Here it is folks, the very last chapter. I have to say, I'm sad to see this story end :)

Once again, a huge thank you to everyone who has read, followed and reviewed this story. I've cherished every one of your comments!

And a very special thank you to SpaceCowboy for her support, patience and hard work throughout.

Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 10

Thursday morning, dawn

Porthos slumped against the wall of the chapel and rubbed the grit from his eyes, wishing he could erase the horrors of the night as easily.

Lifting his gaze to the window, he watched the purple hues of an early dawn fight back the darkness. The light of the new day failed to dispel Porthos' worries as exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, and the stress of watching Aramis battle fever and nightmares throughout the night tore his spirit.

Hugging his knees, Porthos bent over and rested his head on his arms, surrendering to the headache endeavoring to split his brain.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked.

Apparently, there was no rest for the weary.

Lifting his head, Porthos' flinched as needles pierced the area behind his eyes. When he glanced to his right, he found d'Artagnan laying on his side next to a sleeping Athos, his injured leg curled on top of his left and a cloak bunched up beneath his head.

"Thought I told you to sleep?" he said.

"I tried," d'Artagnan replied. "And failed."

The younger man shifted, deepening the lines around his eyes and exposing the reason for his insomnia. "My leg aches. I can't seem to get comfortable," he admitted. "And also…"

As d'Artagnan's voice trailed off, his worried gaze settled on Aramis' unconscious form.

Porthos sighed but nodded in understanding. "Yeah. I get it," he said, watching the frantic rise and fall of the marksman's chest as infection taxed his heart.

Before the first ray of sunlight filtered through the window, Aramis' fevered mumblings had ceased, suggesting the demons ruling his mind had finally granted him a small respite.

Demons might not be the appropriate word, Porthos corrected himself as his mind's eye provided a disjointed memory of Aramis thrashing under the influence of his dreams and uttering one name.

Anne.

As the name repeatedly spilled from his friend's lips like a broken plea, the image of a beautiful woman handing Aramis a golden cross invaded the edges of Porthos' consciousness. "She's not a woman," he heard himself say. "She's the Queen."

When Porthos' overtaxed mind reminded him of that moment, he moaned inwardly.

He had decided not to jump to conclusions; to reserve his judgment for the day Aramis chose to share the truth. Until then, Porthos would expel the name from his head.

Despite the marksman's reputation, Porthos learned long ago that while his friend's heart inspired him to be reckless at times, he still held himself to the highest code of honor when it came to women. Porthos didn't know how her name came to fall from Aramis' lips and he felt certain the true context of the situation eluded him.

"Porthos?" d'Artagnan called, his query cutting through Porthos' thoughts. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the pressure behind his eyes. "Just tired."

To distract from his own weariness, Porthos answered d'Artagnan's original question. "I checked 'is wound not along ago," he said. "It looks cleaner, though his skin is still too hot."

D'Artagnan pushed off the ground to sit up, shuffling backward until his shoulder blades touched the wall next to Porthos. "He's strong," the younger man said, wincing as the movement jostled his leg. "He will win this battle."

Nodding, Porthos clung to the Gascon's words as if they proclaimed the only possible outcome.

"I thought I told you to wake me when dawn approaches," grumbled Athos as he leveled himself into a seated position.

Porthos snorted. "Took me so long to convince you to lay down that I thought I'd savor my victory for another few minutes."

Athos huffed before scanning Aramis' prone form. "How is he?"

"Fever 'asn't quite broken yet," Porthos answered with a sigh. "But 'e's gettin' there."

As their voices rumbled against the wall of the chapel, Treville pushed himself up as well, scrubbing his face with one hand. "It's time to ready the horses, Athos."

"No." The response seemed instinctive; Athos' eyes reflecting his desire to stay with his men. "Not yet."

Porthos seized his lieutenant with a stare. "We talked about this last night. The Cardinal needs to be brought to justice. You know you 'ave to do this," he implored. "For all of us."

"I hate to leave you like this," Athos admitted, his gaze traveling between Aramis' motionless body and d'Artagnan's weary features.

The quiet confession granted a rare glimpse of the older man's emotions which tugged at Porthos' heart.

"I know you do, brother," he said, leaning forward to catch Athos' eyes and lend strength to his words. "But I promise you, I'll watch over them. And you know I'd protect 'em with my life."

Jutting his chin at the door, Porthos indicated the space where he had deposited Lazare's dead body hours ago. "Besides, the danger here died with him."

"The real threat lives at the palace and dines with the King," d'Artagnan added. "The Cardinal must finally be held accountable for his actions."

Porthos grunted. "He can't be allowed to throw daggers every time our backs are turned."

"I know," said Athos with a nod. "We will see justice done. By any means."

D'Artagnan shook his head lightly. "And The Queen seems to think King Louis wouldn't be able to cope with the Cardinal's betrayal," he stated. "She protected him before. Who's to say she won't do it again?"

"This is musketeer business," Treville insisted as he rose to his feet. "I'm sure the Queen will not interfere."

Crossing the distance to Aramis' makeshift bed on the ground, the captain crouched in front of him. "You get better, you hear me?" he whispered, resting his hand on top of the marksman's head. "We need you back in Paris."

With a final glance at Aramis' pale features, Treville straightened and strode toward the door. "I trust you to take care of them, Porthos," he called over his shoulder before exiting the chapel.

"I will," Porthos muttered to himself, squaring his back to shoulder the responsibility he had been entrusted with.

Athos pushed to his feet but remained rooted to the spot, his gaze shifting between d'Artagnan and Aramis before settling on Porthos. "The saddle bags contain enough water and provisions to last you three days," he explained, his eyes still filled with the reluctance to leave his men behind. "I promise you I will return before then."

"We will be right here," d'Artagnan assured. "All of us."

Porthos lifted his chin. "Give 'im hell."

With a final nod, Athos turned on his heel and walked through the door.

As the clatter of hooves faded into the distance and finally ceased completely, Porthos allowed his head to rest against the wall behind him, hoping to retain enough energy to fulfill his promise and see his brothers through.

§§§

Thursday afternoon

Deja Vu descended on Treville as he pushed against the heavy double doors of the palace library. He felt like he'd just left here with orders sending him and Aramis on this fateful mission.

When he and Athos crossed the threshold, Queen Anne rushed toward them, the golden fabric of her dress shimmering in the light of the afternoon sun.

"Treville, Athos. Thank God," she called, anxiety pitching her voice high. "Have you heard of the Cardinal's fate?"

Treville nodded. "One of the guards at the palace gates informed us. "What happened?"

"The captain of the red guard found his body this morning, slumped over his desk in his study," the Queen explained. "The physician attributes his death to heart failure due to his recent health issues."

Heart failure? Wheels of doubt churned in Treville's gut. Cardinal Richelieu's ruthlessness had gathered him many enemies over the years. For him to die of something so mundane as heart failure seemed hard to believe. Treville swallowed his words of skepticism before they could leap off his tongue.

"Where is the King?" Athos asked with a sidelong glance at Treville.

Sighing, the Queen bowed her head. "He's locked himself into his chamber and refuses to come out."

"He's grieving," Treville responded, fighting not to roll his eyes at the King's predictable behavior.

Anne grasped Treville's hands, her eyes glistening with tears. "What do I do, Treville?" she pleaded. "The public needs to be addressed; the people must be assured the King stands fast despite this tragedy." Taking a deep breath, she pulled her hands back and fidgeted with the necklace around her neck. "Then there are the funeral arrangements and -"

"Remain calm, your Majesty," implored Treville, hoping his words imparted comfort. "I will speak with the King and I promise all will be taken care of."

"Thank you," she breathed, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I knew I could rely on you, Captain."

As the Queen's shoulders visibly relaxed under Treville's reassurances, her eyes carried the spark of another question. "What of your mission? Did you substantiate the claim of an uprising in LaRochelle?"

"The claims were false," Treville explained, adjusting his stance. "The entire affair was orchestrated to lure me into an ambush."

Her Majesty inhaled sharply as she pressed her hand to her chest. "That is dreadful. Who would do such a thing?"

Athos cleared his throat before sharing his insight on the matter. "We have reason to believe the Cardinal hired a troupe of mercenaries to kill Captain Treville on route to Chateau Fontainebleau."

"I see," she said, her voice as thin as paper. "Unfortunately, Captain, you and I are uniquely qualified to attest to the Cardinal's cruelty."

Straightening her spine and raising her chin, the Queen's gaze turned to ice, dispelling the sadness from her features. "But it seems that God has finally demanded recompense for his actions," she stated, "and I for one will sleep much easier because of it."

Treville doubted God had anything to do with the matter, but nodded his head in agreement.

"I do trust you escaped the attempt on your life unharmed?" Queen Anne asked, her eyes searching his body for signs of injury.

"I did," Treville assured. "But two of my men have been seriously wounded."

In response to his words, the color leached from her beautiful features while her hand came to rest on her stomach as if she felt the need to shield her unborn child from the news.

It was no secret the Queen of France held her Musketeer protectors in high esteem, but her strong reaction surprised Treville.

Before he found the appropriate words to dispel her concerns, Athos stepped forward. A strange look passed between his lieutenant and the Queen as they locked eyes.

"Will they recover?" she whispered.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan are strong," assured Athos, his words soft. "They will heal."

For a moment her Majesty's eyes screamed with the need for more information, and Treville realized the finer details of this conversation eluded him.

With a deep breath, Anne succeeded in schooling her features, hiding her emotions behind the bearing of a Queen. Instinct told Treville not to pry; urged him to move on before his mind accidentally stumbled upon a truth he wasn't prepared to hear.

"If you excuse us, your Majesty," he said with a bow of his head, "I'll see if I can convince the King to leave his chambers."

The Queen nodded her assent, all traces of emotion locked away inside the depth of her eyes. "Will you tell him?" she asked. "Will you tell Louis about the Cardinal's treachery?"

"Considering the circumstances," replied Treville. "I see no reason to destroy his Majesty's belief that Cardinal Richelieu was a true servant of France."

Anne's features brightened with sincere gratitude. "You are a good man, Captain," she determined. "Your loyalty has always been a cornerstone of this house."

"It's my duty," he said, dismissing the praise.

Her Majesty's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "And yet it means everything."

Humbled by her words, Treville bowed before his Queen then turned on his heel, striding toward the exit.

Stepping over the threshold, he stopped in the hallway and waited for Athos to join him. "What do you make of this?" Treville asked when the lieutenant closed the door behind them.

"Those who have no heart, don't commonly die of heart failure," Athos muttered. "I suspect more at play here than meets the eye."

When Athos turned and led the way down the marble hallway toward the Cardinal's study, Treville followed in silence.

Reaching the heavy oak door, Athos stopped to draw a deep breath. He released the air through pursed lips before pushing against the wooden slab and stepping across the threshold.

The office looked as Treville remembered it; the high wooden ceiling flaunted an intricate design of impressive artistry while evenly spaced windows along the east wall flooded the room with the soft glow of the afternoon sun. The only furnishings, a wooden desk and cabinet, stood forlorn in the center of the expansive space as a testament to the Cardinal's vanity.

Without pause or consideration for his surroundings, Athos strode forward until he reached the desk, where his gaze flitted across the surface.

As Treville came to stand next to his soldier, he watched Athos' back stiffen when amidst scrolls and books, his gaze caught on a small, silver locket.

Treville frowned. "Athos?"

"This… Belongs to me," Athos disclosed as he took hold of the necklace.

Opening the clasp to reveal the picture of forget-me-nots, his eyes glazed over. "It's the one tangible reminder of my past that I kept," he shared. "The keepsake I used to wear around my neck to remind myself of my sins."

Treville's forehead creased, his mind working to grasp the implications. "Why is it on the Cardinal's desk?"

"There is one explanation," Athos reasoned, prying his gaze from the locket to meet Treville's. "She left it for me to find... after she killed him."

"Who?"

Darkness settled within the depths of Athos' eyes. "My wife."

When the final piece of the puzzle slid into place, Treville's insides twisted with the realization that Athos would most likely shoulder the burden of responsibility for Milady's actions.

"This is not your doing, Athos," he assured in a firm voice.

Athos' eyes flashed with guilt. "I made her what she is."

"I don't believe that for one second," Treville countered, his voice rough in response to his soldier's pain. "We are, all of us, responsible for our own actions. Past tragedy does not give her the power of executioner."

"Be that as it may," Athos deflected, "she will be long gone by now. We will never find her."

Athos' despondency caused Treville to heave a sigh. "I neither condone her actions nor her methods, but considering current circumstances, I dare say that the result of her actions might work in our favor," he reasoned. "Death is no more than he deserved for all the atrocities he's committed in his lifetime, and the fact that he died by the hand of his own assassin spells poetic justice to me."

As acceptance slowly settled into Athos' stormy gaze, he nodded his head. "So we let her get away?" he asked to clarify.

"As you pointed out," Treville reminded, "she already has. And rest assured, we will revisit the matter if she ever dares set foot in Paris again.

"In the meantime, I have a grieving King to console," he pushed on, clasping Athos' upper arm. "And you must rest to gather enough strength for your return journey to Saint Blaise in the morning."

Athos' spine straightened at the mention of the chapel and their brothers. "Alright," he agreed. "We will handle this your way."

"Return to the garrison," Treville advised. "Eat. Sleep. And come dawn, you can head back out with fresh horses, fresh supplies, and two extra men."

His eyes downcast, Athos nodded. "I hope leaving them wasn't a mistake," he said. "D'Artagnan and Aramis..." As his words trailed off, he pressed his lips together; the lines around his mouth exposing his concern.

"I'm sure by the time you return to the chapel you'll find that Porthos is the one in need," Treville predicted, hoping to dispel Athos' worry. "His patience will have worn thin by Aramis' and d'Artagnan's premature assurances of their recovery."

Athos' lips twitched with a smile. "You know your men."

"I would be remiss in my duty if I didn't.

Drawing a deep breath, Athos nodded slowly. "You're right," he said in a firm voice. "I'll do as you say and return to the garrison. And tomorrow I will bring our brothers home."

§§§

Thursday afternoon

Open your eyes.

The sweet sound of Anne's voice filled every corner of Aramis' mind, urging him on, pleading with him to do as she asked.

Open your eyes, Aramis. Your brothers need you to wake...

Unable to deny her, even in a semi-conscious state, Aramis struggled to obey and climbed through the nightmares and darkness that had been trapping him for far too long.

"Aramis?"

That voice, Aramis recognized as his anchor against the thundering waves of life. And in the end, he would even defy God for the ability to erase the concern coloring the familiar rumble of Porthos' words.

Forcing his lids open, Aramis squinted against the light piercing his eyes and slicing into his brain.

"That's it, come on back," Porthos encouraged, his hand a comforting weight on Aramis' chest.

Focusing on Porthos' touch, Aramis fought to find his bearings. His undertaking proved difficult as his vision blurred and swirled like a puddle of muddy water; blotches of light and color refusing to settle into recognizable images. The fever Aramis had battled left his hair matted with sweat and his face gritty. A ton of bricks weighed on his beaten muscles, rendering his body useless.

"Am I late… to the party?" he pushed forth, his voice a scratchy whisper he hardly recognized.

Porthos huffed a humorless laugh. "You could say that," he uttered, his words tainted with a strange mix of relief and distress. "Gave us quite the scare."

As Aramis blinked with effort to restore his sight, and the muddled shadows before him forged into the familiar contours of Porthos' face, he studied his friend's features. Aramis' brows knitted together when the lines around Porthos' eyes spoke of a sleepless night.

"I am sorry, my friend. I didn't mean to -"

"How're you feelin'?" Porthos interrupted, evidently unwilling to entertain his apology. "Fever finally broke 'bout two hours ago."

"I feel like I fell from a three story building," Aramis admitted, realizing that false bravado would not be appreciated at the moment.

"Honesty," Porthos remarked. "How refreshing."

Aramis swallowed, flinching as the raw tissue of his throat protested the motion. "Unfortunately, I seem to lack the energy to lie."

"I'm not surprised," Porthos informed, as he reached for the water skin and popped the cork with his thumb. "It's been a long night."

The shadows hovering in the depth of Porthos' gaze evoked a string of broken memories, giving new life to Aramis' agony. Heat ravaged his frame, whispers of comfort brushed his ears, and that vile creature called pain trapped him under its wings and plunged his world into darkness.

Not willing to wallow in his misery, a fire forged in his belly, urging him to move and escape the confines of his fragile body.

Grunting, Aramis tried to push off the ground.

"Not this again," Porthos moaned. "What do you think you're doin'?"

Aramis' muscles shuddered under the strain of his actions, refusing to obey his command to rise. "Will you help me sit up?" he pleaded, cursing the frailty of his voice.

Porthos shook his head, his eyes shining with regret. "Ya need to take it easy."

"Please," Aramis begged, the urge to prove his vitality out wrestling common sense.

Porthos sighed, set the water skin aside and reached for him with both hands.

"Slow n' steady," his friend cautioned as he slipped his arm beneath Aramis' shoulder blades to help him sit up.

A fiery poker pierced Aramis' side. His muscles contracted, and a jostle of his arm served to shift his world on its axis as his wound ignited like gunpowder.

Before he could regret his decision to rise, Aramis' injuries pitched him forward in protest of his foolish undertaking. Any measure of control seemed beyond his grasp until his forehead met the solid support of Porthos' chest.

"Told ya," Porthos grumbled as he rubbed slow circles on Aramis' back. "Need to take it easy."

Aramis moaned, his usual eloquence eluding him as he breathed in Porthos' scent in the hopes of calming his heaving chest. "I'm fine."

"You're stubborn as hell," Porthos corrected. "But you certainly ain't fine."

"I will be once I…"

Aramis' words trailed off as he focused his efforts on shuffling backward. When his back connected with the wall of the chapel, he slumped against it. "See? All good," he mumbled, his breath hitching. Setting his jaw, Aramis fought to close his mind to the continual fire slipping through his arm and feeding on his flesh.

"If you say so," Porthos said with a sigh. Edging closer to sit next to Aramis, Porthos' shoulder touched his, helping him keep his balance. "Here," Porthos offered, handing him the water skin. "Drink."

"Thank you... my friend," Aramis whispered. Taking hold of the proffered container to quench his thirst, he hoped Porthos would realize his gratitude extended to so much more than the water soothing his throat.

Resting a hand on Aramis' thigh, Porthos squeezed the muscle beneath his fingers. "Anytime, brother," he promised. "Anytime."

The rasp in Porthos' voice prompted Aramis to look up. Scrutinizing the lines around Porthos' eyes, he realized they stemmed from pain as much as exhaustion.

As Aramis' brows knitted together, he reached up to probe the split skin below his friend's hairline where bruising and a crusted layer of blood supported his suspicion that Porthos suffered from a vicious headache.

"Allowing yourself to be captured by the enemy might not have been the smartest thing you've ever done," Aramis ventured, wincing when Porthos flinched under his ministrations.

Batting his hand away, Porthos scoffed. "I'm fine. And in case you hadn't noticed, the odds weren't exactly in our favor," he returned with a rueful smile. "Had to get creative."

"Creative is one word for it," Aramis said, his breath hitching once more as a stab of pain lanced through his arm. "Reckless... is another."

Cradling his injured limb in his lap, Aramis stared at the bandage covering his wound, hoping to force the fire beneath into submission before it drove him mad.

"I'm sure it 'urts like hell," Porthos said, following Aramis' line of sight. "But it does look better. Me n' Athos, we cleaned it twice more last night and the honey seems to help clear the infection."

Aramis forced his mind to ignore his suffering. "I do apologize for depleting your stash of sweets," he returned, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"No worries," Porthos said with a chuckle. "When we return home you can pay me back in wine bottles. I'll need them."

"Bottles? Sounds like you're charging me interest."

"Of course. Have to help the empty purse somehow," Porthos explained. "Commission 's barely enough to get by."

As the familiar banter relaxed his tightly coiled muscles, Aramis breathed deeply when the burning needles inside his arm eased their torment, and the agony subsided to a throbbing ache. "You could always improve your card game," he teased, letting his head fall back to rest against the wall behind him. "There is more money in that."

"Better watch it," Porthos warned, his lips twitching with a smile. " My card game is second to none."

"Only when you have an extra ace up your sleeve."

Aramis felt their quiet chuckles form a shield against the stress and anxiety of the past two days, and watched Porthos' shoulders relax as concern and worry faded into the background.

Aramis' snickers ebbed off when his eyes caught on d'Artagnan's sleeping form. The Gascon's head rested on a wool cloak, his features relaxed and free of pain for the moment. "How does his wound look?" he asked, grateful for the steady rise and fall of the younger man's chest.

"Redressed it twice," Porthos answered. "Kept it nice n' clean."

"Glad to hear it," he said, nodding in approval. "The wound is deep, it's imperative we keep it clean to prevent infection."

"Ay," Porthos agreed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, eyes staring into the distance.

Sensing a wave of nervous energy ripple through Porthos' frame, Aramis prompted, "What is it?"

Carting one hand through messy curls, Porthos sighed. "It's a great thing you did, you know?" he said, his voice a quiet rumble. "The way you removed that ball. If it weren't for you, we could 'ave lost 'im."

Aramis slowly shook his head, unwilling to accept the praise. "I would have failed miserably without your support, my friend," he whispered. "The pain addled my mind and I couldn't…"

As the meaning he wished to convey got tangled in a web of emotion, Aramis searched Porthos' gaze, hoping to once again draw from the other man's strength. "Thank you for keeping me grounded," he said, exhaling slowly. "Sometimes I feel like you know me better than I know myself."

Porthos' head bopped up and down as if in agreement, though his eyes turned dark as shadows of doubt settled in their depths.

"That so?" Porthos wondered, his voice carrying a note of sadness. "The last couple weeks would have me challenge that statement, cause I got no idea what's been goin' on with you."

Aramis bowed his head in acceptance of the conversation he was about to have, and carefully laid out the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. "I am sorry if my behavior caused you to question our friendship."

"It has," Porthos admitted, his stare penetrating Aramis' defenses. "But the worst of it is that for the past forty-eight hours I 'ad to wonder if your constant distraction might get you killed out there."

"That was never my intention," Aramis muttered, as regret, ugly and dark, burnt a hole into his heart.

Shaking his head slowly, Porthos pushed on as if Aramis' words hadn't registered. "An' all I could do was kick myself for not tellin' you that, whatever it is that has you wound so tight… I'm here. As always."

As Porthos' unconditional support wrapped around him like a blanket, Aramis' resolve to spare his friend the burden of his secrets bent under its comforting weight.

But it did not break.

"Something happened," he started, careful to hold eye contact to convey his sincerity. "But as there is no solution to my predicament, telling you would serve no other purpose than to drag you into this mess I've created." Aramis shook his head. "And I cannot in good conscience allow that to happen."

"Trouble don't bother me," Porthos assured. "I'd walk through fire for you an' I think you know that."

"I do, my friend," confirmed Aramis, swallowing the lump in his throat. "But that doesn't mean I'd want you to."

Porthos lifted his chin. "Athos knows, doesn't he?"

"He does," Aramis said, casting his eyes downward. "But believe me, I never intended for him to find out."

When Porthos remained silent, Aramis turned sideways to face his friend, resting his hand on the larger man's thigh to build a physical connection that would strengthen his words.

"I can tell you this," he offered. "I dare say that the last two days have served to break the cycle of introspection that has kept me prisoner for the past weeks. There is nothing like the prospect of certain death to put things in perspective."

Holding Porthos' gaze, Aramis wished he could erase the lines of pain marring his friend's features and soothe the turmoil in his eyes. "I vow that from this point forth, I will focus on counting my blessings rather than dwelling on something that can never be."

A flicker of comprehension flashed across Porthos' features in response to his words, but disappeared so quickly that Aramis realized he must have imagined it.

Porthos released a long, shaky breath. "If that's the case, then I won't pry," he relented. "But if you ever need anything, you know you can count on me." Porthos covered the hand on his thigh with his own. "Always."

"Trust me, my friend, your friendship and loyalty have never once been drawn into question."

For a long moment, Porthos searched Aramis' features but nodded slowly in the end. "Alright then," he said in a rough voice. "It's settled."

"Good." Aramis' sigh of relief turned into a groan as the discomfort of his injuries once again demanded his attention. "Because I think I'm ready now."

"Ready for what?"

As his waning energy vanished, Aramis slumped further against Porthos' shoulder while the world spun around him in dizzying circles. "To lie back down."

"Here," Porthos muttered, grasping Aramis' upper arms to guide him to the ground and cradling Aramis' head in his lap.

As Aramis waited for his surroundings to cease their nauseating spin, a thought occurred to him. "Do you want to hear the worst part about this entire ordeal?" he asked.

"What's that?"

Aramis moaned. "I lost my hat."

A heartfelt bark of laughter broke from Porthos' throat as his hand came down to ruffle Aramis' curls. "Hold on," he said, reaching for one of the saddlebags on the ground next to him.

As Porthos produced a crumpled piece of leather and twirled it between his fingers, Aramis' forehead lifted. "You found it?"

"Course I did," replied Porthos. "Told ya you can count on me."

When Aramis took hold of his hat and hugged it to his chest, the display of Porthos' unwavering support caused needles to prick the area behind his eyes.

"You'll be alright," Porthos soothed, the words sounding to Aramis like a promise, a plea, an order and a prayer.

"I've always believed that as long as we have each other, we'll all be alright," Aramis replied, holding Porthos' gaze for another moment to convey his meaning. "I forgot for a while." He closed his eyes, his heart at peace. "But I remember now."

The End

So... who made it all the way to the end? I'd love to know... :)

If you did, I hope you enjoyed and maybe I'll see you next time. Thanks for reading. SanB