Chapter 7

"And here I was hoping we could work this out amicably, as gentlemen."

Athos scoffed at the man's feigned indignation. "You, Sir, are no gentleman."

D'Artagnan glanced toward Athos, unsure how long he planned to allow Cardonne's taunts to continue in order to give Porthos time to get to Aramis. The tension between Cardonne and the Musketeer Captain was like a living thing, breathing in the air from the street and allowing nothing in return. He had no idea how long Athos would remain tolerant of the man's arrogance, and he held himself ready to move at the slightest indication.

Cardonne shrugged, unmoved by the insult. "Yet we had an agreement. I expected more from a man of such… principle."

"We had no agreement, Cardonne. You dictated terms. I am merely altering them." Athos raised his head, looking down his nose at the Comte's man as if he were nothing more than a speck of dirt on his shoe. "You should be grateful I have not already had you thrown into the Chatalet for such a blatant attack on my regiment, though the possibility of such an arrangement is still a distinct possibility."

Cardonne bowed, a brow raised mockingly. "My gratitude, Captain. Despite the Musketeers' formidable reputation, I doubt you and your young subordinate there would be enough to take down me and my men." He looked d'Artagnan up and down before summarily dismissing him and redirecting his gaze to Athos. "Besides, I doubt your man – Aramis is it? – would enjoy paying the price we would extol for your error in judgment."

"You may find our reputation well deserved," d'Artagnan spat.

Cardonne smiled, huffing a laugh through his nose. "We shall see."

He whistled abruptly and his three men pulled pistols from their belts, taking aim on the Musketeers across the road. Athos ducked behind one of the horses while d'Artagnan tugged Erias down behind a water barrel near the entrance to the alleyway. As soon as three shots echoed, the young Gascon was up and moving, ordering Erias to remain hidden.

Aiming the loaded pistol in his own hand, d'Artagnan drew bead on the man furthest to the right, downing him as he pulled his rapier from its sheath. Cardonne's remaining men advanced, swords readied, as the two Musketeers quickly closed the gap.

The soldiers were well trained but little match for the King's own personal guard. Athos sidestepped his opponent's lunge, kicking out a foot as the man overbalanced, knocking him down into the dirt. Using his toe to flick the man's rapier away, he stepped on the outstretched hand with the heel of his boot and pressed his weight on the appendage. The man screamed as bones gave.

The other soldier came at d'Artagnan swinging but the young Gascon easily countered the move. Pressing the man's blade to the ground, he raised his foot and stomped down on the blade, forcing it from its guard and snapping it in two. Twirling with blinding speed, he jabbed an elbow into the startled man's face and he dropped to the ground, blood gushing from his shattered nose. D'Artagnan shoved him over onto his side, leaving him whimpering, his face cradled in both hands.

Noting that Athos had already dispatched the other man, d'Artagnan's gaze found Cardonne's startled eyes. Realizing they'd dispatched his men in the span of a few moments, Cardonne backed quickly toward the shack. He fumbled for the latch, yanked open the door and disappeared inside, only to stumble back out immediately, hands held at his shoulders.

D'Artagnan couldn't help the smile that lit his face as the barrel of a pistol emerged from the doorway held firmly in a familiar grip. Aramis was bruised and bloodied, but his steps were steady and his eyes flared with anger. Porthos followed, pushing the last of Cardonne's men ahead of him, tossing the man down into the dirt next to the others.

Nobody dared moved as Cardonne backed away from the irate marksman, his head shaking as he pleaded for someone – anyone – to intervene.

When Athos finally stepped forward, Aramis' arm had begun to shake and d'Artagnan noted the determination it was taking for his wounded friend to keep the pistol's aim true.

Without a word, Athos placed a hand on the marksman's arm and gently pressed it down. It took Aramis a moment to oblige, but as his arm dropped he released his grip on the weapon, allowing Athos to take it from his lax hand. Without the pistol, he seemed to shrink into himself. His lids fluttered and his shoulders bowed as he stumbled back into Porthos' waiting arms. The big Musketeer grasped him with both hands, shifting him until he stood leaning against his broad chest, the big body keeping him from falling. Aramis was a proud man and loath to appear weak, especially in front of Cardonne and his men. Porthos, like the rest of them, understood the need to remain strong and would not allow his friend's captors to see him collapse.

A flurry of footsteps announced the arrival of more men, and the Musketeers tensed, ready to defend their wounded comrade if need be. D'Artagnan stepped in front of Aramis while Athos latched on to Cardonne's arm, turning the soldier to face the newly arrived threat.

There were five of them, armed with clubs and knives. They stopped as they reached the middle of the street, scanning the area for any hidden adversaries.

"Flea's," Porthos grunted. The Musketeers relaxed as one of the men nodded in their direction, recognizing that the confrontation was well in hand. Without a word, they dispersed back into the shadows from which they came.

"A little late," d'Artagnan quipped. "But it's nice to know they had out backs."

"Flea did say they would hold back unless we needed them," Porthos reminded him.

"Her faith in us is appreciated."

"Where's Erias?"

D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder at Aramis weak inquiry. The horses remained tethered and the rain barrel still stood upright, but there was no sign of the innkeeper. He rushed back across the street, turning in a circle as he scanned the area. With a bewildered expression, he turned back to his friend and gave a reluctant shrug.

"He was there a moment ago," d'Artagnan assured as he jogged back across the road. "I told him not to move. I swear he was safe." He looked to Athos, but the Captain only shook his head in return.

"I'm sorry, 'Mis." Porthos' grip tightened on the weary man's arms.

"I'm sure he's fine," Athos offered. "He did come to help us get you back safely."

Aramis smiled tiredly and patted Porthos' arm. "It's all right." His voice was soft, tinged with disappointment and a sad acceptance that made d'Artagnan's chest ache in sympathy. "I can't blame him for his fear. This has all been much for a simple innkeeper to bear." He shrugged, a poignant grin teasing at the corner of his lips. "Perhaps all brothers are not created equally."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

After delivering Cardonne to the Bastille and informing Minister Treville of what had happened, the four Musketeers returned to the Wren where Leon welcomed them with a bottle of fine wine on the house. Treville had promised to inform the King of Cardonne's crimes and had agreed to provide restitution for the damages done to the tavern. As soon as he'd drafted a missive summoning the Comte d'Everous to Paris, he would have the Musketeers deliver it and escort the nobleman back to face Louis' wrath.

Aramis moved without his usual grace thanks to Cardonne's harsh treatment. Sore and stiff, his ribs and stomach sported an array of colors beneath his doublet and the needlework needed to close the cut along his temple was stark against his pale skin. There were visible bruises on his face and wrists, which were obviously uncomfortable, but it was the damage they couldn't see, the hurt deep within that made them cloister around their marksman, keeping him company despite his protestations.

"I told you, I'm fine," Aramis sat hunched in his chair, nimble fingers playing with the handle of his cup, his gaze clouded in unease.

Porthos huffed at the declaration. "And I told you we're all thirsty, so you might as well just shut up and drink this fine wine Leon so graciously offered."

"If you're so parched, why is the bottle still half-full?"

"Obviously because we're optimists." Athos responded dryly.

Aramis sputtered a laugh, wrapping a hand around his torso as he eyed the Captain. "As I've often suspected." His gaze returned to the tabletop, his amusement melting to melancholy. "I just wish I had the chance to talk to him again. To say goodbye. With all that is happening here in Paris, who knows when the chance to seek him out will arise."

"Treville did say a missive would have to be delivered to d'Everoux," Athos noted. "I suspect he will approve of a Musketeer delivering it."

"If that's even where he is," the marksman sighed. "I have no way of knowing if he returned to Everoux or not."

"Perhaps he'll send word," d'Artagnan offered. "Despite his original motives, he did seek you out, he did want to find you. I can't believe Erias wants to forget about you anymore than you want to forget him."

Aramis forced a smile. "I'll have to pray you're right."

After finishing the bottle in comfortable silence, Athos excused himself to finish some much overdue paperwork while d'Artagnan insisted he needed to get back to his wife. Porthos ordered another bottle, content to sit in silence while his friend worked through his disappointment.

"You'll see him again," Porthos finally broke the quiet. "He's your blood, It's not like he can just stop being your brother."

Aramis' eyes met Porthos' for a moment before dropping to stare into his cup, a despondent frown on his lips. The marksman shrugged. "If I've learned anything from recent events, it's that you can never count on anything remaining the same – not even family."

Porthos was sure they weren't talking about Erias anymore.

"Perhaps my mistake was returning with the hope that things could be like they were," Aramis went on, his voice soft, his gaze turned inward. "Maybe it was better for everyone if I had remained in Douai. It seems my presence has made everyone's lives more difficult."

Porthos stiffened, the thought of Aramis gone for good forcing him to speak.

"It wasn't all that easy without you, ya know."

Aramis' eyes flickered up and Porthos' breath caught at the sadness reflected in the dark depths. "I have no idea how to make things right, Porthos. With you, with the Queen… I can't help but think all of you would be better if I was not part of your lives."

Porthos nodded, carefully shifting until his forearms rested on the table. "When we first left for the front, I kept looking to my side, expectin' to see you there. Then I would get angry you weren't and then… I would just miss you. Eventually, the anger lasted longer and the missin' you part got buried somewhere. I knew you weren't comin' back." He took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose as he recalled the loneliness that had enveloped him all those years ago. "I know Athos and d'Artagnan felt it, too, and that just made me angrier."

"At me."

"At you," he admitted. "Or at your absence."

"So you learned to live without me," Aramis repeated the words Porthos had pronounced when they'd first found him at the monastery. It was surprising how much they still stung.

"We had to," Porthos admitted. "It was either that or… or go a bit crazy." He chuckled, still being careful not to meet his friend's eyes. "And now… I guess I'm still afraid." He raised his head and directed his gaze at the man across the table. "I'm afraid that if I get used to having you around again, you'll leave and it'd be impossible to say goodbye again."

"I didn't want to leave." Aramis leaned forward, mirroring Porthos' posture. He held the bigger man's gaze. "I know now that leaving was a mistake, but it was one I had to make. I had to know where I belonged, Porthos. I had to figure out which vow was most precious – the one I'd made to you, to the Musketeers or the one I'd made to God."

"And?" Porthos prompted. "Have you?"

Aramis' shoulders dropped and he tilted his head as he rubbed a hand across his beard. "I think so. I hope so." He glanced up at the ceiling as if the answer to the question was written on the wood above. "Despite how hard it is to be near my son and his mother, to not be able to claim them as my own, being here, with you and Athos and d'Artagnan feels more right than any moment I spent in the monastery."

"Can you handle it? Being this close to them?"

Aramis shrugged wearily. "I thought being far away would lessen the pain but it didn't. At least if I'm here, I can protect them no matter how much it hurts to have to watch from afar. I'll take the pain over the emptiness of not knowing any day."

Porthos nodded. "Things can never go back to how they were."

Aramis gazed dropped, his voice choked with disappointment. "I know. And I understand that you can no longer trust me –"

"And I don't want them to be like before," Porthos continued as if Aramis hadn't spoken. "We've all changed – for better or worse. None of us are the men we were. I did learn to live without you, but it's not what I wanted Not then or now."

Hope kindled in Aramis' eyes. He glanced up, heartened at his friend's declaration.

"It may take time, but we're still brothers, Aramis. Still family." Porthos smiled. "Sometimes family disappoints you, but it's also what gets you through the tough times. That will never change."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis awoke to the sun shining through the window of his room. He and Porthos had talked late into the night, able to put to rest some of the discord between them. When they'd returned to the garrison, laughing, arms slung around the others' shoulders, he'd noticed Athos standing in the lighted doorway of his office, a smile gracing his face at the sight of his friends once again at ease with each other. Aramis had nodded before heading to his room, letting the Captain know that they were both all right and that the air of dissension that had marred their friendship since their return to Paris was, if not gone, at least eased.

So it was with a new sense of purpose that Aramis faced the morning, knowing that whatever challenges God intended for him, he would not meet them alone.

D'Artagnan and Porthos were already seated at the table just below the Captain's balcony where Constance dished out steaming porridge into waiting bowls. The three of them looked up and smiled as he approached.

"It's about time," Constance scolded, teasing. "Considering how late the two of you returned last night, I thought I'd be sending d'Artagnan up to douse you with a bucket of water to get you out of bed."

Aramis smiled congenially as he took a seat next to Porthos. He snatched a piece of ham from his friend's plate. "It was the aroma of this fine breakfast that roused me from my slumber."

Constance huffed a laugh, raising a brow, unconvinced. "I might believe that from this one," she tilted a chin toward Porthos who grunted and forcefully slapped Aramis' hand away.

The marksman laughed, chewing contentedly on his pilfered slice of meat.

"Um, Aramis?"

At d'Artagnan's tone, Aramis glanced across the table, frowning at the wide-eyed stare the younger man had directed out toward the courtyard. Turning abruptly, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes fell across the form of his brother.

Erias stood, uncertain, just within the gate of the garrison arch, his hat held directly before him, crushed in the grip of his fists. When his gaze landed on Aramis, he froze momentarily before taking a deep breath. Nodding as if to affirm something to himself, Erias strode across the yard purposely toward the men seated at the table.

"I thought you'd be far from Paris by now." Aramis stood, keeping his voice even, his surprise contained. He'd spent most of the previous evening lamenting how things had turned out and had finally resigned himself to the fact that there was little he could do if Erias didn't want a relationship with him. It had taken quite a bit of advice from Porthos – and even more wine – but this morning he'd awoken with a reluctant sort of acceptance. He could write to Erias and perhaps one day, when the war was over and the situation in Paris had settled, seek him out. Maybe by then Erias would be open to having a brother and welcome him into his family.

Erias looked over the marksman's shoulder, swallowing at the cold looks of retribution lodged on the faces of the two Musketeers still seated at the table behind him. Constance had moved to stand near d'Artagnan's shoulder, her brows raised in challenge as if daring the innkeeper to try to hurt her friend again.

"I'm sure my wife and daughters believe me dead by now," he muttered apologetically. "I was halfway back to Argentan when I realized I couldn't leave without knowing you were all right." He dropped his gaze, shifting on his feet. "And say goodbye."

"You could've written when you'd returned," Aramis offered. "You know where I am now."

Though he was disappointed that his brother had run away, he could now understand his decision. The adventure and danger they faced everyday was not normal, not something most people could handle. As a monk, Aramis had found he'd missed it. The day-to-day life of quiet contemplation and strict discipline had been something he'd struggled with, the need for adventure and excitement always been just beneath the surface. It had been hard work to quell the natural desire to act upon those needs, but he'd forced himself to accept the new life he'd chosen. The children had helped, but the lust for life had never quite been extinguished and the arrival of his brothers and the threat to the monastery had driven home the point.

"I know." Erias shrugged. He raised his head, forcing himself to meet his brother's eyes. "But I wanted you to know how sorry I am that I wasn't there for you. Not just when you were a child, but yesterday, when you were in trouble. I left. I knew your Musketeer brothers would stop at nothing to see you safe, but you deserved no less from me, and I wanted to tell you that to your face."

Aramis smiled, placing a hand on Erias' shoulder and squeezing affectionately. His brother's gaze brushed across his bruised and battered countenance, but Aramis felt no pain from his injuries in the wake of the regret clearly written on his Erias' face.

"You were there," Aramis noted. "Your fears may have gotten the better of you at the end, but despite that, you were there. I couldn't ask for anything more."

Erias grinned, his eyes suspiciously bright, basking in the light of Aramis' absolution. "Thank you," he whispered, his jaw clenched tight with emotion. "I just want you to know that I am very proud to be your brother, Aramis of the King's Musketeers, and if you can someday find it within yourself to be mine, you will find me in Argentan."

"Not Everoux?"

"It's a good place to start over," Erias shrugged again, resigned. "I doubt the new Comte will ever allow me to regain my property considering what has happened. And I have my daughters to consider." He smiled. "Argentan is a good place to start over. It's far from d'Everoux' reach and Miren has family there. We'll be fine."

Aramis shook his head, planting both hands on his hips. "It's not right. You shouldn't lose all you've worked for simply because one man has the power to twist the facts to his advantage."

"I agree," Athos called as he made his way down the stairs. He held up a folded parchment, the King's seal clearly evident on the fold. "As does the King." He handed the parchment to Aramis, who quickly unfolded it and scanned the contents. "Treville has interrogated our prisoners and taken their testimony to Louis. The King would like to speak with the new Comte d'Everoux himself and has commissioned us to escort the man to Paris."

He turned, giving Erias a knowing grin. "I did promise you a Musketeer escort back to Everoux, did I not?"

Erias' mouth opened and closed, speech eluding him for the moment.

Athos turned to Aramis. "Are your injuries enough to keep you from accepting this assignment?"

The marksman grinned, shaking his head emphatically. "I believe a nice, pleasant ride in the country will do me more good than sitting around the garrison for the next few days."

"Good," Athos returned his attention to Erias, who was gaping at the parchment Aramis had handed to him. "Monsieur LaMonte, if you are willing to testify as to what happened in Everoux, I believe the King will listen and consider your request to regain your property."

"I don't know what to say," Erias finally managed. He glanced up, taking in the smiling faces before him. "I don't know how to thank you."

"There is no need for thanks," Aramis assured him. "We are only doing our sworn duty to protect the people of France. Besides," he nudged Erias' arm and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "What good is having a Musketeer for a brother if you can't call in a favor or two?"

Erias burst out laughing and pulled his younger brother in for a hug.

"I don't suppose we should allow Aramis to go alone," d'Artagnan spoke up. "Seeing as how he's injured and everything." He grinned as he scooped up another bit of porridge from his bowl. "Besides, he needs someone to keep him out of trouble."

"You're not going anywhere." Constance slapped him on the back of his head, garnering a feigned look of hurt from her husband. "I have a long list of chores for you."

"So that's what they're calling it now?" Porthos' chuckle was low and rumbling.

Constance snatched his bowl away without missing a beat. "You mind your tongue or I'll put you to work as well."

"Perhaps you could spare Porthos?" Aramis asked hesitantly. He directed the question to the Captain, glancing at the big man's reaction out of the corner of his eye. "I suspect he'd be quite capable of keeping me from harm."

"More likely to land you right in the middle of it," d'Artagnan quipped.

The corner of Athos' mouth curved up at the easy banter between his men. "It's more the harm you do to yourself that concerns me," he admitted. "But it is prudent to have someone watching your back. If Porthos is amenable, that is."

All eyes were on the big man as he finished off the last bit of the ham from his plate. He turned on the bench and grinned at Aramis. "I think I could handle that."

Aramis felt something shift into place in his chest. Things may still be strained, may still be far from perfect, but perhaps they weren't so broken they could not be repaired.

They would never be the same men they'd been before the war, before he'd left to fulfill a vow he'd never regret making, but some bonds ran stronger than most. They'd all been brothers once. Though it may be a long road back, it was one worth traveling. The blood spilt between them was a bond that could never be broken. Like it or not, they were all family, and he would never take that for granted again.

Finis