Pertinent Notes:

- Not Mine

- Spoilers for "The Good Soldier" (obviously) as well as a few previous episodes

- Better if you've seen the episode

- Picks up right after Aramis shoots Marsac

- Primarily an Athos pov piece, though it is more or less bookended with viewpoints by Aramis

Chapter One

Aramis breathed, feeling his chest fight to expand.

Marsac's limp head was warm and heavy against his sternum, motionless below the clutch of his hands. I am sorry old friend, Aramis thought, over and over. I'm sorry. My brother.

Around him, pouring though the door, came voices, and pounding footsteps—questions. Those present of the regiment reacting to the call and threat of exploded gunpowder. The noise of their arrival blurred until they sounded hazy and far away—the way frantic voices in a distant massacre might sound bleeding through winter trees. Aramis tightened his hands reflexively, locking them over Marsac's listless body.

"Clear out!" Treville shouted. "It's under control. We've got it under control. Clear the room! Clear the landing!" The door clanked loudly as it closed against the soldiers, snapping the echo into Aramis's ears.

And suddenly, there was silence.

Silence and memory.

"Aramis," Treville commanded.

Aramis blinked, and saw the captain kneeling in front of him, nothing on his face that Aramis could read. He tightened his grip over Marsac anew and then glanced at the door, cognizant of the murmur of voices beyond. Finally, he focused keenly on Treville and cracked his mouth. "They'll commend me," he said. "For killing an assassin and a deserter. They'll want him buried like a rabid dog. But he saved my life, Captain. Twenty dead Musketeers. It should have been twenty-two." He swallowed, holding Treville's gaze. "It should have been twenty-two."

The captain's expression was immovable. Aramis could not tell if he was about to be ridiculed or praised and wasn't sure he could summon the energy to respond in either case. His heart thumped in painful cadence. His joints felt cold.

Treville put his hand on Marsac's slumped shoulder. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

The air thinned. It was a long time coming, too long and too slow perhaps for both of them, but Aramis nodded.

Looking Treville in the eye, he nodded, and gave up his grip.

The after effect of cooling blood was tugging at Athos's reserves as they returned from their dash to the prison. He embraced it, only to feel a surge of heat rush through his veins when they were greeted by commotion in the garrison.

In the yard, every soldier from the regiment not on assignment seemed to be present. Milling about with wondering gestures and low voices.

"Something's gone on," Porthos decreed quietly, obviously.

Athos nodded. Heeding the tightening in his spine, he grabbed the nearest soldier. "Barse, what's happened?

Barse stepped back with him and flicked his gaze towards the armory. "All we know is Aramis and that long-fled deserter, Marsac, were in the armory with the captain. Near as we can tell, he shot him."

"He shot him?" questioned Athos, pulling Barse further around to face him. "Who?"

"Aramis," said Barse. "Seems like Treville was unarmed."

"Aramis?" Porthos repeated darkly, striding closer.

Athos felt his heart picking up speed. "Aramis? Aramis was? Aramis shot—"

"Marsac," Barse interjected.

Athos had to stop himself from curling his hands into fists. "Slow down, Barse," he insisted. "From the beginning now. With detail."

Barse darted his gaze to d'Artagnan, then looked at Porthos and seemed to realize the confusion he was feeding. "Aramis is all right," he said. "Near as we can tell, it was Aramis that did the shooting, the killing shot anyway—we heard more than one pistol go off. Beyond that, there's not much I can say. We heard the shots, but by the time any of us got in there, the captain was ordering everyone out. Aramis was on the floor with Marsac—Marsac dead, bleeding at least—and all the weapons that had been fired were on the ground."

Athos breathed out, loosening his clutch to Barse's shoulder. "Treville?"

"The captain came down, not two moments before you arrived. He was carrying Marsac's body, Aramis with him. They loaded one of the wagons and were off, not a word to any of us. Not a single word."

"Thank you, Barse." Athos let go of his jacket and stepped back, watching the man's eyes turn serious with some sort of compassion. It seemed like he wanted to ask questions of his own, but he didn't. He glanced to the others one last time, gripped a hand to Athos's shoulder, and walked away.

Feeling a little lost, Athos stared up towards the armory, then turned in a circle, sweeping over the confused soldiers in the yard before letting his eyes find Porthos, who was standing motionless with a gaze rigid and solemn. "Aramis," said Athos hollowly, uncertain if he was issuing a question or an answer. "Aramis killed Marsac."

"We shouldn't have let him go off on his own," Porthos joined.

Athos ran a hand over his hair. He had nothing to say to that, feeling bereft as to their next course of action. Whatever happened here had already happened. Having intervened in another necessary crisis, there was nothing they could do about this one. Nothing.

"Barse said he was all right," d'Artagnan interjected. Athos couldn't tell if the boy was talking to him or Porthos, only that he seemed insistent on his statement, as though they needed reminding. "It wasn't Aramis that was shot. He is all right."

Porthos glanced sideways, then looked at Athos. After a moment, he clapped a warm, heavy hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder, but his expression didn't change, and he didn't say a word.

When Aramis returned from wherever he'd been with Treville, it was with orders that they four direct themselves to the palace for the duke's valediction. Orders, and the faint beginning of a darkening bruise around his eye. He gave nothing else away. Not in his expression. Not in his stance.

Coiling close to Aramis's shoulder as he made to pass him, Porthos glared at the eye, though he didn't speak of it specifically. "You all right?" he asked instead, rough gravel in his tone.

"Fine and fit," Aramis answered, without a hint of mockery, but it was a dull impression of his usual life, and his gaze seemed far away. Very far away.

Porthos traded a look with Athos over his shoulder.

"We've got to go," Aramis added, lifting and resettling his hat. "We have been told to make haste. You as well, d'Artagnan. I get the feeling the duke is in somewhat of a hurry to be absent from this place."

After a pause, d'Artagnan and Porthos moved off through the gate. Athos waited and caught Aramis's arm before he could vanish entirely into duty. "Did Marsac try to shoot Treville?" he asked, perhaps too stiffly, or too darkly. Aramis merely blinked and didn't change expression. "Aramis, what happened?" he stressed, stepping closer.

Folding his hand over Athos's grip, Aramis patted it gently and then peeled it away. "Nothing that matters now," he said, eyes wrinkling softly in the corners. "Come, we've got our orders."

At the duke's farewell, Athos noted that the captain's face was worn and wounded also. Not quite in the same manner as Aramis's, but bruised and scraped nonetheless. In the midst of the procession, briefly, Athos tried again to catch Aramis's gaze, looking at him from down the line, but Aramis's eyes were elsewhere—not seething, not grieving. Not staring at the duke. Not staring at anything.

Aramis had ever lived with allegiance varied between king, country, and God, but since Athos had known him, his loyalty had always and consistently been with his brothers. Never wavering.

Loyalty that extended and held to the twenty dead… and Marsac. The assassin. The deserter. The brother Aramis had killed.

Porthos shook his head minutely and closed his mouth in a way that twisted at the blank space below Athos's sternum.

Focusing away from all of them, Athos steeled and softened his posture for the duchess's approach, listening quietly to her words regarding her husband—a man who had led the slaughter of twenty loyal soldiers and left Aramis half dead in the woods. But Athos knew what it was to love one you shouldn't, to love one responsible for reprehensible acts, and he knew what it was to try to divide your duty with that love.

Yet still he quested for absolutes. For honor, and truths he could count on.

These were the things he'd wanted Aramis to consider before he'd disappeared down that road. Sometimes it was better that love and loyalty be blind.

In the end, the Duke of Savoy and his family left the court without a backwards glance and no one, not even the cardinal, commented on Aramis's face.

Or the captain's.

Something is badly wrong, Athos heard Aramis insist from the store of his memory. What does it take to make you act?

Shuttering the words into the corner of his thoughts, Athos stiffened as he and the others were given leave from the court. He dismissed the disturbance from his mind quietly so he could nod and bow before the king and queen and feel nothing at all.

Treville had admitted no wrong, he reminded himself.

Treville was the finest man he knew.

Much later, in the dark pursuit of night, Athos found himself tucked under the eaves at the garrison, pretending at cards with Porthos while they waited. And waited. He was staring blankly at the latest hand dealt when Aramis appeared, walking through the rain. His hat was in his hands, his light uniform cloak sagging off his shoulder, and he was soaked through—whatever protection his leather had given him long fled.

Porthos kicked his boot out from his chair and stood, leaning against a post to contemplate Aramis's visage. Setting his cards on the dry table, Athos rose to join him.

For a space, none of them spoke. D'Artagnan had left hours before for some unnamed task. So here they stood. The three of them. As long they'd been.

"Have you eaten?" Athos finally asked. "There's bread and meat from the cold-room without the barracks, if so you need it."

Aramis tipped his face up, the soaked planes and angles catching the dubious light from the flickering lamps. "Not hungry," he said. "Just needed a walk."

"That long in the rain, in the right circumstances, could carry a man to death," Porthos commented casually.

"Not me. Not yet," said Aramis, stepping near to tap a pale hand to Porthos's shoulder. There was a smile somewhere in the gesture, though it was fleeting and the kind of smile Athos didn't like. On the whole, Aramis looked calm, but there was something ghost-like about him. Illusive. "I believe I'll retire to my room now," Aramis said next, eyes holding the trick of compassion.

"I'll see he makes it home," Porthos muttered, shaking his head as he made to follow.

Reaching out, Athos caught Porthos's arm. "Make certain he has hot water sent to his room, and a dry set of clothes."

"I'll see to it," agreed Porthos, then paused. "He has a look in his eye that's not right. If this is the start of something, I don't like it."

"He just needs time," said Athos.

"Maybe." Porthos shrugged. "What do we know about it, anyway?" He began to move off as Athos tugged his own cloak about him, pulling his hat low over his eyes. Far better protected from the elements than Aramis had been, he stepped into the rain in the direction of the road.

"Oi," called Porthos. "Am I to find you in the tavern later? Because tonight, it might be I only have the fortitude to get one of you sorted."

Athos tipped his head. "I'll be fine, Porthos. See to Aramis." Then he turned, not quite intent on drinking himself into a stupor, but accepting it could happen in any case.

In the deadest part of night, that's where Porthos found him, gripping him by the lapels to make him stand, and directing him step by step out the tavern door, a leveraged arm balancing him upright all the way back to his quarters.

tbc