* Title inspired by Mark Lanegan's lyrics in "Resurrection Song"

Lancelot wakes up in 1630s France and creates the identity of Aramis. He makes a new life for himself, and then one day he spots a man with familiar wild black hair and blue eyes.

So, from the moment I realized that Lancelot in Merlin was Aramis in The Musketeers, I knew I had to have a fanfic where Lancelot became Aramis. Despite the fact that I should be working on other fanfics, I started writing this. I hope you all enjoy!

I do not own Merlin or The Musketeers.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Lancelot peered around and then shot up, barely holding back a shout, hand going to his hip. Upon finding no sword, his hand flailed around until it met soft skin. Latching on, Lancelot pulled the throat toward him and bared his teeth. "Who are you?" he growled, ignoring the fact that it was a woman's terrified face staring back. He was supposed to be dead, and the last person to raise him from the dead had been a woman, too. Morgana had bent his mind and body to her will and taken advantage of his love for Gwen, ruining her relationship with Arthur. He wasn't about to go easy on someone just because they were a woman.

"I said," Lancelot continued, eyes darting around the spartan wooden room, "Who are you? And what do you want with me?"

"Renee…" she gasped. "My name is Renee, and I just wanted to help."

Lancelot paused at this, studying her face. Open, with wide brown eyes, and pale with fear. She was telling the truth. Relaxing his grip, Lancelot eased his hand away from her throat and looked away. "My apologies, my lady. The last I remember I was dying, and to wake to find myself very much alive was… startling. Please, tell me how I came into your care?"

She looked at him warily, and he slumped his shoulders and collapsed heavily back onto the bed. Appearing helpless and nonthreatening wasn't difficult, now that the perceived danger had proven false. Trying to channel Merlin, he widened his eyes and hoped he looked at least slightly puppy-like. Sighing heavily, she nodded. "Alright. But don't think I'm doing it because of those eyes. I'd help anyone in need."

"I'm sure you would, my lady," Lancelot smiled. "Now please, any information you have would be extremely helpful."

By the time Lancelot left Renee's home, a month had passed. In that time, he had realized he had, somehow, traveled over one thousand years into the future, to a different country. He was a citizen of 1600s France, now, not a Knight of 500 AD Camelot. Lancelot being a very distinctive name, and not a French or Spanish one at that, he had taken the name René d'Aramitz, called Aramis. The first name in acknowledgement of the woman who had found his body, half-dead in the snow on a seldom-used road near her house, and the second a common enough middle-class name in both Spain and France for him to blend in and start a new life.

Religion, because he needed something to believe in.

The healing arts, in honor of Merlin.

A soldier, to continue protecting Albion; to be close to his brothers-in-arms.

"Aramis?" The gruff voice invaded his thoughts, and said man glanced up from cleaning his musket.

"Who's asking?" he grunted, eying the pauldron on the shoulder and the rich blue cape. In his mind, it transformed into a Pendragon red cloak, gleaming gold dragon on the shoulder. Shaking himself mentally, he eyed the stranger as the Musketeer uniform took the place of a Knight's. He knew he was being rude, but it had been two years - a year that he had slogged through hard jobs, missing his friends, and a year serving in the French army. He had realized he would always be a soldier, and interest in the new weapons had compelled him even further. Still skilled with a sword, he had found a new love in long range weaponry - especially the pistols - and had practiced until he was one of the best. Partly for himself, and partly, he knew, because of Arthur and Merlin. His prince had always demanded the best, his friend had needed his protection, and providing that had become ingrained into his very being.

"Treville." The voice once again invaded his thoughts, and Aramis shook him from them again. "Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers. I heard you're the best of the best when it comes to sharpshooting."

Aramis nodded, "Around here, yes. I'm good with a sword as well."

An eyebrow rose, and Lancelot was reminded painfully of Gaius. "Modest, too." The sarcasm was evident, and Aramis cracked a smile. He had been modest. Lancelot was modest, and then he sacrificed his life to save his brothers, including the man he entrusted his love to after he stepped aside; he had been resurrected as a puppet on a string, his reputation for loyalty and nobility ruined because of the things he was made to do. So yes, Lancelot had been modest. But Aramis was not. Aramis could not be too close to Lancelot, or Aramis might not survive for long. Aramis looked out for himself, couldn't be modest in case downplaying his skills lost him a job. And speaking of jobs…

"What are you here for, Captain?"

Treville smiled. "How would you like to be a musketeer?"

Aramis wore blue where Lancelot had worn red the day he saw him. Passing by the Court of Miracles, on his way to the palace to guard the king during a special occasion six months after his appointment, he saw him. A large man, obviously strong as he carried an old woman's bags with ease into the Court. Aramis smiled softly as, in his mind, the black skin faded to white and the features morphed and Percival stood before him, laughing as he helped Merlin carry saddle bags up the steps of the citadel. A gentle giant, he knew then, and a fierce one, he knew a week later when the man saved his life. A true and loyal friend, he knew months later as he buckled a sturdy black pauldron onto the shoulder of his newest brother.

They went to Savoy, him and a group of his brothers, and their blood stained the snow crimson. Marsac left, and only Aramis remained. Only Aramis, until the blue cloaks became saturated with red, and Aramis, too, disappeared, as Lancelot took his place to mourn the deaths of his first brothers, a thousand years gone. A thousand years dead.

Aramis reappeared when he shook in Porthos' arms, tears sinking into cobalt fabric.

When Aramis first met Athos, stinking faintly of alcohol but walking straight and fully capable of beating anyone with a sword, he had one thought. When did Gwaine come back from the dead? Oh, the newest recruit barely resembled his old brother, and certainly didn't act like him, but the strength… Yes, Lancelot whispered from the back of his mind, their strength is the same.

Athos joined in a drunken brawl to protect Porthos - who, unlike Percival, was loud and boisterous and cheated at cards and thought he could get away with pretty much anything - and took a sword wound along the side of his arm and still managed to stand up straight and clean up the establishment the best he could.

Athos quickly gained his commission, and Aramis knew he, Porthos, and the rest of the Musketeers would follow him anywhere he commanded, face grim and eyes bright with adrenaline.

Athos stood before the king and defended the choice Captain Treville had made, stating it may not have generated a welcome outcome, but it was the best they would get and it saved the most lives.

Aramis stood tall beside him, firmly backing up his brother, and wondered how he could have possibly missed Leon's loyal heart beating within Athos' chest.

King Louis XIII, Aramis decided after several hours spent guarding the joke-cracking, I'm-so-funny-aren't-I-funny man, was a reincarnation of George. At least the jokes aren't about brass, Lancelot whispered.

Aramis caught himself staring at Queen Anne of Austria more than was proper, and wondered what it was about her that drew him in. Lancelot murmured warnings and hoped he wasn't falling for yet another queen - yet another woman he wasn't allowed to love.

The Spanish took Rochefort captive, and Lancelot couldn't help but be glad. Aramis couldn't help but agree - the man may be loyal to the crown, but who knew how little it would take to turn him into another Agravaine.

Cardinal Richelieu, Aramis decided after a year of putting up with the man's Red Guards, and his do-anything-for-the-good-of-France-even-if-it's-corrupt-and-or-illegal attitude, must be related to Uther. He thought he was always right, and would do it no matter the consequences for the people. Aramis wanted to kill him before he did irreversible damage. Lancelot held him back. We can't kill a supporter of the man we've sworn loyalty to, he pointed out. No matter how much we detest him, we cannot just kill him.

d'Artagnan stormed into the garrison filled with vengeance, strong despite the injury Aramis knew he had from the way he moved, and determined to succeed even after it became three against one. He kept his sword up, continued glaring, and never gave in. Arthur, Lancelot knew, would be proud. The Crown Prince of Camelot would nod at Leon, give a half-smile-half-smirk to Merlin, and command d'Artagnan to kneel. He would place his sword, flat down, on the Gascon's shoulder and name him Sir Charles d'Artagnan, Knight of Camelot. He would ignore that the man was a commoner, and focus on the fact that the man took on the three Inseparables to avenge his father's death, managing to fight for more than a minute. Arthur would do many things, Lancelot knew.

He would, if he only could. If he was not gone.

If he was not dead.

d'Artagnan agreed to help them clear Athos' name, and Aramis realized it was not just Arthur's spirit living on within the Gascon, but Elyan's compassionate and forgiving heart.

Who would be next, Lancelot wondered.

Aramis glimpsed her fire the first time Constance stormed into the garrison, snapping at the Musketeers while protecting d'Artagnan, but Lancelot did not truly recognize it for what it was until she dressed as a working girl to help them. Until he heard how she had fired a pistol to save the Gascon's life, until she had defied every rule society lay before her, leaping over boundaries and, if they were built too high, knocking them down. Only then did he recognize his best friend. All of Merlin's best qualities - his determination, his courage, his protectiveness - lived on in this woman - this woman, underestimated and often ill-treated due to her gender and class.

Lancelot smiled as he imagined her and Merlin meeting, and just how splendidly they would get along.

Like a house on fire, Aramis argued, and isn't that a frightening thought?

Aye, Lancelot agreed. But as soon as they had burned the world down, they would build it back up again, better than before. And wouldn't it be lovely to see the sparks fly?

Aramis lay above Queen Anne, sheltering her from flying bullets and yelling people, and knew it was too late. She caught his eye and smiled shakily, and he reassured her, smiling gently back. Lancelot hauled himself back, helping his queen to her feet, refusing to acknowledge what was happening. Aramis pushed the noble knight away, longing to do… something. She wasn't like other women; he didn't know what to do. Leave her alone, Lancelot ordered, shoving himself to the forefront beside Aramis. Don't even try. Don't imagine anything. She's married, she's the queen, you're a musketeer, you have no chance, don't make her another Gwen! Lancelot's last plea shocked Aramis from his treacherous thoughts, and he managed to abandon them for the moment. It won't be enough, the Knight of Camelot whispered sadly. For the moment won't be enough, and you'll fall. Just like I did. Repeating history.

Aramis knew Lancelot was right. They both did, and when the musketeer slipped up in the palace, Lancelot and Porthos berated Aramis even as he criticized himself.

Milady worked from the shadows and played with tender heartstrings. Aramis and Lancelot both yearned to cut her down, but instead whispered stories to each other as a reminder of the good remaining, waiting to grow if nurtured - of the woman Morgana once was, and who she could be again, if only given a chance. Lancelot hadn't given her that chance before. Aramis swore he would not make the same mistake with Milady.

Aramis caught a glance of familiar wild black hair out of the corner of his eye, but his head turned too slowly for Lancelot to confirm the sighting.

A flicker of blue eyes turning gold.

A loose brick falling on the head of a thief.

A whisper of the Old Religion language, and when Lancelot turned the corner, an empty alley.

Knight and Musketeer had lost hope of meeting old friends long ago. Suddenly, they found it again, and they could see other people watching, amazed, as Aramis became something… more.

It happened during a routine mission. Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis had escorted a family of visiting nobles distantly related to the king back to their home without incident, and had hoped to keep it that way on their return trip.

That hope proved fruitless.

A mile outside of Paris, sun starting to go down as they passed through a grove of trees on the main road, a group of bandits ambushed them from the trees. About fifteen men, Aramis estimated quickly, all burly and hollering as they careened down the slope, swords waving in the air. Plus some more, the medic quickly amended as arrows flew.

"Archers!" Aramis cried out, wheeling his horse to charge up the hill. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions - his brothers were, for the time being, unharmed by the barrage, but they weren't likely to remain so.

"Aramis!" Porthos bellowed, firing his pistol at a bandit about to strike the musketeer in the back. "Yer gonna get yerself killed," he muttered to himself, even as his sword sent a man spinning away with a slash to the chest.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan screamed in warning as he noticed something the other man hadn't - one of the archers pointing an arrow straight at the medic.

Aramis half-turned in his saddle. He saw his brothers staring up at him in horror. Aborting and reversing the turn, he saw light gleaming on an arrow head. He saw the arrow crumble to dust, harmless on the grassy bank. He caught a glance of familiar wild black hair, a flicker of blue eyes turning gold. He heard a whisper of the Old Religion language and saw a heavy branch break from a strong tree and collapse on the heads of the two archers.

"Merlin!" Lancelot cried. "Merlin!"

And the bandits broke before him, running to escape his path as he carved through them on his way home.

Merlin moved to Paris to escape, to forget, and hopefully to heal. With eleven centuries between him and Arthur, a millennium between him and Camelot and its people, he desperately needed to heal.

He arrived with the intent he always did in a new place - blend in, find a job, don't get attached. And in Paris, he succeeded - at least for a few weeks. He got hired to collect herbs for a doctor, used his magic to protect himself and others when he could, and kept to himself as much as possible. And then he happened to be just outside a certain grove on a certain main road to Paris at a certain evening time, collecting herbs, when he heard the familiar sound of bandits.

Already turning, fingers flexing in anticipation of a battle, Merlin started when he heard a familiar voice scream, "Archers!" Different, with a Spanish accent and speaking French, but oh so familiar. A voice he had never expected to hear again. "Lancelot," he whispered to himself, only to startle into action when two unfamiliar voices cried out in quick succession, "Aramis!"

Dashing around trees and leaping over bushes, Merlin arrived on the scene in scant seconds. Eyes flashing gold, slowing down time, he took in the picture - three musketeers fighting amidst bandits on the main road, two archers hidden among the trees, a fourth musketeer riding up the slope. An arrow, mid-flight, spiraling towards the fourth musketeer, a man who looked eerily like his dead friend. Merlin's eyes faded to blue as he released time, then flashed gold again as the arrow turned to dust. Darting to a better position, he murmured a single word and the two archers fell to the ground, a large and convenient branch thudding beside them.

"Merlin!" the fourth musketeer screamed. "Merlin!"

The warlock's breath caught in his throat, and he choked back a sob as he turned to face Lancelot, fighting through the bandits to reach him. As he turned to face home.

"Merlin," Lancelot moaned as he dropped his sword to the ground, uncaring what happened to it as he gathered his old friend in his arms, holding him tight. He buried his nose in Merlin's hair, breathing in deeply as he imagined he could still smell the herbs from Gaius' chambers, the steel from Arthur's armor, the dirt from the training fields. The harsh trace of leeches, a whiff of burning wood, dust from the citadel. A mix of scents purely Merlin, carrying Camelot along. It was no longer there - Merlin's scent had changed, of course, just as Lancelot's had when he became Aramis, but that didn't matter to Lancelot any more than it did to the warlock. His first true brother, who had responded to Lancelot's embrace by wrapping long limbs around the leather of the musketeer and burying his nose in the junction between Lancelot's neck and shoulder, searching for and, the Knight knew, imagining the scent that used to be purely Lancelot. They searched for home in each other, found pieces of it, and imagined the rest. It was all they could do, but for now, it was enough.

When Aramis finally managed to nudge just a bit to the forefront, certainly not taking over from Lancelot - that wouldn't happen for awhile, they both knew - and pulled a reluctant Knight of Camelot away from Arthur's manservant, both men made sure to keep touching the other. That, they also knew, was not going to change for a long time. They had been alone a long time, and now that they had found each other again, they were both afraid it would prove to be a dream if they released each other, let alone let the other out of their sight. Still, they both turned to face the other three men staring at them. Merlin remained calm, but Lancelot bit back a snarl when he saw how they had yet to put their swords away. Honestly, the Knight thought, the most volatile he'd been in awhile, you'd think they were afraid of Merlin!

They are, Aramis muttered, for once the voice of reason. They saw him do magic, they're worried about your reaction to him, and they're afraid you'll leave them for him after the blatant display of affection.

On the inside, Lancelot scoffed, but on the outside, he managed to relax his defensive position a little bit. Not a lot, but enough so that he wouldn't be leaping to protect Merlin at a single twitch of a sword. If the sword moved more than an inch, then they'd have a problem. He wouldn't hurt them - they were his brothers, too, after all - but at the moment, he was more concerned about the one he'd thought long gone. Long dead.

"Merlin," Lancelot said. "These are my brothers - Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan." He nodded to each one as he said their name, and they nodded stiffly back to the warlock, though they had relaxed slightly at the title 'brothers'.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Merlin said, and Lancelot wondered what had made the man so polite - had Arthur finally succeeded at instilling court manners, or had it been the long years of grief and loneliness?

Shaking his head, Lancelot continued, "Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, this is my brother Merlin."

Porthos studied this new man - this Merlin - with suspicion throughout Aramis' introduction. Since when had Aramis had a brother besides the Musketeers, he wondered. Why had he never mentioned him? What had happened that, upon their reunion, they refused to let go of one another? Since when did magic exist? He'd seen what the man did - where his hands thrust, a bandit flew back as if shot. And -

"We need to talk," Aramis interrupted his thoughts, gesturing to the newcomer. "Alone," Porthos' brother added, enforcing the request with a sharp glare. The other musketeers frowned, glancing warily at Merlin, and Aramis huffed. "Now!"

Once they were alone - or alone as they could get, anyway, with his newest brothers only fifty yards down the road - Lancelot tightened his grip on Merlin's arm and pulled him around, hugging him again. Merlin let out a muffled half-sob, half-laugh, and they both constricted around the other, making the space they occupied as small as possible.

"I thought I was alone," Merlin choked.

"I thought I was the last piece of Camelot still standing," Lancelot whispered back.

"You were dead."

"You were gone."

"How are you still alive?" They asked in unison, bright eyes staring into each other as they released their hug and stepped back slightly, sitting on the ground with their legs crossed and knees touching.

"I'm immortal," Merlin shrugged, seeming indifferent to the fact. Lancelot wondered if he actually was, and if so, how many centuries had had to pass before his brother turned numb.

"I woke up here," Lancelot murmured, giving a half-shrug of his own. "No idea how. One moment you're putting me to rest after Morgana turned me into her shade, the next I'm waking up a thousand years later, as good as new. As if I've never died once, let alone twice."

Merlin frowned, obviously curious, and the Knight basked in the knowledge he could still read his oldest brother. "Do they know?"

"What? Who?" Lancelot questioned, and the warlock nodded down the road at Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan.

"Your newest brothers. Do they know you are the Lancelot of Camelot, Knight of the Round Table, most noble of King Arthur's knights?"

Lancelot choked. "The Lancelot?"

Merlin's eyebrow rose in an impressive imitation of Gaius, and Aramis wondered in the back of his mind if it had, perhaps, been Merlin who taught Treville how to do that so effectively. "You haven't heard the stories? Lancelot, we're legends. Myths, fairytales. I tell them I'm the Merlin, and they'll look at me like I'm crazy."

"You are," Lancelot grinned, and Merlin grinned back.

"So I am," he agreed, then turned serious again. "But have you? Told them?"

The Knight's smile faded, and he sighed. "No. I never expected to. As far as they know, I am René d'Aramitz, called Aramis. Originally from Spain, but now a loyal French citizen, a Musketeer, and their brother."

"And as their brother, they deserve the truth." Lancelot started, staring at his oldest brother in disbelief. Merlin merely gazed back, completely serious.

"Tell them? Merlin, they'll lock me up in the garrison at best! You can't truly expect me too-"

"I can," the warlock stated. "Look, Lancelot - you've said it yourself, you're their brother. They won't harm you. And better for them to find out now, when you have the time to explain everything, than for them to find out on your or their deathbeds. Better now, with merely a few years of secrets, than later when you've spent a decade by their side." Lancelot stayed still, just looking at Merlin, and the warlock's eyes softened. "Trust me, brother."

"Is that what happened?" The Knight whispered instead, and Arthur's manservant froze. "Is that how Arthur found out? Him on his deathbed, and you not having the time to explain? For him to forgive?" Not a word, and Lancelot reached out and shook him gently. "Merlin? Is that what happened?"

Merlin asked, "Did you truly never look?"

"I never expected to find anything, so no, I never looked," Lancelot admitted. "I thought it was a thousand years ago, who cares now? Who cares now how King Arthur Pendragon died? His reign was a thousand years ago, so why would anyone care? Why should I look, if nobody cared?" His voice faded slowly as he spoke, till his last word was barely a whisper.

"You didn't know," Merlin reassured him. "You didn't know, Lancelot. You didn't know that we have become legends, that our stories have been passed down through generations - down enough generations that the stories are, at times, simply that - stories, with only a small grain of truth within them. And yes," Merlin confessed, feeling a weight lift off his chest for the first time in a thousand years. "Yes, that's how it happened. Enough time for him to forgive, but not for him to truly understand. Not for me to explain." His eyes pleaded with Lancelot. "Tell them, brother. Tell them, before it's too late. If they are truly your brothers, they will understand."

"We'll understand what?" A gruff voice asked, and the warlock and the Knight looked up slowly to face the other musketeers.

Porthos kept an eye on Aramis and the stranger while they talked, and he knew Athos and d'Artagnan did too. At many moments he barely held himself back from going to his brother, but when he saw Aramis wilting before his eyes he couldn't stand back and do nothing. He would be by his brother's side through this trial, no matter that he didn't understand exactly what that trial was - he would be there. With that resolve in his bones, Porthos started walking towards Aramis and didn't stop when Athos and d'Artagnan started after him, a small smile ghosting across his face when they didn't try to stop him and simply followed, silent support at his back.

They got to Aramis and the stranger in time to here the latter say, "Tell them, before it's too late. If they are truly your brothers, they will understand."

"We'll understand what?" Porthos demanded, barely restraining from drawing his sword. "We'll understand what, Aramis?"

The stranger let out a laugh, and the three standing men swung to face him with glares on their faces. "What are you laughing at?" d'Artagnan snarled.

"Nothing, it's just…" the stranger - Merlin, Athos remembered - snorted. "I can't… why Aramis? Of all the names in the world, you go with Aramis? That sounds like… good grief, it sounds like a name Gwaine might give you when he's deep in his cups."

Athos watched in disbelief as a faint smudge of red appeared on Aramis' cheeks.

"I didn't exactly have much of a choice," the medic muttered. "It had to be a common name, middle-class so I could easily get work but not stand out, and both Spanish and French. And besides, I've quite grown to like it."

Merlin snorted again, but the three standing men stared down at Aramis in growing horror, anger, and incredulity. Noticing the difference, Lancelot quickly stood, yanking Merlin up with him, to stare at his newest brothers.

"Chose?" Porthos growled. "What do you mean you chose your name? You're not…" 'like me' went unsaid, and Aramis winced.

"This is what Merlin was talking about - what he said I should tell you," the musketeer admitted. He paused, looking around at his brothers, but they all waited silently for him to continue - even the oldest, though he gripped Aramis' shoulder in silent support. "I'm not exactly… from here, I guess you could say."

"What do you mean?" Athos asked evenly, but Aramis could see the hidden anger.

"I'm… My real name is Lancelot," the medic blurted out, looking down at the ground. He told himself not to look up until his story was told, for if he did, he knew he would never begin again. "I was born in the sixth century AD. When I reached my twenties, I set out for Camelot to become a knight. There I rescued a young man from a griffin - Prince Arthur's manservant, Merlin." Around him, though he couldn't see it, his newest brothers exchanged looks of disbelief. "Within a few years, I had become a Knight of the Round Table, but soon after I sacrificed myself in Arthur and Merlin's place. Not even a year later, Morgana -"

"Morgan le Fay," Merlin mouthed at the others, whose incredulity only grew.

"- Raised me from the dead as a shade, a mere shell of my former self, incapable of anything but following her orders to come between Guinevere and Arthur, at the moment only days from marrying. Upon accomplishing this act, she ordered me to stop breathing. The next thing I knew, Merlin was putting me to rest, and then… then I woke up a thousand years later. Here."

"You're saying that you're the Lancelot, and he's the Merlin, and you both lived in Camelot?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis hesitated before he nodded, but despite that, Athos knew with a single look. "He's telling the truth," he announced. "That, or he thinks he is."

"I am," Aramis agreed. "By everything I ever was, and everything I am now, and everyone I've ever loved - by my vow as a Knight of Camelot, and my promise to Gwen, and my loyalty to Merlin, by my oath as a Musketeer, and our brotherhood - I am Lancelot as truly as I am Aramis."

He stood strong under the gazes of his newest brothers, judging him, supported by his oldest brother standing by his side. One by one they nodded and smiled, and came forward to hug him. d'Artagnan went into his arms with all the eagerness of a puppy, while Athos closed his arms around him, tightening briefly before releasing him. Porthos swept him up, the ocean embracing him, and whispered in his ear, "Don't go dying on us anytime soon. You might not come back this time." Aramis smiled at them all as they stood around him, and then they turned as one and headed for the horses, Merlin neatly placed between Aramis and d'Artagnan as if he'd always been there. They rode for the garrison, Knight and warlock seated on Aramis' horse and the other musketeers around them. They rode for home.

I hope you all enjoyed! I'm sorry if anyone seemed OOC - this was my first time writing in both fandoms. Please review!