A/N: this one is for the Fete des Mousquetaires competition March prompt, please check the forum for details. Thank you KarriNeves for managing the competition.

The prompt and the lyrics given in the end mixed up to form this story; so maybe this would feel like it doesn't directly link to the prompt, at least not very clearly I suppose… but it makes sense if you see the lyrics that inspired them, I think… anyways here's the story.

Happy reading! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here, nor making any money. The lyrics belong to those who wrote them only borrowing for inspiration.

He had felt this way twice before in his life.

First was after his mother's death, when he had ventured out alone for the first time from the corner she had deemed home, and second when he had walked away from the Court of Miracles with not a soul in the world to watch his back. On his own again with nothing but his instincts and strength that would carve out the path before him Porthos sat up straighter in the saddle, reminded himself that these points when he knew he could rely on no one, these were the points in his life when he had been his strongest. He had wrangled with what was told was his fate and he had won, hammered and shaped his life the way he wanted it to be. He didn't need anyone.

Time marched on.

Life went ahead.

And the bonds you thought unbreakable faded into nothing.

He ignored the way his throat tried to close up at that thought and refused to pay attention to the way his chest tightened. They didn't need to be together all the time, they were grown men after all, they were soldiers, had been soldiers his mind corrected and he grimaced; shook his head slightly as his he loosened his grasp on the reins. He didn't need friends to hold his hand; he was a General now, the man with all the decisions and responsibility for the soldiers under his command.

He glanced aside when Brujon drew his horse closer.

"Trouble," said the younger man.

Porthos followed his line of sight to the approaching riders, one hand going to the sword at his side even as he slowed his horse with the other. Five men with faces half covered and muskets at their backs rode in a spread to surround them. As the riders came to a stop, from the corner of his eye Porthos felt Brujon shift in his saddle. Dropping the reins of his horse Porthos reached out half way, part calming part warning against the younger man's fidgeting. A gleam in the afternoon sun was his only warning before the tip of a blade pointed at him. Porthos looked from the weapon to the man who held it.

"A robbery then," he raised a brow.

The sword lifted higher as the bandit guided his horse closer still and Porthos ignored the sting where the tip grazed his face.

"You don't look worried," said the man.

"Not my first time facing your sort," Porthos shrugged.

And refrained from glancing at Brujon; it may not be new to him to be held at sword point by random bandits but the freshly appointed Musketeer clearly wasn't used to this. Porthos could feel the tension in the almost rigid presence at his side and found his thoughts going to another young recruit at his side who had taken to these situation's with natural ease. Pushing aside d'Artagnan's grinning face that came to his mind he kept his attention on the problem at hand.

"Well then, you know what you're supposed to do," the bandit said.

"Marc they're armed," the man who had his pistol aimed at Brujon spoke up, his grip shifting on his own weapon, "they're armed, you never said they'd be –"

"Silence," hissed Marc.

"Your friend is right to be worried," Porthos' grasp tightened onto the sword at his side, "we are soldiers, don't push your luck."

He glanced towards the twitchy man on Brujon's side and didn't like the way the hand holding the weapon shivered. A nervous enemy was the most dangerous one and Porthos felt a sharp bite of worry when he caught the way the Musketeer beside him shifted his hold on the rapier at his belt. He silently urged his companion to not push the situation and found it surprising that the man was oblivious to his thoughts. Years of fighting beside the men he had called his brothers had left him expecting an understanding he realized, an understanding that worked as a support, a shield, an unnamed perception that filled in spaces where his senses couldn't cover alone.

"There are five of us," Marc smirked.

And Porthos couldn't stop Brujon from pulling out his sword. Knocking away the blade pointed at him he reached over to shove the enemy pistol away from his companion at the last second. The shot exploded by his ear yet Porthos had his own sword out to block the two coming for him from his other side. With a swing of his blade he pushed the two men away as Brujon kicked the one at his side and Porthos managed to put his sword through one of the bandits. And this, he told himself, was what being on his own truly meant; to have no one around to anticipate your moves and grow a plan seamlessly between them.

The stabbed man fell off his horse; dead before he hit the ground and ignoring the ringing in his ear Porthos leaned back to avoid the twin blades slicing towards him. He knocked the hilt of his sword in the face of the nearest opponent, slashed at the other and guided his horse back as Brujon felled another bandit.

Marc turned his horse away abruptly and the injured bandits followed. Porthos reached for his pistol as Brujon shot the closest escaping robber. Taking aim of the retreating leader of the bandits Porthos fired. And the force of the unexpectedly loud shot nearly knocked him off his saddle. Shaking his head he drew back his hand, pulling off the glove that burned over his skin having no idea when he had dropped his weapon. There was only the smell of gunpowder and burned leather and pain; cutting, blistering pain in his hand.

"General? General," Brujon was suddenly too close to him, "damn, that looks bad."

Forcing down the agony he pulled his wounded hand close and grasping the pommel on the saddle with his good hand Porthos waited until the world stopped spinning around him. He could tell even with his eyes closed that Brujon had dismounted and he let the younger man take the reins of his horse.

"General?"

"I'm fine," he grunted.

Opening his eyes he refused to look at his throbbing hand and with a nod of his head ordered Brujon to keep his horse in place as he got down from the saddle. Not ready to let the other man witness his pain he stepped away from the helping hand at his elbow.

"I'll need a minute," he said, "You get the horses."

He didn't wait to see his order being carried out and turning around he stepped off the road, walking to the shade the trees offered against the sunlight that suddenly felt too bright. It did nothing to sooth the pulsing, fiery pain in his hand and leaning back against a tree Porthos waited for the insistence for him to show the wounds. But the men who would push through his customary state of 'fine' were not there.

An altogether different ache caught his breath and with a growl Porthos lifted his injured hand to his eyes for a better look. Patches of burnt and torn skin met his gaze.

"Your pistol exploded," Brujon said.

"You don't say,"

The younger man winced and Porthos reminded himself that this was not a friend; this was a new recruit who saw him as his superior. Pulling his thoughts away before they could wander off to friends no longer there he nodded towards the animals the young Musketeer had guided off the road.

"My horse?" he asked.

"Seemed fine but I'll look closely,"

"You do that,"

He watched Brujon turn away before he jerked back again to face him. Porthos raised a brow. The younger man lifted what looked like a big pouch he had come carrying.

"I could help you with that," he nodded towards the injured hand.

His lips pursed against the immediate dismissal. He didn't like people touching him when he was wounded and he really didn't like it when they prodded his wounds. And this man had been a cadet a day ago, the large part of him didn't want the help he was offering but the smaller, rational one knew he needed it. Porthos ignored the temptation to order the man to give him whatever medical supplies he had and leave him alone. Instead he nodded and eased himself down onto the ground.

Brujon crouched before him and setting aside his pouch he examined the various deep cuts, cleaned them thoroughly from the bottle of spirits and strips of clean linen that he pulled out from his bag. Pressed at them to stop the bleeding before he up-ended the pouch and went through the items with his free hand.

"There's an ointment here for wounds after I stitch the longer ones and... yes a salve for the burns too," he grinned.

Porthos frowned; he hadn't taken the younger man to be so well prepared for such incidences.

"Why don't we leave the stitches and just bandage them close," he said.

"Are you sure?"

That he didn't want this man coming at him with a needle? Yes Porthos' mind snapped but he tapped into the gratitude he felt for the younger man's help instead.

"I'm sure," he said, "I'm lucky you've packed an ointment at all. It'd be enough for the wounds."

"I packed the ointment?" Brujon frowned.

Resisting the urge to ask if the man suffered from a head wound he didn't know about Porthos nodded. Brujon's frown deepened as he applied the mixture to the wounds that had stopped bleeding before changing hands and putting the salve on the burns. The frown stayed in place as the younger man wrapped his hand in clean bandages and Porthos tried to temper his irritation.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Are you –?" Brujon sat back and eyed him carefully, "did they hit you on the head?" he asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"I got the pouch from your saddlebag General," the Musketeer said, "I knew I had no medical supplies so I looked into yours."

Porthos pinched the bridge of his nose with his good hand.

"I didn't pack that,"

"But that's where I found it,"

"Get me my saddlebag," Porthos almost growled.

He watched the younger man hurry to his feet and away to the horses before he glanced at the pouch that had come from his belongings. The bottles and tin can were lying around it and Porthos picked up the nearest one; lifted it closer to get a better look at the piece of paper stuck on the tin lid. 'For burns' it read, but that was not what left his gaze riveted to the paper, it was the familiarity of the hand that had wrote them. It took an effort to look away from those words when Brujon silently put his saddlebag before him. Porthos set the container down, movements slow as his mind tried to catch up with his discovery. Un-sticking his throat that suddenly felt swollen he opened his saddlebag.

"You found it in here," it was not a question.

"Yes, the pouch carrying all that," Brujon still replied.

Porthos didn't notice the Musketeer stepping away, didn't notice the way he kept glancing towards him even as he watched the road. Because his attention was caught by the contents he searched, looking for anything else that he hadn't packed. And he found it, at the very bottom and wrapped in cloth. His hand guessed the shape even as he pulled it out and slowly, carefully, almost reverently Porthos un-wrapped the pistols. White with ornate silver work, a pair that had for long while shot down the enemies he hadn't even been aware of. He wondered from where and when Aramis had tracked them down but there was no mistaking that they were there, under his hand as he made his way to the front lines.

Porthos picked out the strip of paper between them and wasn't surprised to find the same writing there that marked the contents of the pouch carrying the medical supplies.

"I knew you wouldn't take care of your pistol but I know you will take care of mine. Let them be there with you where I am not, if only as a reminder that I will never stop watching your back. My thoughts, prayers, actions had never strayed too far from any of you. And they will not. There are those awaiting your safe return brother; for our sake, be careful."

That cloying thickness was back in his throat and Porthos swallowed, let go a breath he didn't know he was holding and closed his eyes against the wetness there. His grip tightened around the paper and opening his eyes he set it out on his knee, pressed out the wrinkles before folding it back. He would keep it in the medical pouch. His gaze fell on the pistols awaiting their place at his belt and Porthos grinned; alone didn't mean lonely anymore.

The fire burned merrily.

It was the shadows that he watched, traced their lines as they danced at the edge of the glow and skittered over the floor by the toes of his boots. Sitting forwards with his elbows pressed over his thighs he wondered if the darkness ever fully receded, if the fight ever ended, if it mattered that he had put his sword to rest.

Yet the phantom press of a hilt in his grasp remained, as did the weight of a blade; and the limit of the knuckle bow lingered around the back of his hand. Athos rubbed his hands together, tried to ignore the absence of something that was a natural extension of himself because that was not who he was anymore. He couldn't be that man, the suffering, the death, the blood, he had seen too much of it all. And Sylvie – he wiped a hand down his face and swallowed back the bile that burned at the back of his throat at the memory of her flogging. There was no way he could stomach the idea of roaming those streets again without hearing her pained whimpers.

That city had been his salvation once.

The sword had been his one constant ever since he had picked one up as a child.

The Musketeers had been his family when he had no one left from the one he was born into.

"He said you would do this,"

He looked up at the words and smiled at the woman sitting in the chair across from him. She had insisted that they needn't stop early on her behalf; that she was fine with camping out when they would stop for the night. He had no doubt that she was right about both but he couldn't stand to see her exhausted from long hours in the saddle if it wasn't necessary. As the evening had deepened he had stopped at the first Inn that looked less crowded.

It wasn't like they were in a hurry.

It wasn't like he had a clear idea about where they were heading.

He rubbed the back of his neck as the voice in his head demanded exactly what had he been thinking heading out with the woman he loved, the woman bearing their child no less, without a proper plan. He had led men into battles for four years, strategy and planning was his bread and butter but now he –

"And here I thought he was exaggerating," Sylvie rolled her eyes.

"Who?" he asked, looked up at her again.

"Aramis," she grinned back at him and he felt his heart constrict with all the love he felt for her and their child. Their child, there was going to be a child in his life, a child he had fathered, a child he was responsible for. Athos' jaw clenched slightly as he felt something heavy flop in his stomach.

What was he going to do? He had some money but they couldn't spend their days going from Inn to Inn. They needed a home, he needed a job but soldiering was all he had known. He could teach some nobleman's son he reasoned and shook his head as soon as that thought formed; no more nobility. He had seen how those born in title treated those without and he would not put his child through that. Farming then he mused and wondered how hard could it be, racked his mind for some obscure knowledge in the matter that he may have read about somewhere. Or he could be a merchant, Bonaciuex seemed to have done well for himself his mind offered but then he might have to settle in a city or they could start an Inn, Sylvie could handle the kitchen and he could see to the rest and Athos bit back a grimace; his mind coming up blank at what exactly was the rest that he was to see to.

"Athos?"

"Hmm?"

"Stop brooding,"

"I'm not –"

"You are," Sylvie raised a brow, "and he told me you would,"

"I'm not brooding no matter what Aramis may have told you,"

"Sulking then?" the corners of her lips twitched up.

"Thinking,"

"Moping?" she offered.

"Pondering,"

"Brooding it is," she smiled and sat forwards.

Athos watched her reach for her saddle bag at her feet and moved to rise. His offer to help halted midway by her pointed glare and nodding to himself he sat back down. Held himself back from providing assistance as Sylvie pulled the bag into her lap and riffled through the contents.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

Looking up at him she smirked.

"I could ask you the same thing," she said.

He met her dark eyes and shrugged.

"Just wondering who I am now," he said.

Found himself wishing that she couldn't see how a part of him still shivered at sharing his thoughts like this, the same part that still shied away from telling her just how much it had shaken him to walk away from everything that made him Athos. But something must have shown for Sylvie's gaze softened and he looked away. Couldn't find it in him to meet her gaze as she stood to her feet and moved closer to him. A slim hand rested on the side of his face as the woman he loved brought it up for a kiss.

Dragged him out of his thoughts and rested her forehead on his.

"You are my love and very soon you will be a father," she said.

But all that he had been was no more, Athos swallowed hard and kissed her again. His eyes opening as she pulled away just as something dropped in his lap. He glanced down at the small package before raising a brow at the smiling woman.

Sylvie shrugged.

"I'm heading to bed; we'll start out early tomorrow. One of my friends has an Inn probably a day's ride from here. Last he wrote to me he was complaining of his old bones that needed help in running the place," she traced a finger down his nose and moved away as she nodded towards the wrapped object she had left him, "Aramis said to give this to you when you started brooding,"

"Not brooding,"

"Keep telling yourself that and one day it might come true," she smirked and turned away, "good night,"

He followed her with his eyes as she walked up the staircase, listened to her steps and held onto that sound even through the murmur of the few guests that were around. He didn't look away from the staircase until he was sure that Sylvie had made it to the upper floor.

Smiling at the thought of the look she would give him if she knew he was listening for her to safely cross the stairs, Athos turned his attention back to the small wrapped lump she had left him. Hesitant fingers held it up, weighed it slightly and an invisible band tightened around his chest. Whatever this was going to be he knew it would be the last remnant of the life he had left behind; because he had left no address for anyone to write to him and he didn't plan to write to anyone back once he had settled down, where ever that was.

He was no longer a Musketeer, he was no longer a Parisian; he was no longer the man he had been.

He pulled the thread off and then the paper.

His breath caught in his throat.

His gaze held by the golden fleur-de-lis he had uncovered; his eyes traced over the familiar nicks and cuts on the metal that marked his years at the battlefronts, collected when he had led the Musketeers with this fleur-de-lis on his shoulder. Athos held it up between his fingers, a bitter taste of loss mixing with fond memories lodged like a rock in his throat. He blinked to clear the sudden blur in his sight and found himself looking at the paper the fleur-de-lis had been wrapped in. Familiar neat writing greeted him from the wrinkles.

"You will always be my brother. The home, the title, the position you choose in life can never change that. When you've found what you seek, and I know you will, just remember that the road goes both ways; and you have a place at each end."

That blur in his sight burned and spread into a prickle down his nose. Resisting the urge to sniff Athos smoothed out the paper, thumb swiping over its edge even as he looked away. Watched the flames dance in the grate as an altogether different warmth unfurled around him. A small smile tipped up his lips. The future waited in the unknown but for the first time since he had walked away from Paris, he wasn't afraid of it.

He stared at the roof above.

Tried to at least, but the grainy blackness that hung over them wouldn't let his sight through. Holding on tighter to his wife curled into his side d'Artagnan rolled his head on the thin pillow, eyes following the pale glow of the moon slanting in from the window. Constance snuffled, burrowed further under his arm and he raised his hand to tangle his fingers in the dark curls tickling his chin.

She had wept, quietly at first when they had made it to their room; silent tears rolling down her cheeks until he had drawn her into his arms and then she had sobbed, curled and shuddered and cried her heart out for the young men she had fed, trained, scolded and taught and cleaned up after. The young men she had raised while he had been away at war. The young men she had been a captain to, the young men she had been a mother to; the same young men they had buried that morning.

The graves appeared before his eyes again; rows of them and the smell of freshly turned earth cut clear through the smell of gunpowder that still lingered about him. So much had been destroyed in one horrifying blow; his home, his men and it could have been so much worse still. D'Artagnan brought up his other arm up and hugged Constance close, tried to keep his thoughts away from the still too raw pain he had felt at the thought of losing her.

He should have done something, he should have known that Grimuad would go to such a length in his hate, he should have noticed, should have planned for this, somehow he should have –

A small hand pressed flat onto his heart and he looked down at the puffy blue eyes watching him.

"Alright?" he whispered.

"You're not;" her voice was hoarse.

"Can't sleep," he shrugged.

And held himself back from explaining further, not when tears still glistened in her swollen eyes. She had known those cadets longer than him; he couldn't compare the ache in his chest to what she was going through.

"Your heart is racing,"

"Its fine," he suppressed the tremor that threatened to break in his words, "just the rush of battle,"

"You're in bed,"

His brows rose at that observation and his wife's lips turned up in a smile; a touch smug, a bit playful and wholly Constance in its strength. He stole it away in a kiss lest it melted to nothing.

"I'm fine," he pressed his lips to her forehead, "go to sleep,"

But Constance wriggled and pulled herself up on her elbow, wiped at her eyes before she tipped her chin up.

"Go," she said.

He stared.

"Go on," she said, "get it out of your head,"

"I –" he cleared his throat, "I don't –"

"D'Artagnan," she gave him a little shove, "as much as it annoys me I can tell when you can't share your thoughts. Go on, go and clear your head before your heart gives out from all that you're bottling up."

He blinked up at her, swallowed the words stuck in his throat and shifted to mirror her posture. Reaching out to tuck a curl behind her ear he wondered not for the first time how he had ended up with this woman as his wife. Picking up her hand he pressed his lips to her fingers.

"You are amazing you know that?"

"I do." She smiled, "But it's nice to hear it out loud,"

And with a light push at his shoulder she shooed him out of the bed. Pulling on his shirt he stepped out of their room and tracing the narrow corridor reached the stairs on the other side. The tap room below was silent; the vague glow from the embers in the fireplace guided him down and across the empty room. D'Artagnan stepped out of Christoph's Tavern and closing the door after him, he pulled in a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

The city slept around him.

The city he had to watch out for now.

The city that would give him the cadets he needed for the regiment.

His regiment.

Shivering slightly in way that had nothing to do with the cold he walked down the silent street. He would have to choose the right men, train them, protect them and teach them to defend these streets he walked. His pace picked up a bit at the thought of another Grimuad who could be lurking around these new Musketeers, another ruthless hateful man lying in wait to destroy the lives under his command. Pulling his sleeves over his hands he wrapped his arms around his middle. For the first time in years d'Artagnan felt the same chill he had felt the day his father had died.

Alone, orphaned and lost.

Closing his eyes against the heat settling at the back of them, he stopped. Leaned into the wall at his side and breathed. It was the feel of the cool bricks, oddly familiar against the side of his head that had him opening his eyes again. He wasn't surprised to find himself standing in the arched entrance of the garrison.

Or what once had been the garrison.

Pushing away from the wall he covered the last few steps, boots almost dragging with the weight in his heart and hesitant in their pace as they had never been before while crossing that threshold. Moving into what had been the yard d'Artagnan let his gaze roam over the collapsed roofs, the scorched walls and the few surviving beams the men had salvaged from the ruins and set aside that morning. Some of the rubble had been swept aside too and his eyes fell on the darkened patches on the ground, trodden over and dragged over in the haste to save lives.

Pressing a hand to his mouth d'Artagnan turned around and ran.

He couldn't face this; he couldn't face this here in the place that was supposed to be his home. This much death was for the battlefields, it was not supposed to stain the place they were supposed to be safe at. He ran through the streets and past the market place. He ran until he couldn't, until his breath came in desperate gasps and blood pounded loud in his ears and he had to stop with his hands on his knees, bent forwards to gulp air past his dry throat.

Too many he had buried that morning; too young, too unawares.

And now he was supposed to ask others to join those empty ranks.

The ranks that would be just as vulnerable as these had been.

Wrapping his arms around his churning gut he straightened, swallowed back the urge to be sick and forced his shivering knees to take his weight. He couldn't do this; what was Athos thinking leaving him in charge like this, Porthos should have been his choice or Aramis or someone who could be perceptive enough to prevent a tragedy like this. D'Artagnan bit back a groan and spitting the bile he wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, tried not to see the dead from that morning, wished that he could somehow escape the weight of that loss.

He had survived, but so many had not.

Over half the regiment had been wiped out and now he was one of the very few left to pick up the pieces. Turning around he shuffled back the way he had come, mind turning over every move that Grimuad had played that he only understood now, after he had dealt the devastating blow. The voice in his mind berated him to have seen it sooner, to have been ready for it, to have somehow prevented this damage.

And as he came to a stop outside of Cristoph's Tavern, loneliness hit him a like a blow to the gut.

He couldn't find it in him to burden Constance with his guilt and fear, at least not when her own loss was a raw wound. D'Artagnan wiped at his face and forced his eyes dry as he walked up to the door and entered the Inn. Stopped short when he noticed the tap room lit brightly with the hearth fire that someone had stoked ablaze in his absence.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan is everything alright?" Christoph emerged from the door behind the bar, "another attack?"

"Nothing like that,"

"Ah, couldn't sleep eh?" the large man nodded, "been one of those days you know,"

D'Artagnan nodded and moving over to the stone slab he plopped down onto a stool and rubbed a hand down his face. Grimacing at the dampness on his cheeks he looked to the man who had turned away from him and was riffling among the shelves.

"What are you doing up at this hour?" he asked.

A wide grin flashed from a bushy beard as the man glanced back at him.

"My horse woke me up, she'll be giving birth any moment now," Christoph said as he turned fully and nodded towards the fireplace, "I came in for some warm water,"

"Anything I could help with?"

The man gave him an odd look and d'Artagnan shrugged.

"I lived on a farm all my life before this," he said.

Before his father died, before he sought Athos for revenge, before he became a Musketeer, before he went to war, before he became the Captain of a decimated regiment where his first order of duty was to put to rest the cadets who had been caught unawares by death.

A soft thud cut through his bitter thoughts and he blinked at the bottle of wine Christoph had set on the counter.

"I guess I can see why he left you this," said the man.

D'Artagnan raised a brow and Christoph shrugged.

"Our new Minister left these for you," he said and slid the bottle towards him.

It was then d'Artagnan noticed the letter that the man had placed next to the bottle and felt his eyes widening slightly.

"When did he–?"

"Came in late after you'd gone up to your room," Christoph rounded the bar and went to the fireplace, "doesn't sound like a Minister that one, if you know what I mean."

But he would, soon enough he would sound exactly like a Minister d'Artagnan thought and felt his heart sink. He couldn't decide what was worse, to have his best friends move away or to have one close and watch him turn into another person.

"Well I should go see to the old girl," Christoph said.

And d'Artagnan waited until the man and his bucket of warm water had disappeared through the door behind the bar. Slowly he reached for the letter first, pulled it close with the press of his fingers and wondered if it were his first orders from the crown, or if they were summons or a reminder to hurry up and start recruiting. Breaking the seal he pulled out the single slip of paper.

"There are some things that we can never see coming but can only learn from after they have torn through our lives. You are not alone my friend. Our new responsibilities may cause arguments between us in the future but it does not erase our old bonds; my door is always open even if you just wish to share your silence."

He went over the words again, read them slowly a few more times until the knot in his gut loosened slightly. His mind went back to the funerals he had overseen that morning but for the first time it went to the familiar face that had been across from him every step of the way. To the man who had come with all the pomp and retinue of a Minister to honour the fallen but had come dressed as a Musketeer. And he realized Aramis out of all his friends would know the horror of seeing his comrades being murdered in a place deemed safe, he would know what it felt like to live through that. D'Artagnan felt a smile touch his face as he grasped the bottle of wine and picked it up for a closer inspection; tomorrow suddenly seemed brighter.

He stood leaning back against the closed door.

With his arms crossed before him he studied the chambers assigned to him. From the fine inlaid flooring to the decorated ceiling, the silk draperies to the bed coverings. From the high arched windows that framed the lighter sky of pre-dawn hours to the futon with velvet furnishing that he could tell was soft just by looking. Light from the tall candles in ornate stands gleamed off of the matching dark wooden bureau and cupboard, the shadows dipping in their carvings to make them appear deeper.

What was he doing here he wondered.

Had been pondering over it for the entire night; ever since he had entered his assigned chambers he had closed the door after him, pressed his back to it and there he had stood. Watching, wondering, waiting for someone to come along and tell him all this had been a mistake. He wasn't supposed to be here, he didn't belong here – Marguerite's accusing eyes came to his mind and he flinched, closed his eyes and found Lemay, the man who had he been alive may have gone on to save so many lives; how many had he condemned to death by playing his part in that man's execution – Aramis slid halfway to the floor before he grasped the wall to halt his descent. His knees refused to take his weight and the urge to throw up right there bubbled with a vengeance when he remembered the shadows of prison bars across Constance's face.

He was a liar, a manipulator, a man ruthless enough to do whatever was required of him.

He didn't deserve this.

This chance at – at what his thoughts teased. At being close to his son and knowing that he could never reveal that truth. To watch the boy and know he had no right to hold him in his arms, to brush back his hair and kiss his brow. To teach him and guard him and never be able to acknowledge just how fierce a love was behind the protection he provided.

Protection? Taunted the voice in his head; he was reckless, impulsive, foolish, how many times had he been swept away by his emotions it demanded. With a shake of his head Aramis pushed away from the door and the wall and made towards the one place in these chambers that didn't scream opulence. The simple desk littered with papers and the hard chair behind it. Collapsing in it he put his elbows on the desk and dropped his head in his hands; he was sure he would do something that would give away his secret, Rochefort had sowed doubt in the court already and one misstep from him would condemn both his love and his son to death. He shouldn't be here.

He was a danger to those he held dear.

Always had been.

Rubbing his hand over his face he pushed them through his hair, leaned back and breathed out his nose, tugging at the curls caught between his fingers. He needed Athos' advice, needed Porthos' assurance and d'Artagnan's support. His gaze softened and dropping his hands down onto the table he wondered what the men he considered his brothers would be up to at the moment, wondered if they had found what he had left them and hoped that it would help them in some way. Because he knew what it felt like to be on his own, knew how confusing it was to shed the life he had lived and he knew just how heavy it was a burden it was to survive from a tragedy struck in the most unexpected places.

He smiled, there was nothing happy about it. Because he was alone again, at the edge of another new life and wondering how he had managed to survive this far. His gaze traveled to the blue robes hanging by the bureau and he looked away with a grimace. Turned his attention towards the papers scattered on the Minister's desk.

On Treville's desk.

Work left undone that he would have to pick up from. A warm blur dimmed his sight at the half finished letters and messily completed reports. Another time, another office came to him, when he had labored away at the Captain's desk to make neat copies of the man's work. Aramis lifted a slightly shaky hand and pressed his thumb and forefinger against the inner corners of his eyes; let the memories of easier days wash over him for a breath or two before he whisked away the moisture they gathered.

Sitting up straighter he pulled close the nearest piece of paper even as he pulled out the top most drawer in the desk; the night was already at an end, he might as well get started on the work set out. Going through what looked like a requisition for resources at one of the battlefronts he rummaged around for some clean sheets and writing material. His fingers wrapped around several items and pulling them out Aramis simply dumped them up on the table top, turned his gaze away from the words and felt his eyes widen.

'Aramis' said the envelope.

In that familiar scrawl of one of the few men he had truly respected.

Feeling like a child awaiting reprimand Aramis picked it up and broke the seal.

"I knew it would be you.

Athos at his heart is a peaceful soul, Porthos too honest and d'Artagnan too just. But you and I, we are the damned; the restless ones, the ones familiar with the taste of dishonesty in our words and not blind to the reality of unfairness. I think I saw it in you even when we first met on that battlefield. Maybe that's why I wanted you at my side. But it took Rochefort's actions for me to accept these things in myself so I can't say that for sure. What I can tell you now, is that what you think doesn't make you worthy of this position are the same things that make you right for it. The peaceful, honest, fair minds will suffer too much for what this position asks.

Since you are reading this it means I've met the last of my duty; grieve if you must but know I had been prepared for this end since I chose the sword and swore loyalty to the crown. And ever since you returned to Paris I have been looking back to all your choices and decisions that I've known. I can only say that every path that you took was preparing you for this place, for this position.

For this curse and this blessing, you are ready son."

He sat back in the chair, the letter pressed flat against his thigh under his palm as the back of his other hand pressed against his mouth, with his elbow propped up on the hard armrest he looked away. Saw not the room, nor the furniture but the bright blue eyes from a grime streaked face meeting his gaze for the first time all those years ago. Amidst death, dirt and fire he hadn't realized then what the man would come to mean to him along the way. A smirk pulled at his lips as that first meeting flashed before his eyes and he lifted the letter to read it again. He had never imagined ever knowing what that sharp gaze had seen in him. Yet despite all the reservations he had for the man's position he had followed Treville into the life he had offered him.

And once again, he was ready to trust that man's words.

So lately,

been wondering

Who will be there to take my place

When I'm gone

you'll need love

to light the shadows on your face

If a great wave shall fall

and fall upon us all

Then between the sand and stone,

could you make it on your own?

If I could,

then I would

I'll go wherever you will go

Way up high

or down low,

I'll go wherever you will go

– The Calling

END