that they had ridden through the night in order to arrive in such a timely fashion.

Aramis expected Athos to sharped his interrogation the moment Porthos left the room

"Will you trade places with me?" Aramis ventured after Athos politely, gesturing down at the sleeping d'Artagnan across his chest. This caused the other man to raise his brow.

"Somewhere you need to be?" Athos inquired curiously, keeping his tone light and conversational, as trying to entice the truth from Aramis, rather than demand it.

"I have several duels in an hour and wish to prepare," Aramis explained with a casual tone. "That and the fact that my arm is rather numb…"

"Have you chosen your seconds?" Again Athos' tone was kept delicate and casual, knowing full well the answer.

"Do I really have to ask?" Aramis smirked, though his usual playful energy was all but gone, a bitter anguish stood in its place.

"It would be the polite thing to do," Athos noted calmly, though his furrowed brows revealed the worry he carried for both Aramis and d'Artagnan, "as would an explaination to whom we are to duel."

There it was: Athos' ultimatum: I will have you back, but you must be truthful with me. Athos abhorred deception it all it's forms. His history with the cruel Milady de Winter only strengthened the musketeer's need for transparency amongst his brothers.

"Three of des Essart's guardsmen," Aramis revealed with a heavy sigh.

"That is both illegal and reckless," Athos uttered with a low drawl, disapproval clear. "I thought there was a mutual respect between the Musketeers and des Essarts' guards."

"Apparently not when they believed d'Artagnan's betrayal."

"I see…" Athos uttered, though his words indicated that he was still slightly confused upon the matter and wished for further information.

"They tried to kill him, Athos," Aramis' voice had gone ice cold, "they sought murder." All pretence of civility was lost as his mind was transported back into the horrors of the previous evening.

"Two held him, while another forced his head under a trough of ice water and kept it under." Aramis revealed in a haunted whisper, his mind replaying the events of the previous evening. "When I came upon them, I thought him dead, he – he looked dead…"

"Why are the not in irons?" Athos spoke softly, though his tone foreshadowed a fearsome fury, deathly calm before a storm. "And why are you giving them the honour of a duel rather than the shame of the rope?"

"Because if justice is to be done, then I wish to see it through myself." Aramis' volume climbed as his angry consumed him, leaving his words sounding like the menacing growl of a wild animal.

"'Aramis?" d'Artagnan's sleep addled mumbles interrupted their fury.

"Hush now, go back to sleep," Aramis soothed softly, patting his hair to lull the boy back to sleep, which proved rather effective.

"An hour you say? That would be midday?" Athos asked casually, his tone quieter so as not to wake d'Artagnan a second time.

"Indeed."

"Bit more notice would've been nice," Porthos chimed in from the doorway, alerting them of his presence.

"It's more time than you've ever given me," Aramis rebutted with ease, relishing the feeling of the easy comaraderie between them.

"True," Porthos nodded, "but look who I found in the courtyard," he chuckled as he revealed a worried looking Madame Bonacieux from behind him.

As Constance had been given no further information, other than what Aramis guessed d'Artagnan had explained the previous afternoon at her lodgings, she was anxious and confused at the sight of the young Gascon protectively cuddled by the musketeer. And this was most definitely his cue to exit.

He beamed widely, restoring his mask of flippancy and effortlessness charm as he caught sight of the woman in the doorway, "Ah, Madame, care to trade with me?"

†††

They stalked the streets in silence as they made their way through the snow-covered avenue of tall evergreens. With d'Artagnan swaddled in the warm embrace of Madame Bonacieux, Aramis could now focus on the satisfaction he desired.

Though François had claimed the incident was a misinterpretation of the facts, that they had seen d'Artagnan as a traitor to the Musketeers, a coward and betrayer of their sacred brotherhood, that did not excuse the torturous acts they committed after the fact.

No guardsman of the King had the right to perform such cruelty upon one of their own, especially without the direct order of their superiors.

War and delicate situations sometimes called for undesirable methods, but not in times of peace, not upon your brothers in arms.

That was unforgivable.

"I assume you have a plan in all this?" Athos asked as they spied the three guardsmen at the meeting point.

"Kill one, move on to the next," Aramis bit back, his eyes never leaving the three men who he craved vengeance from.

"Well, I'm glad you've thought it out," Athos chided back in response.

"Please Aramis, we did not know! We thought him a betrayer to the Musketeers!" François stepped forward, leaving the other two guardsmen cowering in the background.

"Draw your swords," Aramis snarled coldly as he drew his rapier menacingly. "If you win the duel than I shall allow you your freedom, until then…" Aramis sharped his sword against this dagger.

"I do not wish to fight you, Aramis!" François cried, though he drew his sword all the same.

"Well you should've thought of that before you tried to murder d'Artagnan." Aramis bringing his sword up in salute as Athos stepped forth with a single glove.

"Stand down!" Tréville's commanding tones rang across the field before anyone had even moved. A single glance towards the yell saw both Tréville and Captain des Essarts thundering towards them on matching raven geldings.

François instantly sheathed his blade, though Aramis was still looking to carry out the duel, preparing his rapier to seek his justice.

"For God's sake, stand down!" Tréville called out again, as their horses closed in upon them.

"Aramis," Athos growled as he physically placed himself between Aramis and François.

"They would have killed him." Aramis gaped, looked at Athos as if he had betrayed him.

"And I share your anger," Athos gripped Aramis' doublet tight, forcefully holding him back. "But this is not the way."

"He's right, Aramis," Porthos agreed, placing a heavy hand upon Aramis' shoulder.

Though deterred from his revenge, Aramis' anger spurred on beneath the surface.

"I should have the lot of you thrown in the Châtelet for illegal duelling!" Tréville roared as he slid from his saddle, landing with a heavy thud against the browning snow, stalking towards the musketeers with great ferocity. Captain des Essarts stood back, but it was clear from the way he refused to acknowledge his own men, that there was some tension amongst the King's guards. "Honesty," Tréville sighed, "I would have expected a conflict with the Cardinal's men, but this? Captain des Essarts is my brother-in-law. His men are as much your family as he is mine. And now I hear of three of my most trusted men calling out his own?"

"These cowards attempted to murder d'Artagnan!" Aramis roared at his Captain with a fury rarely unleashed by the usually placid musketeer.

"They are your fellow guardsmen, Aramis, your brothers –" Tréville tried to reason with the heated musketeer, but Aramis would not be pacified.

"They are not my brothers," he growled lowly, his anger boiling dangerously beneath his skin, heating his words and his temper. "Had I not stumbled across them, d'Artagnan would be dead in the streets."

"Aramis, Captain des Essart is aware of their crimes and will see to their punishment, but you must see the misunderstanding, they acted out of loyalty and honour for the King and his Musketeers," Tréville tried to approach Aramis in a diplomatic manner.

"There was no honour in their actions."

"This is a unusual case, I grant you, but it is delicate and must be dealt with tact."

Aramis stared at his Captain for the briefest of moments, reminded of that awful feeling of doubt he had felt during the discovery of the Savoy massacre. But with Porthos' hand still firm upon his shoulder and Athos by his side, he knew the proper course to run, no matter how his heated blood which for vengeance. Tréville was his Captain and as a soldier, it was his duty to follow his Captain and trust that his judgments were the right ones.

"Very well," Aramis nodded, his tone revealed he had completely given in to the Captain's demands, though he sheathed his sword nonetheless.

"I cannot thank you eno – " François stepped forward, the very picture of angelic grace and humility.

"If you are smart, boy," Tréville growled with an uncharacteristic coldness, "you will leave this city and never walk its streets again."

Des Essarts' men did not offer another word to the subject, quickly dashing from the clearly as fast as they could manage in the heavy blanket of melting snow, with their Captain following close behind.

It was then that Tréville slumped his shoulders in defeat, placing a heavy hand upon Aramis' shoulder, looking up at the musketeer wearily. "I thank you for your civility this day, Aramis, a true musketeer knows the power in stowing his sword."

"Their crimes must be answered for," Aramis locked his gaze upon his Captain. "Their misunderstanding does not exonerate their treatment of d'Artagnan."

"Captain des Essart and I will see that justice is done, trust me on this," Tréville promised reverently, "as your Captain, I swear this to you."

"That is all I ask."

"Is d'Artagnan alright?"

"A lot better than he could be," Aramis replied honestly, the boy was probably waking up in the arms of Madame Bonacieux, so he was no doubt wonderful given what could have been.

"Good, you all may be reprieved from your duties for the day, though I expect you in the courtyard at eight o'clock tomorrow." The Captain told them gruffly and as if feeling he had no more to say, Tréville extended a firm nod to his musketeers, before turning sharply back toward his horse.

"Oh, Sir?" Aramis called out, suddenly remembered the conversation between he and a sleepy d'Artagnan in the early hours of that morning. His anger towards the three guardsmen has no completely dissolved – especially as a large part of him felt he had not received enough satisfaction on d'Artagnan's behalf – though with Tréville's promise of justice, he felt he could perhaps begin to push that anger down, to mask his fury. With François and the two other guardsmen taken from his sight, it was easier to pretend the previous night had not happened, easier to forget the panic he felt rising within him or the ongoing what ifs that bombarded his conscious.

Yes, perhaps for the moment he could keep his mask in place.

"You may rest easy, there is no threat against the King," Aramis revealed with an almost wolfish smile as his mind turned over Degas' written words.

"D'Artagnan took care of it?" Tréville turned back in curiosity.

"Apparently not," Aramis grinned a little at the side of his mouth, knowingly, "it seems we misjudged Degas, he is not a revolutionary, well not in the traditional sense…"

"How do you mean?" Tréville furrowed his brow.

"Degas' secret society of radical gentry is not a collection of like minds, but rather of similar inclinations… in bed."

"They are…?" Athos frowned, instantly catching on to Aramis' ill-conceived attempts at being delicate.

"Indeed." Aramis nodded simply.

"And we…?" Athos winced, clearly realising the situation they had pushed their youngest into, knowing that d'Artagnan would not let this one go for a very long time.

"Well that changes things slightly," Porthos snorted, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Yes, apparently they were very eager to have d'Artagnan join their cause…" Aramis gave a little knowing smirk towards the others.

"Oh, good Lord," Athos sighed, dropping his head into his palm.

"Degas even extended a personal invitation toward all musketeers who wish to attend his revolutionary gatherings…" Aramis revealed nonchalantly, "I think he misses the uniform."

"Please tell me no one else knows of this cock up," Tréville groaned, removing his hat in order to card tense fingers through his thin grey hair.

"None but d'Artagnan, Degas and those who stand before you."

"Keep it that way." Tréville growled as he stalked off towards his horse muttering incoherently under his breath as he did so.

Aramis chuckled as he watched the Captain leave in frustration, cautious of the chaos of emotions still bubbling dangerously beneath his skin, threatening to consume him if he did not push them down.

So preoccupied in his own thoughts, Aramis his not notice the taller musketeer walk up beside him.

"Come 'ere," Porthos muttered, wrapping his hand around the back of Aramis' neck, pulling the musketeer into towards his chest.

Consumed in the comforting warmth of his best friend's embrace, Aramis felt the constructs of his mask shatter and fall, releasing an onslaught of raw pain and guilt-driven emotions.

"I'm sorry, I left him, I wasn't there, I was late." Aramis rambled frantically, struggling to keep his guilt-ridden thoughts from escaping his mouth.

"From what I heard, you were there just in time," Athos supplied gently, peeling Aramis from Porthos' embrace in order to look the other musketeer in the eye.

"But if –" Aramis cut himself off as he mind reeled with the aftershock of the night's events, "he was so cold, his lips were blue, I could feel him dying in my arms and I didn't know what to do, I don't even know how he –"

"Aramis, he's alive, he's fine," Athos soothed in a calming tone, patiently waiting for Aramis' breaths to level out. "You saved his life Aramis, do not let the guilt of what could have been distract you from the truth. Believe me when I say it will only further your grief."

Aramis nodded his head deeply, allowing his mind to accept the Athos' words. The wise musketeer had once again spoken true. It was no use dealing in what might have been, it would only drive his guilt to the point of destruction.

"That boy had nine lives, I tell you, knock 'im down and he'll pop right back up." Porthos chuckled, giving Aramis the subtle cue that things were all right, that they were not angry with him nor did they cast any blame upon him.

Too often the three of them had been involved in some incomprehensible horror that would have weakened the very best of men. But the camaraderie and humour between them, kept them sane.

If they could laugh about it, they could get past it.

As if sensing Aramis' need to take his mind off the trauma of the previous evening, Porthos began to chuckle obnoxiously.

"Just like when those gypsies put him in a lion cage…" he smiled fondly at the memory. "Gotta say that boy is quick."

"When was this?!" Athos' eyes widened as he stopped in his tracks looking between Aramis and Porthos in disbelief.

"Ah, do I have a story for you, my friend!" Porthos rubbed his hands together excitedly, making Aramis groan and drop his chin against his chest, "Though you have to swear never to tell d'Artagnan we told you…"

Athos chose to swear his oath through a heated, unblinking glare that did not waver until Porthos began to talk.

"Good enough," Porthos nodded, putting his arms around Aramis and Athos as they began to make their way back to the garrison. "It all started that week you were assigned to the Queen's Guard…"

Aramis allowed himself to get lost in the familiar, slightly embellished tale, thankful for the support of his brothers, both physically and emotionally as they walked through the crowded Parisian streets. They had survived another day, and though it would leave scars upon Aramis' heart that would stand the test of time, he was thankful that they were all safe once more.


Thank you very much for reading! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favourite this story! The response has been amazing :)

Next chapter is Tréville, followed by Athos' chapter

Thanks again! Let me know if you are enjoying this series, reviews are always appreciated! xx