Author's Note: Thank you all for your kind words on Chapter 1! I (clearly) have a lot of thoughts and feelings about Aramis, Marsac, and what happened at Savoy. I think it's essential that Marsac really was the good soldier and good friend that Aramis and Treville describe, because the tragedy of "The Good Soldier" is built on contrast: Aramis was lucky in many ways, especially in finding Athos and Porthos, and on the flip side, this one traumatic experience consumed Marsac's life. All of which is to say, here is another pre-series ficlet, reaching back even before their Musketeer days...

Aramis stood stiffly, using the bench for support, but despite the bloody stripes marking his back, he didn't make a sound and his face was perfectly calm. He took his shirt and doublet from Marsac and draped them over one arm. "Thank you."

"Just returning the favor."

They shared a smile at that; several feet away, curling the whip around his hand, the quartermaster saw it and ground his teeth. Would nothing take the smug shine off these two?

The answer was yes, but not where he could see. In the barracks, Aramis dropped his clothes onto his billet and sat next to them with a groan. He was familiar with the feeling of ten lashes—though not as familiar as Marsac—and the bone-deep burning in his back did not feel like ten lashes. He felt like he'd been trampled by a high-stepping horse on parade.

Marsac touched his arm. "Aramis? You'd better lie down before you drip on something."

He obeyed, accepting Marsac's help as he twisted to lie on his stomach on the bed; even so, the motion pulled on his back fiercely, and he stifled another groan. As he slid his arms beneath his pillow and settled his head, Marsac's words caught up with him, and he asked, "Am I dripping?" So it really was that bad.

Marsac sat on the side of the bed, and Aramis felt a few light touches as he inspected the damage. "It's mostly welts and bruises, but there's a lot of clear stuff and couple of these are bleeding. He tied something into the tails, I didn't see what—a coin, or some shot."

"That's cheating," Aramis grumbled into his pillow.

"You're lucky it wasn't a nail, you fool." But Marsac's tone was gentle, and so was his hand where he brushed Aramis' hair to one side, away from the stripes on his upper back, and one where a tail had flown wild and caught the back of his neck. From behind Marsac, though the other door, Aramis saw one of the kitchen-boys appear with a large tankard and an armful of cloth. Marsac accepted the supplies and flipped the boy a small coin; setting most of the linen to one side, he braced the tankard between his knees and folded up a strip to begin cleaning Aramis' back.

"If that's wine," Aramis said hopefully, "can I at least drink some before you get blood in it?"

Marsac shook his head. "Not your day, my friend. Just vinegar."

Aramis' reply was choked off when he felt the bite of the warm water and vinegar mixture on his raw skin. He balled his hands into fists beneath his pillow and tried to relax his back and shoulders and take deep breaths - exactly what he told Marsac to do when their positions were reversed. He gained a new appreciation for the challenge with every fiery touch of the wet cloth.

"Some pair we make," Marsac said as he worked. "One last week, one this week. One who can't keep his mouth buttoned and one who can't keep his breeches- Hmm." The cloth stopped its assault for moment as Marsac leaned forward. "It was a button. Tied into the whip. I can just make out the crest here on your shoulder..."

"You're joking."

"I am not, ask someone else if you don't believe me." Marsac squeezed out his cloth and dipped it again in the wicked brew. "I hope it was worth it. Was there... anything in particular... that made you decide to miss muster?"

Aramis only answer was a contented hum.

"Oh?" But if Marsac was expecting more, he was disappointed. He looked up at the ceiling in mock supplication. "Why did I have to befriend the one man in the regiment who doesn't tell tales? And he the one most likely to have tales worth telling?"

Aramis smiled, half at Marsac's theatrics and half at the memory of the quartermaster's thoroughly lovely niece.

"God above, that smile is annoying." Marsac dropped his cloth in the tankard and reached for a dry strip. "There's a place on your ribs still bleeding," he explained, and Aramis managed not to jerk when he felt a firm pressure compound the stinging pain in his side. After a minute, Marsac mused out loud, returning to the subject that had occupied their conversations for the better part of a month: "Do you think Captain Treville has a taste for the cat?"

"I don't care if he does," Aramis said fervently. "I'll take a whipping every day if it means I get to be a Musketeer."

"Ah, they're bound to take you. The regiment's got 'musket' in the same, for God's sake."

Privately, Aramis dared hope that his sharp eye would indeed get him into the new, elite guard, but he was also trying to steel himself for rejection. The main problem was— "It's supposed to be for nobles."

"They always say that, but they're bound to need a few real soldiers to do the work."

"I'll be sure to tell that to your cousin the chevalier." Aramis tried to give Marsac an arch look, but it was difficult from from such a low angle, and with the right side of his face buried in a pillow. "It's obviously you they're bound to take."

"Why not both of us?" Marsac's tone was light, but Aramis could hear the longing underneath. Marsac busied himself looking under the bandage, then sat back. "There, you're not dripping anymore."

"Oh, good." Something occurred to Aramis. "You know... Treville can't possibly offer to beat noblemen the way Belloc does with us."

Marsac snorted. "I think Treville might offer to beat the king himself if he thought it was warranted."

"Once we're King's Musketeers you'll have to watch that kind of talk."

"Once we're King's Musketeers I'll order all my virtues to stand up and salute, and my faults to bugger off," Marsac said loftily, and Aramis chuckled—then cursed as Marsac dabbed at his side, cleaning away the last of the blood.

"Sorry, sorry, I should have warned you. I'm done now. What watch do you have tonight?"

"Second."

"I'm on first—I have to go soon. Do you want help getting dressed again?"

"No, I'll manage," Aramis said, suddenly sleepy. "Don't want a shirt on yet." His back barely hurt as long as he didn't move... or yawn...

Marsac stood. "Sleep well, then. Dream of buxom quartermasters' nieces."

But when Aramis dreamt, it was of gleaming muskets, and of matching fleur-de-lis pauldrons on his shoulder, and on Marsac's.