Here it be, the last section, as promised. My only warning is that we end on a circular but somewhat undefined note, which some readers may not appreciate. Nonetheless...

Chapter Four

Approaching quietly, Athos stopped just before the passageway, observing. Aramis had his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, but he was not asleep. His lips were moving, silently. An outline of private words. It was only the long familiarity between them that allowed Athos to guess at what they were.

Being an educated man, he himself was versed in scripture. He could not always remember the comforting passages Aramis seemed to recall—when he conceded to quote them aloud—but he remembered the stories. Some that he liked. Some that he did not.

Of the Massacre at Savoy, it was the story of Job that came to mind.

For each of the disasters that had befallen Job's life, there had been a messenger. A survivor. One left to tell the tale.

"And I alone have escaped to tell thee," Athos whispered under his breath, lowering his chin as he watched.

Aramis…

Aramis was that messenger. The witness.

Experience had taught Athos well that knowledge condemned as much as it saved, and knowledge carried alone… that too could be hell. And what did a messenger do with no one to tell?

Savoy was never meant for Aramis alone to bear.

Digging deep for a breath, Athos moved, conscious of the earth beneath his boots as he entered the alcove and leaned against the wall opposite.

Opening his eyes, Aramis slid his gaze up, expression wrinkling in inquiry.

Athos removed his hat, turning it over in his hands. "Savoy," he began.

Aramis's eyes darkened poignantly and he looked away. Though not before Athos could catch a glimpse of that nameless cavern—that emotion that he could never quite describe—cropping up in Aramis's expression. Guilt or anger or doubt. Grief.

Whatever it was, it made Aramis flinch and reach for his hat, as though whichever emotion had seized him was demanding he demonstrate some momentary act of respect, or mourning. He'd been doing it ever since Marsac showed up, Athos realized. In the back of his mind, he remembered Aramis reaching for his hat—like a tick, like homage—nearly every time the twenty dead were mentioned.

"Aramis," he forestalled.

Aramis twitched and resettled his hat, then removed it completely and set it at his hip. "Marsac is dead, Athos. The treaty signed, and the duke… gone. It is resolved."

Athos gazed back into the garrison, at the shadowed balcony and the impression of Treville somewhere above, sitting at his desk. The man who'd given him space for purpose beyond self-destruction. Who'd given Porthos the chance to be other than a street thief. The patriot. Their captain.

He pressed forward. "Did Treville do it?" he asked Aramis, looking back at him.

Aramis stared, furrowed brow darker for the bruise that seeped across it. After a moment, he stood, chest moving steadily as he stepped closer. The question hung there in air, hovering between them before Aramis glanced down, and then angled his head to the side. "Does it matter?"

Athos swallowed, taking a step of his own. "Before I joined the regiment…" he began.

Aramis tilted his head around, forehead worried.

Athos used the eye contact and surprise to his advantage and started again. "Before I joined the regiment…" he repeated forcefully. "I knew what it was to experience treachery and betrayal amongst those I loved and trusted best. I did not want to allow for the possibility of its existence here, amongst the Musketeers. My brothers." He drew a deeper breath and closed the gap between them even more. "Something was badly wrong, Aramis. I just didn't wish to see it."

Aramis maintained the gaze, and the touch of compassion he wore so easily in his eyes felt genuine—not like the mask meant to deflect things outward. "The world is a more complicated place, I think, than either of us would like," he finally said.

Lowering his head, Athos nodded—a truth he'd long known, if not accepted. "Was he guilty?" he pushed.

Still, Aramis seemed to hesitate.

"I know what I said before, but I'm here to listen, Aramis. This is not something you should hold alone."

Aramis drew air through his nose and brought his chin up, watching for something on Athos's face. Finally, he answered. "In action, not intent."

In action, not intent. Athos rolled the phrase through his mind and just the same felt the sting seep down into his sternum.

"He was following orders, Athos. He did not know what would become of them. Though, I can't imagine Treville has ever been accused of being a simple man."

And therefore must have known the intentions of others wouldn't have been as honorable as his own, Athos finished privately. But perhaps that was too harsh. The world was, indeed, a complicated place.

"The others don't need to know," Aramis continued. "It would do no good. Treville bears what happened in Savoy as severely as any of us." He paused. Then, by action born of some innate intuition, closed his fingers around Athos's sleeve. "And whatever it is you believe, I never doubted you as my brother. You behaved with honor. With loyalty." His touch lightened and he looked away.

Abruptly, Athos reversed the grip, closing his fingers around the inside of Aramis's elbow. He used the leverage to pull him forward, clasping tightly to the joint while bringing the hand with his hat around to hold the back of Aramis's head. "If that is true, then do not patronize me with these words. Not unless you give yourself the same consideration. I know you didn't want to question Treville and I understand why you did. Forgive me if it seemed it was you I was doubting. It never was."

Aramis blinked, pained, but did not try to pull back.

"You fulfilled your responsibility to them," Athos pressed, and had no doubt that Aramis knew to whom he was referring. "But you were not meant to be one of the dead. You are here now, with us. Alive."

"I know."

Filling his chest, Athos backed off slightly. "And yet in our task today, you seemed not to."

Aramis twitched his eyes away, gaze suddenly distant. "We are Musketeers. We do what is necessary. We give our all. Even unto death. It is nothing new for us, Athos. Not for us."

"We give our all. But we do not needlessly toss away our lives when there is a better way to do things. We are brothers, Aramis. And we rely upon our brothers. Forgive me if in these past few days I have not made that clear to you."

The fleeting half-smile Athos saw too often upon Aramis's face graced his features. Though in the brief second that it appeared it seemed raw and open, Athos could still not quite read it. "Aramis?" he pressed.

Aramis nodded, holding their gaze again before glancing to the ground and away. "Brothers, Athos. Always," he said, then stumbled slightly, pain flashing in his face.

"Aramis?"

"Touch dizzy," he replied, lifting his hand towards his hair. "Bit of a headache," he reminded.

Breathing deep, Athos tightened his grip and kept him upright, trying to decide if he should accept the words. He would have to, he supposed. Until he saw some way to reiterate them, it would have to be good enough.

It might have been the headache but every time Aramis closed his eyes Marsac was waiting for him. Walking away through the forest, or standing in the armory with a loaded pistol.

This has to end here, Aramis. You know that.

We were brothers once. For the sake of our old friendship…

We are brothers, Aramis.

The last was said by Athos, but in his dreams the images kept mixing themselves up. His pistol would fire, with his typical long-honed precision, but he could never quite tell who he hit. Or he'd be standing, leaning against a tree in a winter forest as Athos walked farther and farther into the distance, stooping under some unknown weight before Aramis could ever return the pact he'd made and lift it off him.

We follow our orders, he heard himself say, somewhere in between the changing images. Even unto death.

"Easy now." A heavy hand settled on his chest.

"Porthos?"

"Right this time." Porthos glanced over his shoulder. "Think he's coming around better now," he murmured to someone.

Athos appeared, squinting down into Aramis's eyes. "You never rest as easy as I'd like when you are wounded," he said after a moment.

Porthos chuckled low. "Pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" he said, giving Aramis's chest a pat.

Aramis blinked, trying to remember and identify which of their lodgings they'd directed him to. His head throbbed. Marsac's voice remained in his ear—I'm weary of it, I'm weary of it—the dead weight of him still pressed against his sternum. "Athos," he said abruptly, catching the indistinct nature of his own voice. "The demon that follows you..."

Porthos's smile faded as he glanced up between them, removing his fingers from Aramis's chest and threading them gently near the wound on his skull instead, as though some new damage would make itself known.

"When you're ready," Aramis mumbled, still seeking Athos's face. "When you're ready."

Athos sat by his hip and was silent a space. "I know," he said. "I know."

The End

Final notes: "And I alone have escaped to tell thee," is indeed a reference to the words of the sole witnesses who survived various disasters and then went forth to tell Job of his losses. In many common biblical translations, the phrase is quoted as beginning in Job 1:15 and then carries as a theme through the next few verses.

Of note, most translations actually quote the statement as, "And I only am escaped alone to tell thee."

For a variety of reasons, I went with the more colloquial translation.

Also, because I just got a pm about it: When Aramis says that Treville is not a simple man, simple in this context utilizes the meaning - Having manifested little sense or intelligence. Naive. Ignorant.