Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, it would never have been cancelled and there would have been way more episodes about Aramis ;)

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

So I've been promising this monster fic for ages now. It stands at well over 120,000 words and is broken into 17 rather lengthy chapters. Many of you are growing familiar with the universe I'm building with the Musketeers Fandom - from this point called the Darkness to Dawn Universe. This is the story that will launch that universe for real. Most of the little fics I've done leading up to now for the monthly challenge fit into this so you have a bit of a taste of how I'm writing the characters.

This is the story of Savoy - but it is also the story of much more than that. This, in many ways, is the beginning for the three men, and later four, that we all love so much.

I have incorporated as much of the show cannon that I can while taking my own liberties to construct character backgrounds and build a rich history for them (I hope). But unashamedly, Aramis is my focus. He's my favorite and this universe will be mostly about him. However, the brotherhood between him and the others - most especially his brotherhood with Porthos - is one of my favorite things I've ever found in a fandom so that is a strong undercurrent throughout.

Enough from me, though, if you want to know more, I'm building a tumblr page dedicated to this universe, just as I have done for my Avengers Universe. You can find it from a search for the name of the universe or through a link on my main blog under the name 'aggie2011whoop'.

Special thanks to my amazing beta and friend

Arlothia, who has worked steadfastly on this fic - affectionately nicknamed 'the monster' - for some time now. Her support and friendship mean the world to me and I'm so glad to have her on my DDU team. Without her, there would undoubtedly be several more commas than necessary within this fic ;)

I do use a song to inspire the chapter titles, if you guess it in a review/comment then I'll give you a special shout out!

Without further ado, enjoy!

Chapter One: Everybody Needs Someone Beside Em'

I am smiling because you are my brother. I am laughing because there is nothing you can do about it!
Unknown

March 12, 1625
Musketeer Garrison, Paris

The rising sun cut through the window, shedding unwelcome light on the sleeping figure in the room's only occupied bed. Porthos winced, growling low in his throat as he was pulled, prematurely in his opinion, from sleep.

As he often did this time of morning, he found himself contemplating fashioning himself a curtain of some sort to save him from these unwanted early wakings. The idea was dismissed nearly as soon as it was considered as he had only been within the regiment, and assigned to these quarters, for a bit over a month. He'd only just started to really think of this room as his and the thought of adding such a personal touch, no matter how utilitarian, still seemed beyond his rights.

Besides, he knew it wouldn't always be entirely just his own. Another bed stood empty across the room. One day, he knew, that bed would be filled with another. The regiment had once been small enough – and therefore the Garrison large enough – to supply private quarters for each man. But as their numbers steadily grew, it had become necessary to shift two men to a room. Some of the others kept apartments in the city to afford themselves some privacy when they wanted it, but Porthos had neither the means nor the inclination to spend his hard earned coin on such an extravagance. Not when the bed here was as good as any that he'd had before. Better, even.

For now, though, the room remained his alone.

He'd thought it odd, in the beginning, that a newly commissioned Musketeer merited his own quarters while a majority of the other seasoned soldiers had been sharing rooms for years now.

It had taken him a remarkably short amount of time to figure out the truth of it.

He'd have to be blind, after all, not to see the looks that followed him; or deaf not to hear the poorly whispered comments that hovered in the air. In the infantry, nothing about him – past, appearance, or otherwise – had mattered much to anyone. He had been there for the same reason as every other man – to fight. But here, amongst the king's elite, things were proving a bit more difficult. Here, his dark skin stood out amongst the rest. Here, his manner of speech, born of his youth in the Court, gave away his lack of station and formal education.

He had not expected to be welcomed with open arms, exactly. That sort of thing would never be his lot in life. But he'd hoped for at least some sort of acceptance of his position here. He'd expected at least an acknowledgement that he had earned his commission in the same manner as every other Musketeer. But so far, he had barely been tolerated.

But there had been one exception.

As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a sudden banging on his door and a familiar voice rose from the balcony outside.

"Come on, Porthos," Aramis called to him. "I want breakfast!"

Then, without invitation, his door was thrust open. Aramis didn't come in exactly, though Porthos wouldn't put it past the man to invite himself over the threshold. Instead, he leaned lazily against the doorframe, one boot crossed over the other and his hat perched rakishly on his head.

"Still in bed?" Aramis teased and then tsked mockingly as if Porthos had committed some grievous sin. His mouth was quirked behind his beard in his normal mischievous grin and his dark brown eyes were alight with amusement. "I thought soldiers rose with the sun!"

Porthos rolled his eyes and pushed up to sitting.

"Says the one I've had to drag from the clutches of some woman or another three times this week to make it to muster on time," he replied with a chuckle. "What's got you up so early? Hmm? Did her father come home?"

Aramis laughed lightly and reached to pull his hat from his head. His long hair was pulled back and tied with a leather band, but that didn't stop him from running his fingers through the wavy strands that had escaped confinement. It was a telling gesture – one Porthos had grown familiar with even after such a short time – that gave away his sheepishness over the situation.

"Her husband, actually. Not to worry, though, brother, I escaped unscathed."

"Husband?" Porthos chuckled. "Misread the situation, did you?"

Aramis grinned wickedly, all hints of sheepishness miraculously vanished, spinning his hat in one hand.

"Not entirely. He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow."

Porthos shook his head in exasperated amusement and stood. He moved to the door and pushed Aramis back out onto the balcony. He gave a dramatic sniff and waved Aramis away.

"Go put on a clean shirt," Porthos directed. "I'd tell you what you smell like, but I'm sure you already know," he teased.

Aramis lifted his arm and gave himself a testing sniff. Porthos rolled his eyes again when the marksman immediately smirked.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted. "Wouldn't want to be distracting to the others."

Porthos chuckled.

"See you down there?" he asked even as he stepped back fully into his room.

Aramis waved his hat to indicate his agreement and then started down the walkway towards his own quarters.

Porthos pushed his own door closed again and turned back to face his room with a deep sigh. Aramis would get himself into trouble one day, no doubt, with his tendency to brazenly ignore the bonds of marriage so long as the woman was willing. Who could blame him, though? Porthos was not so innocent of the same crime when the opportunity was there.

Aramis just seemed more naturally inclined to create that opportunity for himself.

That thought had Porthos smiling and shaking his head with a chuckle.

Aramis had certainly proven to have a way about him; drawing all around him in like moths to a flame, Porthos being no exception.

Porthos had known, from the moment Treville had assigned him to Aramis for training, that he'd been given a gift. It hadn't been the first time he'd seen Aramis, after all, though he'd not known the Musketeer's name when he'd first seen him three long years ago. But after he had been recruited to the Musketeers and Aramis strode over to him that first day, a wide friendly smile on his face and humor in his gaze, Porthos knew fate had drawn them together for a second time.

Treville had claimed it was because Aramis was his most seasoned Musketeer and Porthos' natural skill warranted the best. But Porthos suspected there had been a bit more to it. Treville was no fool. He knew a man like Porthos would not be easily accepted into the elite ranks, even amongst those as honorable as the Musketeers. But Aramis was not like the rest.

"Aramis knows no strangers," Serge had told him once, in the early days.

And that had certainly proven true.

Porthos had never met a man more open, friendly, and kind than the young marksman. Where the others looked at Porthos with wariness and distrust, Aramis had treated him as if they were the oldest of friends from the beginning.

It had been easy between them, from the moment they met. Their friendship had ignited like a sparking flame, instant and bright, and had only grown stronger over the weeks following Treville plucking Porthos from the battlefield.

He felt sometimes as if he'd known Aramis all his life. If not for him, Porthos could not imagine what life at the Garrison might have been like. Lonely, for certain, as none of the others had bothered to do more than give him their names since he'd been commissioned.

He would forever be grateful for Aramis' friendship and how freely it had been offered. And even if no other Musketeer ever called him friend or brother, Porthos would be content. He had Aramis, and Aramis – with his lively personality, constant attraction to trouble, and daring bravery – had already proven more than enough.

Aramis pushed into his room and tossed his hat onto his bed, immediately working at loosening his belts. He moved towards Marsac's bed and kicked it to rouse the other man.

"Wake up, Marsac," he called cheerfully. "It's time for breakfast."

Marsac groaned and peered at him over his shoulder.

"You're just getting in?" the other man muttered in confusion as he watched Aramis shed his belts onto the bed and start pulling at his leather doublet.

Aramis shot his friend a wicked smirk and let that be answer enough. He tossed his doublet onto the bed and shrugged out of his braces. He caught a whiff of Margaery's perfume and something a bit more erotic as he stripped off his shirt and couldn't hold back a smirk as he tossed the fabric aside.

"I know what that look means," Marsac chuckled as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Who was it this time?"

"A gentleman would never betray a woman's reputation, Marsac," Aramis replied easily as he dug into the trunk at the foot of his bed for a clean shirt.

"Hmmm," Marsac stood and moved towards the chamber pot. "A married woman, then," he theorized. "I've only ever known you to be cagey when they're married."

Aramis didn't bother to answer that one way or another as he found a clean shirt and set about redressing himself. Instead, he changed the subject.

"And you?" he asked as he tucked his shirt ends into his trousers. "When last I saw you, you were mumbling irritably about that fellow who'd mentioned he preferred the pen to the sword."

"Yes, well, he was a fool," Marsac replied brightly as he fastened his trousers and sat to pull on his boots.

Aramis gave his friend a skeptical glance as he fastened his doublet. Marsac's tendency to let his temper spark over the most trivial of things had often proven…troublesome. He usually kept himself in check, though, so long as he kept his drinking in check.

"And you didn't take it upon yourself to let him know this?" he prodded warily.

"Aramis," Marsac crooned his name with a chuckle, "what do you take me for?"

The guilty look in his eyes gave it away.

"How bad was it?" Aramis asked with a resigned sigh.

Marsac attempted the charade for a moment longer before shrugging dismissively and clearing his throat.

"I won't be welcome back there for a while," he admitted. "Something about property damage and unprovoked violence."

"Marsac…" Aramis sighed. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How much did you drink last night?"

"Barely anything," Marsac defended as he stood and reached for his tan doublet. "The man would simply not keep his opinions to himself."

"How much?" Aramis asked again, pinning his friend with a firm look.

"Not… Only… Just a bit… A bottle, perhaps two," the other Musketeer admitted dismissively. "But he still had it coming."

Aramis shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He should have stayed. Margaery would have forgiven him. He should have known Marsac would start trouble the moment the mousey man with the glasses had started spouting about the brutish, violent nature of men who lived by the sword.

"Besides," Marsac muttered, "I'm surprised you even noticed. You hardly took your eye off the door the entire time you were there even though he told you he wasn't coming."

Aramis let out a long, annoyed breath and told himself they wouldn't fight about this again, not before they'd even managed breakfast.

"Speaking of Porthos, he's waiting for me downstairs. Will you join us?" Aramis asked carefully as he finished redressing and reached for his hat. He worried the brim between his fingers as he watched Marsac tighten his sword belt.

"You know I will," his friend muttered.

"Wonderful!" Aramis turned for the door, hoping that would be the end of it.

But Marsac's voice rose after him as he pulled their door open.

"I don't understand your fascination with him, Aramis. When you were assigned to train him, I could forgive it. But you were relieved of that duty two weeks ago."

Aramis felt his shoulders go rigid as he turned back to face his friend. He and Marsac had known each other for years. The other man had been commissioned into the Musketeers before the regiment had even reached its first birthday. Marsac was fine soldier, one of the best Aramis had ever known, and he had a good heart. But since Porthos' arrival, Aramis had seen a side to his closest friend that he did not like.

"Forgive it?" he asked lowly. "You presume I need your forgiveness for befriending a fellow Musketeer?"

Marsac cleared his throat and shifted his weight.

"That's not what I meant," he defended with a sigh.

"Then what did you mean?" Aramis asked with a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

"I only meant…" Marsac rubbed at his forehead and moved to join Aramis at the door. "Since he got here, you hardly even spare a moment for anyone else, least of all me. It's as if you've forgotten our friendship all together."

Aramis wilted, the fiery spark of his temper cooling in the face of Marsac's sincerity and tangible hurt.

"I could never 'forget' you, Marsac," he assured. He reached to grip Marsac's shoulder. "You are one of my oldest friends and I hold you as a brother in my heart, you know this."

Marsac smiled slightly with tentative relief.

"But," Aramis went on gently, "Porthos is my friend as well and if you would give him half a chance, you would come to see him as I do."

Marsac sighed and didn't reply.

"Come on," Aramis nudged him towards the door. "You're always a grouch before breakfast. Things will look better after some of Serge's porridge."

He laughed as Marsac mimed gagging.

Porthos made his way towards the refectory, shifting his gaze over the group of Musketeers that already sat at the long table in the yard, eating and chatting amongst themselves in the early morning light. Porthos nodded in greeting, but was not surprised when the gesture went unacknowledged.

Such treatment had become expected. It might have bothered him more if he'd not spent his youth as a child of the Court. They'd have to work a lot harder if they hoped to drive him out of the Garrison.

The refectory was empty save for Serge behind the stove.

"What've you got for me today, Serge?" Porthos greeted the battle veteran with a smile. Serge, one of the precious few who treated him with the same equality he afforded the others, smiled in return.

"Porridge."

Serge slapped a spoonful of brown mush into a bowl and held it out to him.

Porthos had to fight to keep his smile in place.

"Looks wonderful," he managed, unable to prevent his smile from slipping to a grimace. "Don't suppose you've got any fruit back there?" he asked hopefully. The fruit would at least temper the blandness of the porridge.

Serge snorted as if he were a fool for asking and Porthos sighed in resignation.

He turned, sliding onto the nearest chair and tucking into his breakfast with as much enthusiasm as such a meal could warrant. It was a relief the others were eating out in the yard. Then, at least, he couldn't hear their whispers or feel their stares. .

"Serge, old friend, I see you've made my favorite breakfast!"

Porthos looked up at the cheerful words and watched Aramis stride into the room, Marsac trailing behind him.

"Porthos hasn't eaten it all, has he?" Aramis teased as he slapped Porthos' shoulder and reached for the bowl Serge was offering him.

The whole room seemed brighter now with Aramis in it. His cheerful disposition had the innate ability to draw a smile from even the sourest of personalities. The man was like a whirlwind of light, chasing the shadows from every corner whenever he entered a room.

He looked now much as he had outside Porthos' quarters less than an hour ago – though the smell of him had somewhat improved. Dressed in leathers with a brace of pistols hooked to his belt, he looked every part the heroic figure that women swooned over, which, according to some, was close to dashingly perfect.

Though, Porthos thought, it was the hat that was most memorable. It wasn't that the hat was particularly dramatic, but the marksman's attachment to it set it apart. Always roguishly angled, Aramis' hat was well known through the regiment as something not to be trifled with. Porthos wasn't sure why the man was so fond of it, but if the thing wasn't atop his head, it was almost always in his hand or within easy reach.

Aramis accepted the bowl Serge offered him with a wide smile and inhaled the aroma deeply.

How he managed to keep from gagging at the smell, Porthos would never know.

"Ah," he sighed, a certain twinkle in his eye as he met the old cook's gaze, "heavenly. Though nothing could possibly improve on this perfect bowl of porridge, I find myself quite famished this morning. Might you have a bit of fruit hidden away? Perhaps some cheese or bread?"

Porthos could only watch in fascination as Serge afforded the young Musketeer a warm smile. Then, to Porthos' everlasting jealously, Aramis turned away, a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread in one hand and his bowl of porridge in the other. Porthos turned back to his own bowl with an amused shake of his head.

That was one rumor – amongst the many – about the charismatic marksman that was undeniably true. Aramis could charm the feathers off a bird if given half a reason. And further, likely convince that bird it could fly just as well without them.

"I don' know how you do it," Porthos commented as Aramis sat down across the table from him. Marsac moved past them to retrieve his own bowl from Serge.

"Porridge, Serge?" he heard Marsac sigh. "Again?"

"You want somethin' else, go somewhere else," Serge replied gruffly.

Porthos couldn't hold back his grin as he looked up to meet Aramis' friendly gaze.

"He won' give none of that to no one else." He jerked his chin at the plate of fruit, bread, and cheese. "Believe me, I've tried."

Though many had attempted such, Porthos had never seen anyone, outside of Aramis, able to sway Serge into such special treatment. Porthos could hear Marsac trying even now, and likely failing just as Porthos had.

Aramis smirked.

"It's all in how you ask, my friend. All in how you ask."

Porthos suspected it had more to do with the long duration of Aramis' friendship with the old war veteran, but who was he to say?

Porthos found a fresh apple arching through the air towards him in the next moment and caught it deftly in his hand. He nodded his thanks silently and Aramis dipped his head in return. Porthos took a large bite from it and watched Marsac slide in to sit on Aramis' other side, consequently as far from Porthos as possible without sitting at a different table entirely.

Porthos watched Marsac reach for a piece of cheese from Aramis' extra plate only to have his fingers nudged away.

"Hands to yourself," Aramis scolded. "I worked hard for this."

Porthos felt Marsac's gaze shift to him and he grinned around his mouth full of fresh apple.

"He got some," Marsac pointed out.

"He didn't try to snatch it from my plate without so much as a 'please'," Aramis answered easily. But even as he spoke he shifted the plate closer to Marsac so he could have his pick of what was on it. "A thank you wouldn't be out of order either, you know."

"Please and thank you, mon ami," Marsac grinned, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth.

For a moment all three of them ate in silence.

"How was your evening, Porthos?" Aramis asked suddenly, meeting his gaze over their bowls of porridge. "I didn't see you at the tavern."

Marsac frowned sourly down at his bowl before seeming to force himself to grin.

"Like you were there long enough to see anyone," Marsac teased lightly. "I think you only stayed long enough to empty a bottle of wine then you were – how do you always put it? – 'otherwise engaged'."

Porthos grinned as Aramis' lips twitched into a smirk.

"I had a late watch at the palace gardens," Porthos answered the original question. He wasn't at all surprised when Aramis' brow arched in surprise.

"Pierre and Jaques had that watch last night."

Aramis was a seasoned Musketeer, had been with the regiment since its beginning. As such, he often stood at Treville's right hand and tended to have a working knowledge of who was posted where at any given time.

"Pierre's sister took ill late in the evening," Porthos shrugged, "I volunteered to take his place."

Porthos was confused when Aramis' expression darkened. His confusion grew when Aramis turned to glare pointedly at Marsac. He was absolutely certain he was missing something when Marsac averted his gaze.

"Did you know about this?" Aramis demanded, voice uncharacteristically sharp.

Porthos looked back and forth between them, brow drawn together in bewilderment.

"Aramis…" Marsac started in a conciliatory tone, but Aramis cut him off with a gesture of his hand.

"Simple question, Marsac. Did. You. Know?"

"Not until he got to the tavern," Marsac admitted.

The tavern? Porthos frowned and watched Aramis mirror the expression.

"I didn't see him," the marksman pointed out.

"He waited until you'd left. He knew you would have known he had duty and asked questions."

Aramis abruptly stood.

"What's wrong?" Porthos finally asked. "What did I miss?"

Aramis glanced at him, dark eyes swirling with a mixture of apology and simmering anger.

"Pierre has no sister. He lied to you."

Aramis said it like it was a personal affront against him. Which, considering Porthos had seen him lie through his teeth to a few Red Guards about missing horses just the other day, it was a bit ironic. He reached out to catch Aramis' wrist as the marksman stepped away from the table.

"Just leave it," he advised. "No harm done."

"He lied to you," Aramis said again, as if it was all the motive he needed to act. "For what? An evening at the tavern?"

"Leave it," he repeated, tightening his hold on Aramis' wrist. "I'm not takin' it to heart. It's done anyway."

Aramis stared at him.

"We don't treat each other like that," the marksman stated firmly, pulling his arm from Porthos' grip. "Not here."

With that, he strode out of the refectory to where Porthos had seen Pierre having breakfast with the others. At that moment, clear as day, Porthos saw the senior Musketeer in Aramis. He saw the man whom all regarded as Treville's unofficial second. It was easy for the others to come to that conclusion when Aramis was often at Treville's right hand and tended to take command when Treville was not around. It was a natural development, born of his length of tenure as a Musketeer and the trust Treville consistently placed in him. Having been one of five founding members of the Musketeer Regiment, hand-picked by Treville himself, Aramis' authority was universally accepted as second only to Treville's. He was respected, despite his youth, and it was understood that when he gave orders they were as unarguable as if Treville himself had spoken them.

And he, more than any of the others Porthos had found, embodied what it was supposed to mean to be a Musketeer. It made sense. Aramis had been there when the ideals that served as the foundation for the regiment had been conceived.

"I didn't know he'd lied to you," Marsac said suddenly, drawing Porthos' gaze.

The other Musketeer fleetingly met his gaze and then stood.

"He shouldn't have," he added before taking his bowl back to Serge and following Aramis' path to the yard.

Porthos could only stare after him. He hadn't sensed deception in Pierre when he'd been lamenting the news that his sister was ill. He usually prided himself on being a pretty good judge of character, but perhaps in his eagerness to earn some goodwill with the others he'd missed the signs.

Serge appeared at his shoulder and collected Aramis' bowl and then reached for Porthos' empty one. The old cook nodded at the plate of fruit, cheese, and bread.

"Best take some of that out to him. He barely touched this." Serge gestured with Aramis' mostly full bowl.

Porthos nodded and pocketed some bread and a second apple. With a smile at Serge, he headed out to the yard, wondering what exactly he would find. He was surprised to see nothing immediately amiss.

Pierre was still seated amongst the others, but there was an unnatural stillness to his posture that drew Porthos' attention. Aramis stood just behind him, leaning over the other Musketeer's left shoulder with his hand wrapped firmly around his right. Whatever Aramis was saying Pierre was nodding, but his voice was too low for Porthos to hear.

Marsac stood a few steps off Aramis' shoulder, perhaps waiting to see if his intervention would be needed.

The others at the table were busying themselves with their breakfasts, very carefully not watching the exchange.

Quite suddenly, Aramis straightened.

"Apologize," he ordered succinctly, loud enough for all of them to hear.

Pierre met Porthos' gaze fleetingly and then cleared his throat.

"My apol-"

"Stand up and face him like a man, Pierre," Aramis scolded, stepping back and giving Pierre room to stand. "This is your brother you've deceived. Be glad I'm not making you grovel."

Pierre's neck reddened but he stood without complaint and stepped around the table to face Porthos fully.

"My apologies, Porthos, for my deception. Such behavior was unbefitting a Musketeer and you can trust it will not happen again."

Porthos nodded his acceptance.

"It's forgotten," he allowed.

Pierre nodded in return, met his gaze briefly once more, and then returned to his seat.

"We're Musketeers, gentlemen," Aramis spoke to all of them. "And as such we should hold ourselves to a higher standard. The men within these walls are your brothers and a slight to one is a slight to all, even if that slight comes from within." He looked over all the men at the table, settling his gaze lastly on Pierre. "If I hear of such a thing again, I will take it to the captain."

All of the men, Pierre included, nodded contritely. Aramis nodded in return and his stern expression softened to a warm smile.

"Then the matter is behind us and forgotten."

The tension around the table eased and Aramis moved back towards Porthos. Conversation resumed around the table as if the whole thing hadn't happened at all.

"You didn't have to do that," Porthos pointed out as Aramis came to stand with him. Marsac joined them a moment later, something odd in his expression that Porthos couldn't read.

Aramis arched his brow at Porthos.

"If he had done the same to me, I'd have likely punched him squarely in the nose."

"He'd never have done the same to you," Porthos pointed out.

"Exactly. You deserve no less consideration than I, my brother. And no less than Marsac," he tapped the mentioned man on the chest, "or any of the others. I would have done the same for any of them as well. You are one of us now, a Musketeer, a brother. They will see that in time, but until they do I will happily show them the way."

Porthos couldn't help but feel warmed by the words and found himself smiling. Next to Aramis Marsac was sighing, looking an odd mixture of annoyed and saddened.

Before any more could be said, however, Treville was appearing out of his office and calling for attention for morning muster. Porthos watched Aramis look forlornly back towards the refectory and grinned, producing the bread he'd brought with him.

"Compliments of Serge. He sent a bit of fruit as well," he whispered as he pressed the bread into Aramis' hand even as they moved to stand in line, Aramis between him and Marsac.

Aramis grinned, pressed the bread to his lips, and then gestured with it towards the heavens.

"Bless him… Serge, the patron saint of missed meals and forgetful Musketeers."

Treville made it to the yard just as the last of the men appeared out of their rooms or through the gate and fell into line. He met Aramis' gaze and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the bulging of the young man's cheeks as he chewed a mouthful of what appeared to be bread – if the crumbs in his beard were anything to go by.

Looking over the rest of the men – totaling only 30 at the moment since the six assigned to overnight duties would not be dismissed until relieved – Treville came to stand before them.

"Laurent, Antoine, Gentry, Pierre, Gustov, Gilles – missives to deliver for each of you," he said.

Treville held out a stack of letters to Aramis who finally finished chewing and stepped out of the line to take them. Treville didn't watch as Aramis distributed the missives to the men, but he thought he caught a bit of a wicked grin as Aramis selected the one he handed to Pierre. There had been one missive to be delivered a full day's ride away, and likely that was the one Pierre had just been assigned. If the reason for such a grin was something he needed to know, Treville expected he would hear about it from Aramis soon enough. So for now he ignored it and focused back on the rest of the men.

"You'll find today's palace and patrol duties posted momentarily. Peter and Ben, there's a comte in need of escort to an audience with the king, details to be found here."

Treville held up a folded paper and Ben stepped up to take it as Aramis returned to his place between Porthos and Marsac.

"I've received complaints from the Red Guard," Treville shot Aramis a glare, "of them being given information a bit light in truth from some of our men regarding the incident with those horses early this week."

"A Red Guard wouldn't know truth if he tripped over it."

Treville tossed another glare at Aramis for the whispered words, spoken under his breath to the men beside him, but still easily heard by everyone. The answering chuckles from the rest of the men had Treville's glare sliding over the entire group until they fell into silence again.

"Be that as it may," he ground out, "keep your silver tongue to yourself – yes, I know it was you."

Aramis snapped his mouth shut against the defense he'd likely been about to offer.

"Since you're so fond of horses in recent history, Aramis, you and Porthos can go collect the new mounts we purchased from deLuc. He's expecting you before the morning is out."

Aramis smiled, as unruffled by the scolding as he always was.

"The rest of you check the posting for your duties. Dismissed."

Treville handed the duty assignment roster to Alfred, who took it to the wall outside the refectory to tack it up. A presence at his side drew Treville's gaze over to Aramis.

"If you wanted to punish me, you might not have given me a duty I would enjoy."

"Who said anything about punishment?" Treville replied plainly. Then with a slight smirk, "Where did you send those Red Guards? The cardinal didn't mention."

Aramis' dark eyes lit with mischief and his lips quirked into a grin.

"That farm out near Chartres, with the dozens of pigs and piles of shit."

Treville bit down hard on the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. It took some doing, but he managed to keep his face impassive.

"All the while you were retrieving the missing horses yourself?"

Aramis nodded.

"I couldn't very well let the Red Guard retrieve them, could I? The gold they were carrying would have been a bit light upon its return if I had. As it was, Porthos and I had them safely bedded down in the royal stable before anyone of importance even knew they'd gone missing."

"A job well done then," Treville allowed.

Aramis grinned brightly.

"Indeed, Captain. Even better that I'll have the image of Marc covered in pig shit to sustain me for a long time to come."

Treville shook his head in exasperated amusement. It was easy to forget sometimes – when he was bravely and heroically putting his life on the line in service of the king and leading men like he was born to it – that Aramis was still so very young.

"Marc, I'm sure, won't let you forget it either," Treville reminded.

Aramis just smiled wider. Marc Defrain had been in the infantry with Aramis many years ago. A few years after Treville had brought Aramis into the Musketeers, Marc had been commissioned into the Red Guard. The two had remained something resembling friends – though Treville knew there had been a few darker years between them – despite the rivalry between the two regiments.

"Now," Treville pitched his voice to a firmer tone, "get on about your duties and come and see me when you get back. I've got something to discuss with you."

Aramis nodded and tipped the brim of his hat in farewell. Treville watched him stride over to Porthos and clap the larger man on the shoulder, urging him towards the stables. Marsac called after them from where he'd been checking his duties on the list and Aramis turned, bidding his friend a very loud farewell and then continuing on his way with Porthos.

Treville frowned a little when Marsac stared after them, undeniable jealousy painted across his features.

Marsac and Aramis had been close friends for years, but even Treville could see that Aramis had latched onto Porthos with vigor and enthusiasm. Treville had hoped for as much, to be honest. He knew that the transition for Porthos would not be a simple one, despite the honorable nature of the Musketeers. It was hard to combat lifetimes worth of learned bigotry.

Aramis, Treville had known, was an exception. He had always treated every person he met with kindness and equality. It was a characteristic Treville admired and loved about him. It endeared Aramis to everyone he met, made people love him for simply being who he was. This was why he'd assigned Aramis to shepherd Porthos into the ways of the Musketeer. Aramis, he knew, would make Porthos feel welcome and accepted. And in time, he hoped, Aramis' acceptance would lead the others onto the same path.

But he had not expected Aramis and Porthos to become such fast friends. Marsac, it seemed, hadn't expected that either.

This mission to Savoy – which he planned to present to Aramis tonight – should smooth some of those ruffled feathers when Marsac realized he'd be named as Aramis' second and Porthos wouldn't be going.

Perhaps some distance was all that was needed.

Aramis greeted his beautiful chestnut mare, Esmé, with a smile as she stretched her neck out through her stall door to meet him.

"Buenos días, mi niña bella," (Good morning, my beautiful girl,) he murmured to her in Spanish. He didn't often use his mother's native tongue – not intentionally at least – but for Esmé he used nothing else. She nickered to him warmly and nuzzled her snout against his chest.

"You still haven't told me why you only speak to her in Spanish," Porthos commented from the next stall, where he was preparing to saddle the Garrison horse he always used – a tall, broad black named Fort.

"It sooths her," Aramis replied simply, though that was nowhere near the entire story. He would tell Porthos one day about the skittish little filly he had rescued from an abuser and nurtured back to strength with softly spoken Spanish and tender touches. Esmé still showed signs sometimes, of her painful past, most noticeably in the simple fact that she let no one but Aramis ride her and grew agitated around riding whips.

"Perhaps you could use a bit of that magic on Fort," Porthos grunted, growling something under his breath when his horse stubbornly avoided letting Porthos fit the bridle over his head.

Aramis chuckled and moved into Esmé's stall. He grabbed her bridle from where it hung on the wall and nudged her out into the open area of the stable, in full view of Fort.

"Mostrémosle cómo se hace, Esmé." (Let's show him how it's done, Esmé.) Then to Porthos, "And you say she's the stubborn one."

He then set about bridling and saddling Esmé all with Fort eyeing them rebelliously. Finally, though, the horse let Porthos set about the same task.

"I only said Esmé takes after her master. You're the one that took that to mean she was stubborn," Porthos replied with a teasing smirk.

Aramis laughed, unable to deny it. He was stubborn. He knew this about himself. He'd also been told this many times throughout his life – by his mother, the old priest in the small border town he was born in, his siblings, his father, his commander in the infantry, and countless others over the years. The latest to tell him this had been Treville, then Marsac, and most recently Porthos, whom he was sure would not be the last.

It was his due, he supposed, that his horse would share such a trait.

When he'd finished with Esmé, Aramis leaned against her to watch Porthos finish up with Fort. Others had come into the stable since they'd arrived, all tacking up and preparing their horses for whatever duties they were assigned. None ventured over to them though. A few had called greetings or farewells to Aramis, but none had spoken to Porthos or drawn within arms' distance of the large man.

Such behavior had been common practice since Porthos, with his tall stature, broad shoulders, and brutish strength, had strode into the Garrison some five weeks ago as Treville's newest recruit.

If his imposing figure wasn't enough to send the rest of the men skittering away like frightened rabbits, everything else about him certainly seemed to have done the trick. It had been obvious, from the day Porthos arrived, that he had not come from any sort of means. He spoke with a lilt similar to one native to the slums of Paris, though Aramis hadn't yet learned the truth of where Porthos came from. Aramis, of anyone, had no right to pry about such things when the truth of his own childhood remained a mystery to all around him. Perhaps one day he would trust Porthos with his own past and perhaps one day Porthos would return that trust. But not yet.

But beyond the way he spoke, the color of Porthos' skin had seemed to raise some objection amongst the men.

Aramis understood it, it was just the way things were in their experience. But it wasn't his way and never had been. Though he'd spent his older youth under his father's considerably wealthy roof, Aramis' childhood had not been one of wealth and privilege. He had grown up quite familiar with feelings of bigotry and disdain.

His mother had been a woman of little means in a small town on the border with Spain. Her parents had been Spanish but had left their native land for France when she was just a child to settle in a little French town just over the border near the coast. She'd married young, had two children – his brother and sister, Vincent and Sabine – and then her husband and parents were all taken by fever in the span of a few short months. She had made a meager living as a cook after that, putting to work her considerable skills in the kitchen.

She never told him when exactly she had met his father – a French man called Julien d'Herblay – or even how long their affair had gone on. All he knew was that it had not lasted.

Bastard children tended to have that sort of effect on relationships.

D'Herblay left her before Aramis had even been born and returned to his waiting wife and the life he had in Rouen.

Alone once again, this time with the shame of an illegitimate baby on her shoulders, her life was left radically changed. Her community had been small and few had looked at her and seen anything but him, the child born from the sin of her affair. She could find no work as a cook and with the worry for her children's survival hanging over her, she'd turned to the only option left to her.

The woman who owned the brothel had offered food and shelter and his mother had done what was necessary to ensure her children survived.

She had been a beautiful woman. Men had been more than willing to pay.

She'd sworn to him, many times, that she had not turned to such a life until after his father. She promised him he had not been a product of her vocation, but that she had loved his father deeply.

He believed her, no matter what anyone else had ever said.

As it was, one didn't spend their childhood as the illegitimate son of a Spanish prostitute without learning a bit about how a person ought to be judged. It should be the merit of a man, or woman's, heart that truly tells you who they are. Not where they live or how they speak, what they own, what they're forced to do to provide for those they love, and most especially not how they look. He had inherited her Spanish features far more than either of his siblings and knew well what it felt like to be judged with a glance.

As it stood, Aramis had never been one to rush to judgment based on so insubstantial criteria as wealth or privilege or what color of skin you happened to have been born with.

When his father had come and taken him away, Aramis had come to realize that prejudice ran deep in the hearts of men – and especially in his father. But if he was anything, Aramis was stubborn, and he held firmly to the ideals his mother had instilled in him from infancy.

"Judge a man by the heart in his actions," she'd always told him.

A deeply religious woman despite her occupation, kind and gentle in spirit, his mother had taught him to give kindness freely. To treat all men, no matter their station, with the respect every living being deserved. He'd spent his childhood seeing her live that lesson towards others, despite the fact that she was given no such consideration in return. Her vocation had fated her to a life of scorn and ridicule. She could have hated Aramis for what his birth had forced her to become, for the life she had suffered because of him.

But instead she had loved him. Fiercely. She had refused to let either of them ever be bridled by shame. She'd taught him to be proud and strong simply by being those things herself.

But she paid a heavy price for loving him so completely. She was forced to sacrifice herself, every day, just so that he and his siblings could have a safe roof over their heads and food in their bellies.

He lived every day, made every choice, with her on his mind and in his heart.

She would have liked Porthos, he thought.

She would have taken one look at him and adopted him as her own. She had been such a gentle, kind soul, too good for the life she'd been forced to lead. He hoped, with everything he had, that she would be proud of the man he had become.

"Oi," Porthos' deep, rumbling voice drew him out of his musings. "You all right?"

Aramis smiled warmly and nodded.

"Just thinking," he assured. "Remembering a love lost long ago."

And how he had loved his mother. He would give anything to see her again, to hear her voice one last time. But it was never to be, not in this life at least. His father had seen to that.

"Long ago, eh? Breaking hearts as a babe, were you?" Porthos teased, though his eyes were soft and kind. Aramis chuckled lightly and fell into step with Porthos as they led their horses out into the yard.

"Are you even surprised, brother?" Aramis replied flippantly to ward off any further questions. Then he swung up into his saddle and shifted the pistol hooked at his back to rest a little more comfortably. He thought for a moment to go retrieve his arquebus from his room, but decided against it. DeLuc's was not that far outside of Paris and it was a path Aramis was familiar with. He did not expect to run into trouble.

Marsac appeared at his side, looking up at him with a smirk.

"Since I know how well you and trouble are acquainted," his friend teased as he held up Aramis' arquebus and slid it into the saddle pouch designed specifically to house the weapon.

Next to him, mounted now as well, Porthos laughed.

Aramis rolled his eyes and again didn't bother defending himself. Trouble followed him, or he followed it…it was hard to tell which was the truth of it really. Besides, he would never complain of having too many weapons with which to defend himself.

He extended a hand down to Marsac and waited for him to grip it before sitting back.

"Dinner? At The Wren?" he suggested.

"Wouldn't miss it," Marsac agreed. He didn't look at Porthos, Aramis noticed, and it was left unsaid whether the large man would be included in the meal.

"We'll see you there," Aramis replied, putting that unspoken question to rest.

Marsac's smile slipped a bit, but then he nodded, backing away to give Esmé room to move.

"Shall we?" Aramis looked to Porthos, who nodded.

And they were off.

End of Chapter One

So here we have it! The beginning of this journey is finally here! I've been promising it for ages! This story is complete and fully beta'd. I will post a chapter every day for the duration, which in this case is 17 chapters.

If you feel so inclined, please take a moment to drop me a line down in that little review box to let me know what you think!

But first, here's a little preview of tomorrow's chapter to wet your appetites!

Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn...

"I'm to stay behind?" Porthos frowned as he watched Aramis tuck into his stew. His friend looked up at him from his bowl and smiled in sympathy.

"You're lucky, really," he commented, "to be staying here. Nothing but bitter cold and snow in the mountains of Savoy this time of year."

Porthos treated him with a long, dry glare that had Aramis grinning in response.

"Think of all the rations you'll avoid."

Porthos arched an incredulous eyebrow.

"No sleeping on bedrolls with rocks and twigs digging into your spine."

Porthos continued to stare.

"No long days on horseback that leave your back aching and your ass numb."

"You're right," Porthos finally chuckled. "I pity you this horrible venture now."