Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Sixteen: pallysd'Artagnan, Deana, Rosey Malone, twaxer, enjoyedit, GoGirl212, Arlothia, ImaginaryArtist17, lizard1969, Alison Kirkham, Julie Pettitt, LordLady, SnidgetHex, Aednat the Fourteenth, inchwormsrule, and Grantaire32

Thank you all for joining me on this journey! The song that inspired the chapter titles of this fic is "Brother" by NEEDTOBREATHE

Chapter Seventeen: Bring You Home

I have given my word that only death will take me from you.
Philippa Gregory

May 9, 1625
Musketeer Garrison, Paris

Athos woke to find himself half hanging off of a strange bed in an equally strange room. He pushed himself up with a groan and blinked around blearily, trying to discern where he was.

It wasn't until he saw two forms sleeping on the floor that things came together in his head.

Porthos and Aramis.

Though why Porthos was sleeping back-to-back with the other Musketeer when his own bed was only a few feet away remained somewhat of a mystery.

Athos then remembered Porthos ordering him to take his place at Aramis' back when they were in the woods and it was the Musketeer's turn to take watch. Athos hadn't bothered to question him on it then, not with Aramis still shaking with cold every few minutes.

But with the remains of a fire in the hearth, lack of heat didn't seem a viable reason for the sleeping arrangements this time.

Rubbing at his face to try and wake himself up a bit, Athos stood, nearly kicking over an ash pail filled with something he'd rather not identify. Though he suspected he had been the one to fill it, even if he didn't remember. He searched the room for a chamber pot and spotted it in the corner. He made his way over as silently as he could.

That done, he turned and searched for his boots.

He would have to purchase a new doublet immediately since Luc had stolen his. He would need a replacement sword and dagger as well, at least until he could retrieve his own from the mercenary's grasp. The dagger he had been less attached to, but the sword had been a gift from his father.

Movement near the hearth drew his attention just after he spied his boots at the foot of the bed he'd been sleeping in. He moved to retrieve them even as he glanced towards the two men on the floor.

Porthos was blinking at him slowly, obviously having just come awake. But instead of making any effort to rise, Porthos cast a glance over his shoulder towards Aramis and settled back down with a sigh. Athos must have been giving him a curious look because Porthos yawned and then explained.

"I'm not movin' till he's awake. This is the only way he can sleep without dreamin'."

And suddenly the sleeping arrangements made perfect sense.

As it turned out, they didn't have to wait long. Athos had only just finished pulling on his boots when Aramis stirred. He woke slowly, curling in tighter on himself before stretching out like a cat. Porthos took that as a cue and rolled up to sitting.

"All right?" Porthos asked quietly.

Aramis, having finally sat himself up, shifted one hand to rub at his eyes. Then he blinked at Porthos, looking surprised.

"Yes," he answered, seemingly stunned.

"No dreams," Porthos replied with a smile.

"The entire night," Aramis stated, still shocked. "I haven't…not since before Savoy…except for the other night, I haven't…" Aramis shook his head and visibly contained some swell of emotion. Then looked back at Porthos, awe and unfathomable gratitude in his eyes.

Athos watched Porthos reach out and settle his palm on the base of Aramis' neck, giving it a gentle squeeze, the touch drawing a grin in response. Athos, once again, felt like an interloper – an outsider who had no right to be sharing this moment.

But then, before he could decide if he should find an excuse to leave, Aramis was looking at him, a teasing grin pulling up the corner of his mouth.

"How is it we had to carry you back last night and yet now you don't look the least bit unwell? What sorcery is this?"

Athos quirked a brow. He felt quite unwell. His head was throbbing, his mouth tasted as if something furry had curled up and died in it, and his stomach felt one wrong move away from rebelling completely.

"It's a gift," he said instead of admitting to any of that.

"Yes, well, let's hope your gift carries you through the gauntlet Tristan's surely got prepared for you," Aramis replied as he reached for his boots.

A few minutes later, Aramis was ducking back out to find fresh clothes and a spare doublet in his own room. Porthos announced that it was getting too warm for leather anyway and shouted after Aramis that he should meet them downstairs.

That was where the marksman found them several minutes later.

Athos was about to take his first experimental bite of the porridge he'd been served – of which Porthos had already eaten half a bowl – when Aramis strode into the refectory with all the subtlety of a whirlwind.

He had an old, worn, brown leather doublet adorning his torso now. It looked softened with age and like it had seen more than its fair share of action. As Aramis drew closer, Athos could make out no less than three mended musket ball holes and at least two other sword or knife cuts that had been sewn up.

"I haven't worn this in ages," Aramis admitted as he stopped next to their claimed table and tugged at the hem of the leather.

Porthos snorted and jabbed a finger at where the leather was straining against the ties that held it closed over Aramis' chest.

"How old were you when you were fitted for this?" he asked.

"Eighteen," Aramis batted Porthos' offending hand away.

"Scrawny at eighteen, were you?" Porthos teased.

"I was not scrawny," Aramis defended, bracing his hands on his hips in offense.

It was then that Athos noticed it – a deep blue sash tied around Aramis' waist, resting beneath his weapons belt. It hadn't been there before, Athos was sure of it.

His attention of the new addition drew Porthos' focus and then they were both looking up at Aramis in silent question.

The marksman shifted, smoothing his hand over the blue fabric and clearing his throat.

"A piece of the cloak I had in Savoy," he explained quietly. When he raised his gaze to meet each of theirs in turn, there was moisture there that was blinked away a moment later. "I've an obligation to remember them," he said, holding Athos' gaze seriously. "And so I shall, in this and other ways, until I join them where they rest."

Porthos stood abruptly, drawing Aramis in for a hard, tight hug.

"A fitting tribute," Athos praised sincerely.

"They'd be honored," Porthos agreed as he drew back. He palmed the side of Aramis' neck and smiled. "Just make it a good long while before you join them, eh? Wear out dozens of these sashes before then."

"For you, my dear Porthos, anything," Aramis agreed with a warm grin. "Now," he clapped his hands together, "what's for breakfast? Porridge? Ah, Serge! You made my favorite!"

Then Aramis was gone, greeting the cook loudly and brightly.

"You fell in with the right one, there," Porthos chuckled. "He'll come back with fruit and cheese and he always shares."

"There's fruit and cheese?" Athos asked with a surprised blink. He hadn't noticed anything of the sort when he'd been handed his bowl.

"For Aramis – always." Porthos grinned. "Apparently it's all in how you ask."

Aramis leaned against the post holding up the balcony above him and held out the half eaten vine of grapes he'd been munching on to Porthos, who was sitting on a crate on the other side of the post.

"He's good," Porthos commented as they watched Athos spar with Aramis' borrowed sword, grabbing a few grapes.

"Good?" Aramis shook his head in wonder. "He's the best I've ever seen."

And he had seen some of the best. Thierry had been a master of the craft and a superb teacher. But even his skill wouldn't have stood up against the precision and excellence Athos now displayed. Aramis hadn't really noticed before. He'd been too busy getting lost in his own wounded and confused mind during the battles they'd fought together to pay any attention.

"His hand-to-hand, though?" Porthos tisked. "Gonna have to work with him on that."

Aramis nodded. Athos had proven much too restrained and…polite…to really excel in close hand-to-hand combat. Porthos, Aramis knew, was by far the best in the regiment at that particular skill. He had been bested by him enough times to know that with painful certainty.

Not that Aramis was a poor fighter by any stretch. He was lithe and quick and he wasn't afraid to fight dirty. That hardly mattered, though, when his opponent was large and strong and equally willing to do whatever it took to win. He did hold the dubious honor of having been the one to hold out against Porthos the longest. However, that particular bout had left him bruised and aching in more places than he wasn't.

Athos had proven a well-trained rider as well. His poise and posture in the saddle reminded Aramis of his own instruction in such things when he had first come to his father's house. His ability with a musket, while pale in comparison to Aramis' – though to be fair that tended to be the case with everyone – was more than adequate. Aramis was certain that Tristan would give Athos approval for commissioning. All that would be left, once this swordplay was done, was to make it official.

"All right," Tristan called suddenly, "that's enough."

The older Musketeer was shaking his head in awe.

"Reminds you of Thierry doesn't he?" Aramis commented with a grin.

Tristan glanced over at him and chuckled.

"Where did you find this one?" he asked, motioning Athos over towards Aramis and Porthos even as he made his own way in that direction.

"In an old house, amidst an army of mercenaries."

"Not one of them, I hope," Tristan teased.

"Well wouldn't that be a dramatic twist," Aramis chuckled, grinning at Athos as he joined them.

"I've no objections," Tristan reported, reaching out a hand to Athos. "Provided we work on your hand-to-hand, you'll be a prime fit for the regiment. And with this one's recommendation, I expect all that's left is the formalities." Tristan reached out and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. The musket ball wound, which Aramis had honestly forgotten was there, made itself remembered with a sharp wave of pain. Aramis embraced it and breathed it away with nothing more than a slight tightening of his jaw to give him away.

Tristan, thankfully, didn't notice. He was either too out of practice reading Aramis or he was too enamored with Athos. Porthos and Athos both, though, were eyeing him with varying degrees of speculative concern.

"Well then," Aramis cleared his throat and pushed off the post, "shall we?"

Athos wished Aramis had given him time to wash up – he had been exercising extensively all morning – before hustling him up to Treville's office. Both Tristan and Porthos were trailing after them, neither seeming any less excited than Aramis.

But as he found himself standing before Treville, solemnly repeating back to him the oath of the Musketeers, Athos found he didn't care at all that he smelled of sweat, horses, and gunpowder.

There was a reverence to the moment that he hadn't expected.

As he finished the oath and Treville officially named him a Musketeer, something in his soul lit for the first time in all his life. A piece of himself that had lain dormant came to life. A purpose he hadn't known he needed; a cause he hadn't known he believed in. He had spent his life living by honor and duty, for his own sake and that of his family's name.

Now he would continue that tradition of duty and honor, but for the sake of France. For the sake of the two men standing behind him who had trusted and believed in him without cause.

He felt, inexplicably, as if his whole life had only ever been leading to this moment, that all that had happened had come about for a reason.

To bring him here.

To this moment.

To the Musketeers.

To Aramis and Porthos.

To the hope, once again, of a future.

"It is an honor to welcome you into our ranks," Treville finished, retrieving a piece of curved leather from his desk. "Your uniform."

Then Aramis was there, giving him a wink and smile as he helped Athos strap the stiff, smooth leather pauldron to his right shoulder.

Then, without warning, the younger man pulled Athos into a firm, strong hug.

"Welcome, mon frére," he whispered for only Athos' ears.

My brother.

Something warmed in Athos' soul and he lightly returned the embrace. Before he could disentangle himself, there was a deep chuckle and then two strong, dark arms encircled both of them.

Aramis laughed, the sound bright and cheerful in Athos' ear.

He felt lighter, somehow, for having heard it.

"Alright, you three, that's enough," Treville's gruff admonishment held no bit of censure, but they obeyed and broke apart nonetheless. Aramis held Athos at arm's length and skated a hand over the new leather pauldron on his shoulder.

"Looks good," Aramis commented.

"A bit clean," Porthos added.

Aramis nodded gravely.

"We'll have to fix that. Can't be seen hanging around with someone so shiny and new."

"And you two," Treville interjected, drawing their attention.

Athos didn't bother resisting the urge to smirk when the captain – his captain now – held out two new uniforms to Aramis and Porthos.

"Since you lost your last ones."

"Stolen, actually," Aramis pointed out.

"There is a difference," Porthos agreed.

"And we'll get them back," Aramis vowed, suddenly serious and sincere. He held Treville's gaze for a long moment until the captain nodded.

"I know you will," he assured. "But until then, I can't have you running around out of uniform. So…" he shook the new pauldrons and Athos watched the two reluctantly take them.

"Looks like we'll all be shiny and new together," Aramis sighed, holding up his new pauldron for inspection.

"I can think of a few Red Guards who'd be useful to scuff them up a bit," Porthos commented as he grinned wolfishly.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Treville scolded sharply. "Get out of here, the three of you, before I come to regret the last several minutes."

Athos gave his new captain a formal nod of farewell and followed his new brothers out the door.

"Did you see it?" Tristan asked as he followed Treville out onto the balcony to look out over the yard.

Treville braced his hands on the rail and watched the three who had just left huddled together around the long plank table, a jumble of arms and hands as they worked together to get Aramis and Porthos strapped into their pauldrons.

"It's as if the last months hadn't even happen," Tristan went on. "He was smiling, joking. He was himself again."

"Not entirely," Treville disagreed quietly. Aramis' smiles were real again, though not as bright as they had once been. His eyes still carried a weight in them, a sadness and sorrow that would not soon fade.

But there was hope in them again. There was life. That spark that made Aramis Aramis had reignited, flickering behind the veil of Savoy and gaining strength every day.

"Porthos was the key, just like we hoped," Tristan concluded.

"He was part of it," Treville agreed, eyes drifting to the quiet and reticent man who had just become his newest Musketeer.

Porthos had played the larger role, no doubt. He had restored Aramis' faith in brotherhood, and thereby in the Musketeers. But Athos, he suspected, had restored his faith in the hearts of men.

Aramis had needed both of them, in the end, to come full circle from Savoy.

And that Treville had gained a worthy Musketeer – brought to him at the highest recommendation from one whose opinion he trusted above all others – made it all the better.

"I rather like this one," Aramis commented as he rotated his arm. "I like the etching… I might just keep this one when it's all over."

"What about your old one?" Porthos asked as he rotated his own shoulder, letting the leather settle more comfortably. He liked his new uniform as well, even if it was too smooth and shiny.

Aramis was quiet for a moment, contemplative and serious. When he finally answered, his voice was sincere.

"I think, perhaps, as this uniform symbolizes a new beginning for our dear Athos," he gave the new Musketeer a warm smile, "it can mean something of the same for me."

Porthos felt his chest tighten and he nodded. He understood the feeling. For as much as Savoy had signified a new start for Aramis, it meant something similar for Porthos. He had found his footing as a brother because of Savoy. He had found his place amongst the Musketeers at last.

"A new beginning for all of us, then," he decided. "The three of us, together, from this moment on."

Aramis' face lit up in a bright smile, more warming than the sun itself, and Athos' shoulders straightened even as a small curve turned up the corners of his mouth.

"All for one?" Porthos offered, holding out a hand, palm up.

Immediately, Aramis' hand clasped it and a moment later Athos' landed on top.

Then three voices rang out, melding into one.

"One for all."

End of In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn

Now I'm sure you noticed a few things. Loose ends! Loose ends everywhere! Luc got away and the mystery of who was 'collecting' musketeers is unsolved. We only JUST brought Athos in so we obviously need to see how he settles in. Aramis still can't really use his sword because of his PTSD. This will all be addressed in the direct sequel to this story! Yes, there IS a sequel! I can't say when it will arrive as I always finish fics like this before posting them - that way I can do these daily updates, but it will come eventually!

Thank you for joining me on this journey! I'll be around with the monthly challenges (hopefully) and with my The Good Soldier companion piece to kind of go hand in hand with this one. Until then, here is a summary of the coming sequel. I think many of you will be pleased ;)

Defined By Blood

As the newly formed Inseperables investigate a mysterious bounty put on Musketeers, they are led to a place Aramis hoped never to see again - the home of his father, Julien d'Herblay.