This story is based on something Aramis says in "The Queen's Diamonds" about his mother doing what she had to do for the sake of her children. Obviously, she had more than one. I assumed Aramis never knew them since he didn't mention them but that didn't mean they weren't out there…

We Were Brothers Once

Chapter 1

Erias ducked low, breathing in harsh gasps, his heart beating frantically in his chest. The group of riders slowed and his breath caught in his throat, sure he'd been spotted. The Vicomte's men had been relentless, chasing him through the countryside for hours. He had no idea how far he'd come, his mad dash taking twists and turns, leaving him lost and confused as to where he'd been and which direction to go.

All he knew was that he could not let them take him. If they did, he would be executed and the Vicomte would win.

He was a simple innkeeper, not an adventurer, but when his old friend Lorent had pleaded with him to help rescue his daughter from the Comte's estate, he had been unable to refuse. He had two daughters of his own, many years younger than Lorent's, but he could easily imagine the terror of losing one of them to a man as wicked as the Vicomte Belvoir. The boy believed himself above the law of man or church, his cruelty well known, and Erias would no more allow Lorent's daughter to suffer such a fate than his own beloved girls.

Pleas to the old and ailing Comte d'Evroux going unheard, Lorent had proposed drastic measures to save his sweet Claudette. She was a beautiful girl, only fourteen years old, but she had the misfortune of catching the Vicomte's eye and he had ordered his men to take her as she made her way home from the bread shop nearly three days ago. When she had not arrived home, Lorent's wife had raised the alarm, and it had been easy to discover what had happened. Belvoir's men had taken her in front of witnesses, with little care for the consequences.

Knowing the kind of violence the Vicomte capable of, Lorent had been ready to storm the castle and demand Claudette's release until Erias had convinced him covertness the more effective approach. Under the cover of darkness, they had crept past the guards, found where they were holding the girl in the stables and spirited her away.

Unfortunately, neither of them were experienced criminals; they'd been seen, the alarm raised.

They had found themselves hunted and had stashed Claudette in an out of the way spot in the forest before leading their pursuers on a desperate chase. They had eventually split up, dividing the Vicomte's men. Erias had no idea if Claudette was still safe, or if she or her father had been apprehended, but he kept running, leading his pursuers away from the village, hoping to lose them in the forest or make it far enough that they might give up the search.

The sound of pistol fire echoed across the valley, and Erias jumped, instinctively covering his head with his arms. The gunshots were nowhere nearby, but he was still terrified. He'd never been shot at before – he'd never even held a pistol – and he had no idea how to handle himself under such dire circumstances.

The men shouted and turned their mounts, thundering back the way they'd come, and Erias heaved a sigh of relief, his body going slack as his mind whirled, the sudden silence confirming his luck had held.

He prayed the shots did not mean Lorent had been captured, but there was little he could do about that now. It was time to worry about his own situation.

He knew he couldn't go home. It was highly likely he'd been recognized, and if not, it wouldn't be hard to discover who had helped Lorent rescue his daughter. He'd forced Miren and the girls to leave their home above the Inn, encouraging her to visit with her sister in Argentan for a few weeks. He hadn't wanted to risk their safety in case things went wrong – a sensible precaution he would forever be grateful for heeding.

He could head to Paris. It was a long way, due east, but he could make it if he traveled steadily, stopping for rest when he could. He'd entertained the thought of finding his long lost brother for quite some time, but there had always been something holding him back; the Inn, the birth of his daughters, the fear the man would want nothing to do with him… he closed his eyes, weighing the possibility of finding the young man within the city and whether or not his presence would be welcomed.

Aramis had been but an infant when Erias had left, his mother sending him off with his father in hopes he could have a better life. He had returned to the brothel after hearing of his mother's death, hoping to find the boy, disappointed that he'd been sent off with his own father only months before. He'd spent a few days inquiring, but nobody knew of the man's name nor where he'd taken the child and Erias had finally been forced to give up, realizing that he'd probably even changed his name making his search for little Aramis folly.

He'd returned to Evroux and worked hard, finally saving enough to buy the Inn and become a respectable merchant. He'd met Miren then and they'd started a family. He'd been content, thoughts of the brother he'd never known buried in the recesses of his mind, never given light until five years ago when travelers from Paris had brought stories of the Queen and her Musketeer lover.

The moment they had mentioned the name Aramis, Erias' thoughts had returned to the baby he had held so long ago. It was quite a stretch to believe the child he remembered had grown to become a Musketeer, let alone one who had committed the treasonous act of sleeping with the Queen. But how many men named Aramis could there be? Though an uncommon moniker, it was quite possible the man could be turn out to be someone else entirely, but the possibility remained and the urge to find his brother had been rekindled in Erias' mind.

Gossip of Spanish spies and royal intrigue had followed as more people drifted west from the city. The rumors of the Queen's infidelity were proven to be lies and the King's First Minister had been revealed a traitor and killed by the Musketeers. It had all been very exciting and most of the stories had been largely embellished by the time they reached Evroux. Then the war with Spain had begun and all thoughts of court intrigue were swept away by the ugly, bloody truth of battle.

It had been almost five years since he'd thought of his brother, but now, with few options, he wondered if perhaps the Musketeer Aramis was the child he remembered. He recalled the baby's shock of dark hair and his warm eyes, already a dark brown at such a young age. He had no idea if he would recognize his brother as a man or not, but it was possible he would find safety with the Musketeers – at least long enough for the Vicomte to move on to some other interests.

With the decision made, he pushed himself up from the brush he'd taken refuge behind and stumbled back to the road, hoping like hell he could find his way to Paris.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

D'Artagnan pressed the small round piece of fruit to his nose, inhaling the fresh citrus scent. He sighed in delight. It had been ages since he'd tasted an orange, the last one from his mother's lovingly cultivated tree back in Gascony. She'd been given the potted tree as a wedding gift from an uncle who resided in northern Italy and had treated the plant with such care and attention his father would often refer to it as her little orange child. D'Artagnan smiled at the memory. The tree had never grown very large, but it had produced sweet, tangy fruit for years. An insect infestation had finally brought about its doom. Try as she might, his mother couldn't save the tree and the delicious taste of the fruit had become nothing more than a fond memory.

When he'd offered to go to the market to arrange for Constance's list of supplies for the garrison, the last thing he'd expected to find was fresh oranges, piled high in a stall on the edge of the throng of people. When he'd vocalized his surprise, the woman manning the stall had explained of the orangery that had been built in the foothills near Chatillon a few years before. Since Chatillon sat only twenty-five leiue south of Paris, it was inevitable the produce would find its way to the city. If the market goers' initial reaction to the fruit was any indication, the owners of the orangery were set to make a fortune. The woman planned on having a steady supply and assured him if he was interested in buying in bulk for the garrison, she would make him a fair deal.

Tempted, he decided to buy a dozen for the time being, hoping the delicious, juicy taste would sway Constance into making them a staple for the Musketeers. They normally had apples and sometimes figs as treats, but oranges were something that had never been available to them in his recollection. He was eager to introduce the fruit to his friends and set off, bag nestled in his arms, a smile of anticipation on his youthful face. It was difficult to stop himself from tearing into one as he walked, but he forced himself to wait, content for the moment with the sweet aroma and tangible connection to his past.

So lost in his anticipation, he didn't notice the two men at the outer gate of the garrison until he was almost upon them. Brujon, one of Constance's favorite recruits, stood guard, bodily barring the path of a tall, dark haired man who was obviously trying to gain entrance. The man was waving his arm, agitated, but Brujon held firm. D'Artagnan replaced the orange into the bag and hurried across the road, hoping to stave off any confrontation that might be brewing.

His brows rose in question as he caught Brujon's gaze. The young recruit tilted his head toward the irate man, holding up a hand against his chest as he tried to push past him into the archway.

"Is there a problem?" d'Artagnan asked casually as he approached. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Brujon, doubling the barrier between the tall man and the garrison gate.

The man turned and eyed d'Artagnan up and down. He huffed at the new obstacle and pointed to Brujon. frustration evident in his tone. "The problem is this boy will not allow me to pass."

"That's his job," d'Artagnan responded conversationally. "May I ask what your business is with the Musketeers?"

The man shifted impatiently. "That is between myself and the Musketeers."

D'Artagnan brushed his cloak off his shoulder, revealing the leather pauldron signifying his status within the regiment. "Then you're in luck, Monsieur…" He let the sentence trail off, hoping the man would fill in the blank.

"Erias LaMonte," he supplied, bowing slightly. "My apologies, but it is vital I speak with the Musketeer named Aramis. I was under the assumption I would be able to find him here."

D'Artagnan nodded, taking a moment to assess their visitor.

The man stood perhaps a bit taller than him, his dark hair cropped close to his head. His face was angular, handsome, a thin white scar across his cheek marring the tanned skin. He did not wear a beard, but it was obvious he'd not shaved recently, stubble dotting his chin and cheeks. The man's eyes were brown, gold flecks glinting in the early morning sun. d'Artagnan could not sense any threat in those eyes, but there was something, a nervousness that set him on alert. He didn't think this man meant Aramis harm – though if it had been before the war, the first thought would've been a jealous husband come to collect retribution from the promiscuous man. Four years in a monastery – not to mention the affair with the Queen that had almost cost him his life – had tempered Aramis' romantic nature. He'd suspected his friend had perhaps fallen into his old ways when he'd left with the woman from his past – Pauline – but Constance had quickly set him straight on that account. As far as d"Artagnan knew, Aramis hadn't been with a woman since his return – a feat none of them had ever believed possible before the war.

"Since I've only arrived myself, I am not certain Aramis is present in the garrison as of yet, but I will inquire for you Monsieur LaMonte."

"Thank you." The man sighed in relief at the Gascon's capitulation. With a mumble of apology to Brujon, he followed d'Artagnan through the archway, coming to a stop when the young Musketeer held up a hand just inside the courtyard.

"Wait here," he ordered before continuing, the bag of oranges all but forgotten in his arms.

A quick look around showed Aramis and Porthos seated at their usual table and he tucked the bag more securely to his chest and marched across the yard toward his friends. Athos stepped out of his office onto the landing above, noting the Gascon's determined stride and made his way down the stairs, landing on the packed dirt just as d'Artagnan approached.

"Who is our visitor?" the Captain asked, his gaze flicking toward the man standing just inside the archway. The man shifted, well aware of the scrutiny, but did not avert his attention. Athos narrowed his eyes, studying the man from afar. It wasn't unusual for them to receive visitors at the garrison, but with the unrest due to Governor Feron's death and Grimaud's exploits of late, they would be remiss not to exercise caution.

"He says he's looking for Aramis," d'Artagnan replied, throwing a glance back toward the archway. He was pleased to see LaMonte had done as he was told, shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes tracking the young Musketeer as he moved on toward the table.

Athos brows rose as he fell into step with the younger man. "His reason?"

"He didn't state one," d'Artagnan admitted. "I was hoping Aramis would recognize him before I allowed him further access."

"Good. Considering it is Aramis he's looking for, caution is always advisable."

D'Artagnan chuckled and the Captain grinned in return.

Aramis and Porthos sat on opposite sides of the table, quietly breaking fast with the gruel that had been served as the morning meal. It seemed strange to not hear the two old friends' familiar banter, but their relationship had been strained since their return to Paris, Porthos still hanging onto resentment for what he feels was a personal slight, and Aramis unrepentant for doing what he felt he had to do. Their discord was not lost on the other two, the loss of the familiar camaraderie a strain on them all. It was getting better, but there was still a thin veil of strife that colored their actions and d'Artagnan was beginning to fear they would never be able to return to the easy friendship they used to enjoy. Remembering the oranges, d'Artagnan pulled one from the bag and tossed it toward the table. Aramis caught it easily without bothering to look up.

"Are these oranges?" He took a long sniff, and exhaled a decadent sigh. Of course Aramis would know what an orange was, d'Artagnan realized. Though it was hardly the surprise he'd planned, the Gascon was pleased to see the delight shining in his friend's dark eyes. "Constance sent you for grain I believe." Aramis juggled the round piece of fruit expertly in his hands, an elated grin pulling at the corners of his lips. "However will you explain this?"

d'Artagnan could tell the marksman's frivolity was forced, but he was thankful the man continued to pretend things were normal between them. Perhaps if they all pretended long enough, the lie would become true. Only time would heal the wounds inflicted by what they'd all experienced the last four years, but while Aramis continued to search for his place within their new dynamic, d'Artagnan would do whatever he could to help ease his way.

He returned Aramis' smile, arching a brow haughtily. "I'm certain she will forgive my indulgence the moment she bites into one of these gems."

Aramis bobbed his head in agreement, his laughter reflected in his eyes. "You're learning my young friend. There may be hope for you yet." He leaned to the side, glancing past them toward the man still waiting on the opposite side of the courtyard. "Are you going to tell us who your new friend is?" he inquired as he began to peel the orange skin back from the juicy piece of fruit.

"Actually, we were hoping you could tell us." Athos intoned.

Aramis frowned, staring at the stranger. After a few moments he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, returning his attention to the orange. "He doesn't look familiar. Why would you think I'd know him?"

"He asked for you by name," d'Artagnan informed him. "Says his name is Erias LaMonte. You don't recognize him?"

"Probably a jealous husband."

Aramis looked askance at Porthos' sleepy mumble but didn't respond though it was obvious the slight had been recognized. Placing the orange carefully on the top of the table, he pushed himself up and reached for his hat that lay on the bench beside him.

"Let's see what our guest wants, shall we?"

He stepped around the table without bothering to excuse himself and strode past d'Artagnan with a forced smile.

Athos caught Porthos' eye and shook his head in exasperation, garnering a sheepish shrug from the big Musketeer.

"Force of habit," he admitted, repentant.

With a sigh, the Captain turned to follow the marksman across the courtyard.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos kept his eyes on the stranger as he approached. Aramis was smiling, his hand outstretched in greeting, showing no signs of trepidation at the new arrival. Although the marksman had shown little sign he'd resumed his promiscuity since their return, he'd always been a secretive man, never allowing his affairs to become public knowledge unless he chose to make them so.

Porthos' comment flittered through his head, but he shook it away; Aramis was still in love with the Queen no matter how hard he tried to deny it. Whether he would be able to continue the ruse was yet to be determined, but Athos knew he was trying to make the best of an impossible situation. Once his friend had given his heart, there was little that could sway him to betray that commitment, so he doubted Aramis had done anything that would warrant a jealous husband or lover to seek him out. Of course, with Aramis, it never hurt to be prepared.

"I am Aramis," Athos stopped just behind his friend as he introduced himself. "And this is Athos, Captain of the Musketeers. D'Artagnan informs me you were asking for me?"

Athos hid a smirk, unsurprised his friend had known exactly who had followed him without turning around. The man's uncanny ability to see everything around him without looking had always been an astounding trait.

The man eyed Athos pointedly but the Captain made no move to leave and returned the stare. Their guest sighed, reluctantly accepting he would not be allowed privacy for this encounter.

He turned his attention to Aramis who remained smiling expectantly before him.

"My name is Erias LaMonte. I am an inn keeper from the village of Evroux."

Aramis frowned, turning to Athos with a shrug. "I can't remember having traveled to Evroux recently." He raised his brows in question, but the Captain shook his head as well.

"Nor have I. Though we may have passed near sometime during the war without realizing."

Aramis accepted the answer and returned his attention to their guest. "Since it seems we have never been to your village, Monsieur, what is it you wish to discuss?"

With another glance toward Athos, LaMonte reached into the pouch around his waist and pulled out a tattered red ribbon. It was tied at the ends, a small tarnished locket strung from the aged satin. He held it out toward Aramis who plucked it from is grasp with a grin. He held the ribbon reverently, allowing the small locket to nestle in the palm of his hand.

"This color…." His eyes studied the small trinket, a wistful smile on his lips. "I remember a ribbon of this color. It always hung around my mother's neck, a small silver cross attached to it." He glanced back at Athos, his eyes shining with the memory of his past. "I'd forgotten all about it."

"I, too, received this from my mother."

Aramis' attention swung back to LaMonte, his brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued.

"Her name was Giatta," the man continued.

Athos watched Aramis carefully as the Musketeer's face paled. He stepped closer, protectively, his instincts sensing something amiss.

"Giatta…." Aramis murmered, his gaze traveling from LaMonte to the ribbon and back again. "My mother's name…"

LaMonte smile was warm, knowing, and Athos' trepidation began to melt away. This man did not mean his friend harm, he was certain of it. But…

"I know," LaMonte nodded. "It has taken me far too long to find you."

Aramis shook his head, suddenly at a loss as what to say or do. "What do you mean?"

"I'm your brother, Aramis."

The marksman's knees shook and Athos stepped forward, offering support with his close proximity. Aramis was still pale, his eyes wide, staring at the face before him. Now that the claim had been made, Athos could not deny the similarities between the two men. Erias was taller, his face more angular, but the nose, the chin and the eyes – especially the eyes – were enough to convince the Captain he could very well be who he claimed.

Aramis gasped in shock as he made the same realization. "Brother?" He shook his head, his fist tightening around the ribbon, crushing it with his strength. "I can't… I don't…" He swallowed and bowed his head, taking a moment to regain his composure. Athos had grown up with Thomas, so he knew exactly how it felt to have a true brother by his side. He could only imagine what it would be like to have one drop in from out of nowhere after a lifetime.

"I knew she must have had other children," Aramis mumbled, finally raising his head, his expression one of wonder. "I simply never thought to meet any of them. Where have you been all these years? How did you find me?"

Erias grinned and shrugged a shoulder in a gesture Athos found painfully familiar. "The name Aramis is not one you hear every day. When rumors from Paris found their way to Evroux, I had to take the chance."

"Rumors?" Athos questioned, alarmed by the statement. It had been over four years since Rochefort had almost succeeded in having Aramis and the Queen put to death, but the memory still haunted them all. If those rumors were still circulating… he silently thanked the God Aramis believed in so fervently for returning him to them.

"The ones about the Musketeer and the Queen," Erias said, confirming his fears. "They were all lies, I know, but the moment the name Aramis was mentioned, I couldn't help but wonder if the Musketeer was the same squalling little baby I remembered from a lifetime ago."

Aramis had obviously decided LaMonte was telling the truth, his face lighting up in a radiant smile Athos couldn't remember seeing since before the war. The marlsman opened his arms and pulled the taller man into a hug, slapping him on the back a few times. His laughter echoed through the garrison.

"Athos! Can you believe it?" He turned to the Captain, his arm around Erias' neck and shoulder. "This is my brother!"

Athos couldn't help but return the grin. "So I've surmised."

"Come meet my friends!"

He steered Erias toward the table where d'Artagnan and Porthos remained, both men watching the proceedings with guarded interest. Athos caught Porthos eye and shrugged. Whether or not this man was truly Aramis' brother was yet to be determined, but for now, LaMonte's arrival had lifted he pall that had covered Aramis like a shroud and Athos was willing to give in to the folly simply to see the marksman's demeanor lightened for while. They would, of course, investigate the claim, and if it proved false, there would be no apology for the wrath Aramis' Musketeer brothers would lay at Erias LaMonte's feet.

TBC