A/N After this chapter there will only be two more chapters so thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and followed this story it really means a lot.

Late September 1918

Aramis was sat in the entrance to his dugout watching as Darrel took apart his rifle to clean it, Aramis watched carefully, making sure when Darrel reassembled the rifle that everything was where it should be. Last time Darrel took it apart to clean it he had put it together wrong so when Sergeant Fowler took them to the range for practise Darrel's weapon did not fire, he was lucky, something could have seriously gone wrong and Darrel may have injured himself.

Darrel looked up at him and smiling gestured to the rifle he was now starting to put back together. Aramis nodded at him and smiled telling Darrel so far he had put everything back where it should be. After his brother's deaths Darrel had become severely under confident, but slowly that was changing. Once Aramis had returned from the Field Hospital two years ago after the massacre, Darrel had stuck very close to him and Aramis understood that Darrel had been worried that he was going to be alone again. In the week and a half between his brother's deaths and Aramis being involved in the massacre, Darrel had counted Aramis as a best friend.

"What's Kemble like?" asked Darrel as he looked up at Aramis again.

"Look at what you're doing" ordered Aramis lightly, "We don't want a repeat of last time."

Darrel shuddered at the thought; Sergeant Fowler had not been impressed with him mucking up reassembling his rifle. Before he looked back down at his rifle, Darrel gave Aramis a look which meant he wanted his question answered.

Aramis shook his head chuckling, "Darrel you come from Bisley, that's about twelve miles from Kemble! I'd imagine the village you grew up in is very similar to my village."

Darrel shrugged, "Was just wondering."

Aramis laughed, "Well there are lots of fields and farms, the local pub, the school, the railway station-"

"Ha!" exclaimed Darrel, "Bisley doesn't have a railway station! So Kemble and Bisley are not so similar!"

Aramis raised an eyebrow, "But I do believe you also have a school, a pub, and farms with fields?"

"Well yes" responded Darrel,

"So our villages are in fact similar, with just one noticeable difference being a railway station" commented Aramis lightly.

"Oh alright fine!" mumbled Darrel as he went back to assembling his rifle.

Aramis grinned at Darrel and thought that the young twenty year old may have been a huge factor in Aramis being able to function after the massacre. While Athos and Porthos had helped him through the nightmares and flashbacks, being the youngest Aramis had always been the one to be taken care of. But with Darrel being a year younger than him, Aramis had someone to look after; it helped keep his mind off the haunting memories. Darrel had a bright personality and Aramis had vowed to make sure he made it home. Athos had said that was a lot of responsibility for a young twenty-one year old, Aramis had merely stated that Athos had been Darrel's age when he joined the army and was in charge of a Platoon of thirty-five men.

He sighed and leaned back against the dugout wall; he had been at war for three years and just wanted to go home. His missed his mother and father, he missed Porthos' father who was like an uncle, he missed Isabelle and Anne and he missed the freedom of riding his horse out in the open countryside.

He looked to his left hearing approaching footsteps; he smiled as Porthos raised a hand showing they had gotten letters. Aramis was handed two, one he knew was from his mother and one he knew was from Anne by looking at the handwriting on the front.

"Finished cleaning your rifle Darrel?" Asked Porthos, Darrel nodded, "I hope you've assembled it right this time."

"I've been watching" commented Aramis as he took his letters from Porthos,

"Good, I'd hate to see what Fowler would do to you Darrel if that happened again" joked Porthos, Darrel just huffed in annoyance at the reminder of Fowler's rant and stood up and walked over to one of the other men nearby.

Aramis chuckled as he watched Darrel's retreating figure, he decided to read Anne's letter first as he hadn't had one from her in a while. Before he started reading he saw Porthos eagerly open one of his two letters, and he knew the first one wasn't from his mother.

Porthos looked up and saw Aramis' look, "It's from Florence." Aramis raised his eyebrows grinning, Porthos glared, "Oh don't give me that look!"

Aramis chuckled and went back to opening Anne's letter. Florence, or Flea as she was called by friends for her habit of always getting her clothes dirty, had been the only girl Porthos had eyes for back home.

He soaked up the news Anne wrote and could almost hear her voice and see her smile, she asked what it was like in the trenches. So he immediately got out his pencil and some paper, he did not intend on telling her about the horrors of the trenches, but he could show her that there were times of peace. He looked around him at what the men were doing and began drawing men playing cards, men standing on sentry duty, men talking and joking, he drew Darrel showing Sergeant Fowler his correctly assembled rifle and he even added himself and Porthos in the foreground; with Porthos reading and himself drawing.

He heard an amazed whistle and looked up to find Porthos looking at his drawing, "What?" he questioned.

"That's pretty good 'Mis" commented Porthos, he smiled when he saw himself and Aramis in the foreground.

"Is it?"

"Yes! You've even drawn yourself to a perfect likeness. This is like looking at a photograph!" exclaimed Porthos.

Aramis shrugged, "Anne asked what it was like in the trenches, thought I'd show her it isn't all bad."

Porthos smiled and went back to reading his letters while Aramis carefully folded the drawing and placed it in an envelope addressed to Anne.

That night was not a peaceful one for Aramis. The memories of the massacre cropped up without warning, he tossed and turned eliciting groans from Porthos and Darrel (thankfully they slept on). Soon he gave up trying to sleep and sat up singing songs in his head to keep himself from thinking of the massacre. It didn't work.

Morning came and Porthos stirred, he looked up to find Aramis sat up and staring at nothing. He reached out a hand to touch Aramis' arm, Aramis flinched and Porthos knew what was bothering Aramis. He leaned over and nudged Darrel awake, Darrel opened his mouth to complain, but Porthos shook his head and then the young man saw Aramis. He gathered his rifle and helmet and stepped out of the dugout.

Once they were alone Porthos gently shook Aramis into awareness.

"Porthos?" mumbled Aramis blinking slowly, but still staring straight ahead.

"I'm here" soothed Porthos as he rubbed Aramis' arm, knowing that for some reason when Aramis thought about the massacre he always felt cold. Even two years later.

"They're dead. There was so much blood, oh God Porthos they're dead!" moaned Aramis, as he pitched forward so his head rested in his hands.

"Shhhh, I know. I know" comforted Porthos; he swallowed past the lump in his throat, as he leaned forward a little to rub Aramis' back comfortingly. He always hated hearing Aramis sound so lost and defeated.

"Why did it happen?" questioned Aramis in a quiet and broken voice.

"I don't know" choked Porthos, he hated that his friends had been slaughtered in the woods, but he couldn't help but be glad Aramis was spared.

"I hate that the massacre happened. I hate seeing men die. I hate feeling useless. And I hate this damn war!" hissed Aramis, his voice rising in volume a little at his last admission. His head shooting up as he glared out at the trench.

"I know" replied Porthos, wishing that he could get Aramis home. "But even if we didn't volunteer when we did. We would have been drafted by now."

"I know" sighed Aramis; he slumped against Porthos and felt comforted by his friend's arm around his shoulders. "I just want to go home" whimpered Aramis.

"Me too Aramis. Me too" breathed Porthos sadly. He squeezed Aramis' shoulders comfortingly and let Aramis rest his head on his shoulder. Aramis' hair tickled his cheek, but he didn't care. Right now Aramis needed comforting, not for the first time he cursed at how deeply he slept. He knew if he was a lighter sleeper (like Aramis); he would be able to soothe Aramis during the night and make sure Aramis was pulled from his haunting memories sooner.

They sat there quietly, each lost in their own thoughts of home. And the desire for the war to end so they could go home, and live the rest of their lives in peace.

Early October 1918

Anne sat at the table in her parents' house, today was her day off from the Munitions factory. Her father was sat reading the newspaper and she could see the front page headline about the British troops dug in in their trenches giving the ultimate sacrifice for their King and country. She shuddered and imagined carefree Aramis stuck in the mud, she knew her friend would not come home as carefree as he had been when he left. If he came home at all. She shook herself and banished the thought away. Aramis had promised to come home, and he always kept his promises. But she couldn't help but remember those two weeks in July two years ago when Aramis' parents had been informed that he was Missing in Action, Presumed Dead.

That was why she had been unable to write to him for a while, July had conjured up the helpless feeling she had had when she thought Aramis wasn't coming home. She knew she loved him with all her heart, but she was terrified at the thought of losing him. Her mother had encouraged her to write a letter and she was waiting for a reply. If he was able to write to her.

Stop it Anne! She told herself, He will come home. Just like he promised.

Her mother entered the room holding an envelope and handed it to her smiling. She hastily opened the letter and smiled seeing it was from Aramis. She read and re-read the letter until she could almost know it word for word, and that was when she saw the drawing. She had known growing up that Aramis liked to draw but she had never seen a single drawing and so had no idea of the pure talent Aramis possessed.

Suddenly she thought that Aramis' mother might like to see the drawing, so Anne gathered up the letter and drawing and began walking to the end of the village. To the farm where Aramis and Porthos had both grown up.

She opened the farmhouse door and called out, Sophie answered and Anne walked into the kitchen where Sophie and Ronald were sitting. Porthos' father was probably visiting his wife's grave, he had been doing that a lot since Porthos left to go to war.

"Anne dear, what a pleasant surprise" greeted Sophie,

"I had a letter from Aramis and it had a drawing. I thought you'd like to see it" smiled Anne,

Sophie brightened, "Oh yes please! That boy never let me look at the drawings he did, Porthos was the only one whoever saw them."

Anne walked over to the table and placed the drawing in front of Sophie, the letter tucked safely in her pocket. Sophie slowly outstretched her hand and unfolded the paper. She gasped at the sight of the drawing and couldn't help but smile seeing Aramis and Porthos in the foreground. She drank up the sight of the peaceful drawing and looked up at Anne smiling her thanks.

"This drawing takes my breath away! I wonder why Aramis never showed me his drawings" mused Sophie,

Anne shrugged, "I think he thought that they were never any good."

Sophie tutted as she shook her head, "For all outwards appearances Aramis seems very confident of himself. But he really doubts himself sometimes."

Anne watched as Ronald approached his wife slowly, he looked at the drawing for a few moments before he turned and rushed out of the room. Anne looked back in surprise at Sophie, the older woman smiled slightly as she handed Anne back the drawing.

Sophie gestured to Anne to sit, once they were both seated Sophie sighed, "When Aramis got on that train to go off to war, Ronald hasn't been able to write to Aramis."

"Why?" Anne asked in shock, Aramis had been gone for just over three years. That was a long time to go without speaking.

"Because going to war changed Ronald himself, he is haunted by his memories and he can't bear the thought of Aramis seeing similar things. Aramis is our last surviving child and he was always so happy and cheerful, he loved the sights and sounds of nature; he loved the beauty of it all. But there is no beauty in war. Ronald is afraid of what will become of Aramis when he comes home, from reading his letters I can tell myself that Aramis has changed."

Anne nodded her head; she could also sense Aramis had changed; for the better or the worst was yet to be seen.

Sophie smiled sadly, "When we got that telegram about Aramis two years ago…it almost broke Ronald's heart. He was slowly fading away, he had had a kindred spirit in Aramis; Aramis was just like Roland when he was a boy. The second telegram that arrived telling us Aramis was alive and safe saved me from burying my husband before his time."

Anne sat silent in shock, now fully understanding why Ronald had been even quieter than usual since Aramis went to war.

"Despite his relief at hearing Aramis was alive, Ronald still cannot pick up a pen and write to Aramis. I do not know fully of his reasons. But I do know he is afraid" said Sophie.

Anne stayed a little longer talking to Sophie before she stood and left the farmhouse. She then spotted Ronald leaning against a fence staring out at the fields and grazing animals. She paused and then walked slowly over to the older man.

"Aramis would stand here for hours" commented Ronald softly, "Sometimes just standing here I feel closer to him and I can almost fool myself into believing that he's here, not in France." He then chuckled, but it had a saddened edge to it. "But not hearing he and Porthos causing mischief and destruction in their wake brings it all back. He's not here; he's off fighting a war he wanted nothing to do with."

Anne reached out and squeezed Ronald's hand, "He'll come home. I just know it." And she found she actually believed what she said.

Ronald turned and took her hand in his own and smiled, it was the first smile Anne had seen on his face since Aramis had left. They stood there for a little while just looking out at the fields; Anne could have sworn she heard Aramis' voice in the wind promising to make it home to her. Her smile widened, and she knew deep down Aramis would return to her and she vowed once he was home, Anne was going to tell Aramis how she felt. The war had shown her that life was too short to waste to wait to act on feelings. But it did also show her that even in the darkest moments in life, there was always hope.