A/N: Warning – character death. As I was editing last night I got distracted.

In Passing

Aramis felt the pull on Anne's crucifix too late. His opponent jerked away from his blade as he opened the man's gut but the man's fist tangled in the chain and Aramis felt the sharp snap across the back of his neck.

A second man roared to attack and Aramis had time only to twist to meet the threat, catching blades and thrusting the man away. Parry, strike, parry, and Aramis managed to slide his sword beneath the man's guard.

He backed away to scan the mud in breathless panic.

It was as his eyes were busy elsewhere that the fatal shot came. It thundered over the clash of steel and tore through his chest. He didn't see the rifleman who had fired the shot from across the battlefield, he couldn't find the glint of gold trampled in the mud – the pain brought only blindness and shattered air.

The mud was warm, he could feel that.

His chest was cold, empty somehow where Anne's crucifix had always felt warm against his skin. He wished to see his son then, to know him as a man, even though the thought was painful. And then, Porthos.

Where was Porthos.

Somehow Aramis knew Porthos should be here in this moment, if only to mark its passing. He tried to call out, but all words tangled on blood. It lined his mouth in copper. He struggled then to breathe, wondering that he had any struggle left to give. He didn't want to die. He had never claimed readiness and now it was here to prove it.

His vision returned to him in slow spots and he realised the grey across his gaze was leaden sky. Another choking gasp and he managed to turn his head; the grey smudged to black and then churned fields. Men grappled and fought through the mud, boots sliding through blood. And then it was there. The flash of his pendant lying in the muck.

If he could reach it…

Aramis knew his last act would be to try.

888

Athos stood at the edge of camp watching the carts move across the battlefield collecting the injured and the dead. He couldn't claim to define his mood as dark, it was more than simply that, it was cold, frozen with dark currents beneath ready to swallow him whole. They had won this fight, and yet… Porthos, d'Artagnan, Aramis, they were out there somewhere. He knew this because he'd searched everywhere at his back, every fireside, every tent, every cot, every grave. He was not prepared to be the last. The first maybe but not the last.

He watched men loading bodies into carts. Watched the carts struggle through a muddy field that hadn't seen rain in weeks. He'd told himself he would search every cart that passed.

He turned to pace. What if the carts were stacked too tall, what if he missed them.

But what if he went to wander the field and they were buried without him.

Just then, two men came limping from the dead, the larger bent to support the shorter, dark heads lowered beneath the weight of weariness and pain.

Athos was running.

Porthos looked up at his approach and his face folded on relief. At his side d'Artagnan struggled with injuries to shoulder, arm, and thigh, his skin grey as he clung to Porthos for each step.

"Athos," Porthos breathed and d'Artagnan's head jerked up.

Athos clasped Porthos by the side of his head and reached his other hand to grip d'Artagnan's shoulder. Words lost somewhere in his throat with the beating of his heart. He didn't want to let go. He wouldn't he decided, not for a little while at least.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked.

Athos shook his head, trying to swallow and reach for words.

Porthos's jaw twitched and he blinked away.

"Go," d'Artagnan gasped, "Look for him. I can make it back to camp."

"No you can't," Porthos growled, "you can't even stand on your own."

Athos wrapped the younger man's arm around his shoulders and grabbed him by the belt. "Let's get you to the medic," he said. The decision was simple, needed, the words came without struggle and Athos tugged them all towards camp, away from bleak despair.

888

Porthos found Aramis in the mud, the marksman's hand grasping the queen's necklace and his gaze grasping at nothing.

Porthos wasn't sure that he was seeing properly, because how could this be, this was Aramis, this couldn't be Aramis. And then it was, and he was rushing to his friend's side, the breath hitching in his lungs, his hand reaching for Aramis's face, bleeding knuckles to pale skin.

Cold.

Waxy.

God it was real.

No…

His hands shook as he lifted his friend to his chest. There was no resistance to the limbs, no weight of living and all the weight of death.

The wind traced cold lines down his cheeks in wake of his tears. He couldn't breathe, convinced he would never breathe again. There was anger, there was regret, he should have been here. He burned with all of it and he bent his head to Aramis's shoulder, the cry tearing at his throat. No. This wasn't… He couldn't do it. He couldn't take this.

But with his eyes squeezed tight the world didn't change.

"Aramis," he gasped," You aren't supposed to leave me like this. Aramis please. Don't make me bury you. I… I can't do it…"

But he would, because he couldn't leave him like this either.

888

Porthos carried Aramis into camp and d'Artagnan wept openly where Athos caught him.

Athos met Porthos's eyes and it was as two ships passing in the night; candles to signal left and right but to each their own vessel, souls adrift.

They laid him on a cot and took places around the tent, d'Artagnan on the ground at his feet, his back to the wooden frame, Porthos at his shoulder, and Athos by the door. They waited in silence, for what they never discussed, and they wouldn't speak of it. Aramis had always been first to break the silence and maybe all of them prayed in some part that it wasn't real, that Aramis would wake to break the silence again. But that could never be, not ever again, and so the silence stretched the night.

In the morning d'Artagnan slept, Athos paced, and Porthos didn't eat.

It was d'Artagnan who picked the tree, Porthos who dug the grave, and Athos who held Anne's pendant – after the war, he would return it to her, but for now it would bear witness for all of them.

At first, there were no words there either. Their silence stood unbroken.

And then finally d'Artagnan gasped a breath. "I can't let him go without saying something," his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Neither can I," Porthos answered, his voice raw.

"Speak if you know what does it justice because I… I just don't…" Athos cleared his throat.

"Friend? Brother? They aren't enough," Porthos whispered.

"He was more than that," d'Artagnan agreed.

"He could be foolish to match, but regardless I would have his back, always," Athos said.

"And forever," Porthos nodded.

D'Artagnan held out his handful of dirt, "To one."

"All for one," Athos said, adding his handful of dirt raised beside d'Artagnan's above the grave.

"All for one," Porthos agreed, joining his brothers.

Together they turned their hands and let the earth reclaim its place. And so they buried Aramis in Spanish soil.

888

Athos could barely stomach returning the jeweled cross to Queen Anne so many months later. He offered prayers of thanks that only Constance was there to witness the moment her composure broke across agony. Athos could do nothing but bow and try not to watch her tremble, try not to reach out to offer comfort that he couldn't give.

Constance folded her in an embrace, her own tears real.

The Queen turned away to dab at her nose, and finally, when the red splotches subsided, she took the necklace that he held out to her.

"I… I had wished for this to protect him always," her smile flickered, "I suppose it was a foolish hope."

Athos met her gaze, "It never failed him. Know that. Hold to it." He lowered his voice and bowed to lean closer, "I had never known Aramis to have loved more than he loved you."

"Thank you…" She struggled to master her tears, and Athos watched his Queen prevail. She cleared her throat, "It may not seem possible, but those words mean… everything. I will treasure them always."

She clasped the cross in her hand and lifted it to her lips, closing her eyes as if to offer Aramis the kiss instead.

Athos left her to her grief and returned to his own – souls sailing by in passing.