In the end, they didn't have to seek out Aramis. Just as Porthos was about to demand that they start a search, Aramis strolled through the garrison's gates, dressed in full uniform with one hand resting on his sword hilt.

His quiet good morning greeting was tempered by a wan smile, and no one failed to notice the shadows under his eyes or the fatigue clearly written on his face.

D'Artagnan, who was seated at the table, stopped in the middle of his breakfast as he glanced from one man to the other, clearly waiting for someone to reply. The resounding silence quickly became uncomfortable.

While Porthos had spent all morning worrying about Aramis, complaining to Athos, and blaming himself for letting Aramis leave the day before, he seemed completely unable to form adequate words in the face Aramis's actual presence.

And everyone knew words weren't Athos's specialty.

Which meant the task of breaking the silence fell to d'Artagnan.

"Have you eaten?" he asked Aramis, gesturing to the remnants of breakfast scattered across the table. "We have a bit of time before we're expected at the palace."

Porthos and Athos both stared at him. D'Artagnan merely shrugged. He might not be the most brilliant conversationalist, but at least he was willing to speak up. Besides, he didn't see how walking on eggshells around Aramis was helping matters any.

Aramis let out a sigh, but nodded as he sat across from d'Artagnan and reached for a piece of bread, chewing slowly. For a moment it seemed almost normal, just a quiet morning as they waited to report for duty. But of course the illusion of normality lasted only until Porthos regained control of his tongue.

"You didn't go home last night," he said bluntly.

Swallowing a bite, Aramis turned to look at him. "I take it you had nothing better to do than follow me? You should know better, Porthos. You might not like what you see."

Clearly it was meant as a joke, a coy reference to Aramis's usual nighttime escapades. But it fell flat. Perhaps d'Artagnan wasn't the only one imagining what it would be like to follow Aramis and find him plotting to assassinate a certain duke…or perhaps the captain.

It was absurd, of course, and d'Artagnan dismissed the thought almost immediately.

"What Porthos meant to say is that he's been worrying himself senseless – so much so that he failed to finish his own breakfast." Athos's wry tone seemed to dispel the tension. Aramis actually grinned, weak though it was.

"Well, we can't have that," Aramis replied.

It wasn't quite normality, but it was something at least. D'Artagnan decided to count that as success.

The tense breakfast was followed by a silent trip to the palace. Athos led the way with d'Artagnan following closely, while Porthos rode at Aramis's side, offering silent support. As they dismounted outside the palace, Porthos rested a comforting hand on Aramis's shoulder, earning him a small smile.

Aramis took a deep breath, steeling himself before turning to the others. "Let's get this over with."

Athos nodded, taking a moment to admire Aramis's steady determination. Aramis never flinched from duty. It was one of the things he admired most about the man – even more so now, when faced with a duty none of them desired: to sit back and merely watch the duke, knowing what they all knew….

"No one is to do anything foolish," Athos said calmly. "We stay at our posts and no one goes near the duke."

"You don't need to remind me," Aramis snapped. "I'm not going to jeopardize the cardinal's precious treaty."

Athos raised an eyebrow mildly, resisted the urge to flinch at the bitterness in Aramis's voice. "I was reminding myself as much as you."

"Yeah, Athos already tried to thrash the duke once, remember," Porthos said. "You shoulda seen it. He was out for blood."

"Weren't you the one who said you would have sliced the duke's throat, rather than his shirt?" Athos asked pointedly.

Porthos put on a sheepish look. "Well, yeah. We all know I have less self-control than you do."

Aramis stared at them both, bewildered.

Athos gave him a small smile, knowing that only those closest to him would see the whisper of affection in his gaze. "You see? You're not the only one who wishes to see him punished."

The message was clearly received as Aramis relaxed minutely, defensiveness bleeding away to leave only bitter resignation. "Yes, but there's nothing we can do about it."

"Not without exposing the duchess and the cardinal," d'Artaganan said. "And probably getting ourselves thrown in the bastille for treason."

There was a long silence, but it was Aramis who finally spoke. "So, we do our duty," he said, heading towards the palace. "As quickly and painlessly as possible."

And they did.

They stood guard, said nothing. Aramis stood stonily at attention until it seemed as though he had ceased to breathe. It wasn't clear whether he heard the duchess's soft words as she paused before Athos. If Aramis reacted at all, Athos was too distracted with his own thoughts to notice.

The duchess's words struck an uncomfortable chord. Athos had to marvel at the complexity of it all – how even those bound by affection and loyalty were equally marked by secrecy and betrayal. But those thoughts, too close to his own life, did not bear close scrutiny.

With Savoy's delegation rapidly leaving the city, the musketeers were free to return to the garrison. If they'd hoped for a quiet moment to themselves, however, it was soon disturbed by Tréville, who had barely returned from the palace himself before he was stopped by a servant delivering news that apparently pertained to them, as Tréville quickly called Aramis over to him.

They watched from a distance as the two spoke quietly.

"What do you think that's about?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Can't be more trouble, can it?" Porthos said.

Athos measured Tréville's expression, his posture, reading the man's mood. "No, not trouble, per se. More like a recompense."

"What do you mean?" D'Artagnan frowned.

Before anyone could answer, Aramis turned sharply and left, striding past them with only a brief nod as he departed.

"Should we…" d'Artagnan asked, trailing off as he followed Aramis with his eyes.

"No," Tréville answered for him, startling d'Artagnan as he realized the captain suddenly stood before them. "Let him go. We'll be back later. You three have the rest of the afternoon. Make use of it with some target practice, why don't you." As Tréville walked towards the gates, Porthos called out to him.

"Captain." Tréville stopped. "Where's Aramis going?" Porthos asked.

With a sigh, Tréville replied, "the cemetery." Then he turned and followed along in Aramis's wake, stalking off into the scattered rain.

He'd been shocked at first, but the surprise was quickly followed by gratitude. Aramis hadn't been able to find the words to thank the captain for this one small favor, so unobtrusive, but yet so very, very important.

Tréville had directed him to the cemetery where Marsac's body now lay among his fellow musketeers. It was a place of respect reserved for soldiers and honorable men – men who died defending their king and protecting their comrades. Men like Marsac who had pulled Aramis from the midst of the slaughter.

Why Tréville would allow a deserter and assassin – failed assassin, Marsac's wry voice echoed in Aramis's mind – to be buried amongst these men… well, Aramis wasn't about to question the captain's motives.

He found the grave quickly, noting the single patch of freshly turned earth. He stood before it, staring sightlessly as he heard Tréville's footsteps behind him.

The captain gave him a moment alone before stepping up to stand at his side, a quiet presence, seeming content to allow Aramis his silent grief. They stood there together, lost in their individual memories and regrets as the rain worsened, blanketing the cemetery with a dreary shade of gray.

Aramis said another silent prayer for Marsac's soul, hoping fervently that his friend had found peace, and withdrew the crucifix around his neck to give it a brief kiss.

It was done. All of it. Savoy, Marsac, the massacre, the relentless search for justice… all buried here and committed to God's care. The finality of it soothed Aramis's weary soul.

With a deep breath, he finally broke the silence.

"Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago. It just took this long for his body to catch up." Aramis heard the strength and conviction in his own voice, only just now realizing the full truth of his words. He looked up to meet the captain's eyes, seeing both sympathy and regret looking back at him. That look would have shocked him just a few days before, but much had changed since then. Suddenly Aramis realized he would say anything to ease the regret he saw staring back at him.

"We're soldiers, captain," he said firmly. "We follow our orders no matter where they lead. Even to death."

Tréville nodded, accepting the words for what they were: absolution. Aramis doubted that it would be enough – for either of them. But when Tréville reached out a hand, Aramis grasped it firmly. The shadows still haunted them both; Aramis could see them in the captain's eyes and had no doubt that the same dark regrets lurked in his own gaze. But the handshake was an understanding, an agreement, a sort of mutual forgiveness for an event that both men found profoundly painful. This was the first step towards putting it behind them.

Satisfied, Tréville clapped a hand to his shoulder and then turned, leaving Aramis to mourn in peace.

Staring at the grave, Aramis took another deep breath, releasing as much of the regret as he could. He plunged the sword into the ground, with one last wish for Marsac's peaceful rest, and turned to walk away. As he left behind the fresh grave, gaping like an open wound, Aramis felt a strange sense of emptiness.

He wandered through the cemetery, passing through the ghosts of dead musketeers, and eventually made his way through the streets of Paris.

The rain kept coming, a steady summer rain that soaked into his clothes, leaving him chilled and shaky. Making his way through the streets, he suspected he looked more like a gutter rat than a dignified musketeer. He resisted a bitter laugh as he thought of it. Aramis the elegant Parisian gentleman, the honorable musketeer – reduced to looking like a vagrant. It fit somehow. Beneath his fine manners and his noble uniform, he was only a common solider and an uncommonly poor friend. After all, he was the reason Marsac – one of his oldest friends – now lay in the dank confines of a fresh grave, soaked by rain but drained of life. The thought of it made Aramis feel half-dead himself.

He told himself it was the cold that made him so morbid, though part of his mind told him that it wasn't truly that cold, even with the rain. But yes, that must be it – the cold, the damp, the stress, the lack of sleep. He'd been here before. He'd been a soldier long enough to know the deadening effects of grief mingled with exhaustion. And now, with his attention shifting back to the present, Aramis could feel the dampness settle into his bones, his head pounding slightly from the weight of sleepless nights.

He should go home, eat, down a glass of wine or two, and head straight to bed – to sleep until the world righted itself again and he could face the thought of returning to the garrison with his normal smile plastered over the guilt and grief.

They had watched Tréville leave, stalking off after Aramis like a man in a funeral procession. Once he was gone, they'd attempted to follow the captain's suggestion of some target practice in the yard.

But their hearts weren't in it. Eventually they gave up the pretense of training and settled at the table, Athos reaching for the nearest bottle of wine. No one blamed d'Artagnan when he eventually excused himself, saying he had a promise to Constance that had to be kept. The other two dismissed him with a wave, promising to meet up in the morning. They were both poor company, and d'Artagnan was under no obligation to put up with their moping.

Athos refilled his cup and pushed the bottle towards Porthos, who shook his head.

"You think we should go find him?" Porthos asked.

Athos merely shrugged.

Porthos tried again. "I don't like leavin' him alone like this. You know how he gets."

Athos nodded. "True. But perhaps he would rather we left him alone for now."

"Well, maybe what he wants isn't what's best." Porthos scowled slightly, looking as though he could barely control his frustrated.

Athos nodded mildly. "While I tend to agree with you, Aramis may feel differently, considering we've spent the better part of the past few days insisting that he was wrong about Marsac, Savoy, the captain – about everything." Athos took a drink. "And now, with things as they are… I wouldn't blame him if he wished to avoid us."

Porthos frowned. "You think he's angry at us? For not trusting Marsac?" Athos shrugged again, provoking an irritated grumble from Porthos. "What else could we have done? After everything, you really think we should have done more to help someone like Marsac?"

"No. But all that Marsac has done does not make him wrong. And regardless, it was unfair to dissuade Aramis when he only wished the truth – even an uncomfortable truth."

Porthos sighed. "We weren't trying to dissuade him," he mumbled, but his slumped posture and general air of gloom betrayed his regret. "I just didn't like seeing him fall in with Marsac again after the coward abandoned him. Marsac was confusing him, making him doubt the captain."

"But he was right," Athos said, voice low and steady. Porthos stared back, mouth twisted in discomfort. "Regardless, Aramis is our comrade. Abandoning him now would be unpardonable."

"So we are going after 'im?"

Athos stood, straightening with determination. "Of course. Was there ever any doubt?"

Porthos managed a weak chuckle as he stood to follow. "So, where do we start lookin'?"

They found him wandering the streets, head down and rain dripping from his cloak and hat. He was so lost inside his own thoughts that he very nearly walked right past them, would have in fact, if Porthos hadn't grasped him by the arm. Aramis didn't start or flinch, just looked up wearily – no surprise on his face, just tired resignation.

They led him away then, back through the damp streets of Paris, back to his own lodging house and into his rooms.

For a while, no one spoke. Aramis sunk into a chair on the far side of the room, tipping his head back to rest against the wall.

"You needn't stay," he said softly. "I'll be fine. I just need a good night's rest."

Neither Athos nor Porthos moved to leave. Aramis merely sighed, too tired to offer any further protest at their presence.

Finally, when the silence became too much, Porthos spoke.

"I'm sorry, you know. I really am."

Aramis shrugged. "Why? You've done nothing to be sorry for."

It was Porthos's turn to shrug. "Dunno really. I guess for all of it. I'm sorry we can't make things right for you, that we can't give the duke of Savoy what he really deserves. You know we would if we could." Aramis nodded dully but seemed uninclined to reply.

It took several long moments of silence before Athos spoke up as well. "I'm sorry that your answers brought you pain."

Aramis met his eyes briefly, but with a faraway look in his eye. "We're soldiers," he said. "Pain is nothing for us to shy away from." But beneath his steady words, his friends could see the undercurrent of sadness lingered in Aramis's eyes.

"I'm sorry that Marsac's dead," Porthos said. It was enough to snap a reaction out of Aramis, who shot him a sharp look.

"Please. You detested him. Both of you did."

"A bit," Porthos conceded mildly. "But he was a musketeer. He deserved better than where life took him."

"And he was your friend," Athos added. "While I may have disliked the man, I can still regret his death – both for his own sake and for yours."

If they noticed the dampness clouding Aramis's eyes, no one said anything.

"But that's the point, isn't it?" Aramis finally said, standing roughly. "No matter what Marsac may have deserved, he was a solider first. Death, pain, hardship… we accept these daily." Aramis's irritation drove him to pace the length of the room once before stopping again. "If it's an unworthy death… well, we do what is expected of us. We follow orders and don't question if one day those orders may seem like a betrayal because our lives are forfeit to the whims of the crown. That's the life we chose as soldiers. It's unavoidable."

He sank down again, this time leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. Porthos looked helplessly to Athos before moving to Aramis's side, resting one hand gently on his shoulder.

Athos cleared his throat and both of his companions looked up at him expectantly.

"That may be true," he said. "But that does not mean we must face it blindly. We do our duty. We protect the king and the honor of the musketeers. But we do so with our eyes open and our brothers at our side. And above all we protect each other. Agreed?"

Aramis nodded. "Yes. Always."

"Good. Now, if we are to continue this discussion, we need wine."

Aramis nearly choked on a surprised laugh and waved his hand in the direction of the other room. "I have a few spare bottles in the back of the cupboard. But if you plan to drink me out of house and home…"

"I'll buy you more tomorrow," Athos said, wandering off into the other room to retrieve the promised wine and a set of glasses. By the time he returned, Porthos and Aramis had settled on the floor, backs propped up against the wall. And Porthos was chuckling. Even more surprising was the genuine grin that was working its way across Aramis's face.

"The two of you got into a fight?" Porthos asked lightly. "The day you met?"

The grin could no longer be denied as Aramis basked in the memory. "Oh, yes. I tried to apologize, told him it was an accident. But Marsac insisted I had run into him on purpose as some sort of personal insult. It very nearly escalated into a duel."

"I imagine that went over well with the captain," Porthos said. "His own men involved in back alley brawling…with each other no less."

"What makes you think the captain ever found out?" Aramis asked with a hint of mischief in his eyes.

Athos settled down on the floor across from them, neatly arranging the two bottles he'd collected between them. "Now this sounds like a story I've not heard before." He filled the first glass and passed it to Aramis.

"Really? I can't believe I never mentioned it."

But Athos and Porthos both knew why they'd never heard this particular tale. After Savoy, Marsac's name has come to feel like a curse. For the first few months, Marsac's desertion had plagued Aramis's conscience. His every memory of Marsac now seemed tied up in guilt and grief and worry, occasionally tinged with anger when he could no longer excuse Marsac's abandonment. No one risked upsetting Aramis by even the smallest mention of Marsac, and eventually Aramis simply stopped talking about him. Soon, it was as if Marsac had never existed.

"Tell us now?" Porthos asked, the question gentle enough to allow Aramis to refuse if the request was still too difficult.

But perhaps this was exactly what Aramis needed because, after a few sips of wine and a deep breath, Aramis told them all about the day he'd first met Marsac.

By the time d'Artagnan arrived later that evening, carrying dinner from Constance as a token of her forgiveness, Aramis had begun regaling them with stories of other soldiers who'd died in Savoy, men who Athos had never really known because he'd been too new to the regiment.

Aramis waved d'Artagnan inside, Porthos moved to the hearth to start a fire as the evening chill began to set in, and Athos gathered another glass. They laid out the food and resituated themselves in a loose circle, warm and content, with both food and drink to last them through the night. As they ate, Aramis began again.

"And then there was the time that Marsac and I were captured by bandits. Well, I say bandits, but it actually turned out to be a group of mercenaries who were patrolling Spanish trade routes along the border. We'd taken a wrong turn and inadvertently crossed the border because Marsac…."

They talked long into the night. Well, really, Aramis talked. The others listened. But he found himself telling these stories, these memories, with the same fervency with which he had spent the previous night praying. And like those prayers, he repeated these stories until they were etched in his mind, covering over the grief with memories of better times.

Porthos joined in from time to time, adding his own memories to the mix, and even Athos added his own commentary a time or two. But mostly they listened and laughed, gentle teasing flowing along with glasses of wine. And if Aramis trailed off strangely when an occasional tear came to his eye, they said nothing about it. Athos would merely pour some more wine, and Porthos would press his shoulder against Aramis, adding an extra measure of support, as Porthos took over with another story, keeping the warmth of camaraderie burning.

It was, perhaps, the best medicine that Aramis could have asked for.

It was late into the night when they finally settled in to sleep, scattered throughout Aramis's room and wrapped in spare blankets. As the sound of the dying fire smoothed him into a contented sleep, Aramis had no doubt that whatever orders and battles came for them the next day, at least they would face them together.