A/N: Over on Tumblr there is a Whumptober challenge with a listing of prompts for each day of the month. I decided to take part in the challenge and thought I would start to post the stories I've written. It's a really fun challenge and if you're looking for some story ideas, I encourage you to check it out ( whumpreads made the list).

Day 1: On their knees

Once a Musketeer...

When d'Artagnan asks for him to come down to the Garrison for a musket demonstration, Aramis doesn't hesitate in agreeing. Cooped up for months in the Palace, meeting with all types of officials about the state of the country, Aramis is itching to do something that comes as easy as breathing to him. It has been years since he routinely carried a musket, but his skill has not diminished. Not as his beard grew gray and long hair became speckled with white.

He enters the Garrison seeing the recruits, the cadets, and full Musketeers far younger than he remembered. A byproduct of aging: every year the faces seemed younger, more innocent, more difficult to send to war.

And d'Artagnan, the lad, Captain now of the Musketeers, doesn't seem to age. He greets Aramis warmly, with a familiar, comforting hug. It has been far too long since Aramis has seen any of his brothers.

"Cadets, soldiers," d'Artagnan calls out, turning to face the restless lines of men. Some things never change, Aramis mused. "This is First Minister Aramis, once a Musketeer…"

"Always a Musketeer," Aramis interrupts him not very quietly. The men chuckle.

"Of course." d'Artagnan nods his head in concession, a smile playing at his lips. "I simply mean to say that it has been years since you were actively in the regiment."

"You make it sound like I've been sent out to pasture, having seen my better days long gone. Will my bones creak if I move too fast?"

Aramis is pleased with the laughter. This is a far easier audience than a room of tight-lipped officials. And d'Artagnan has made it no less easy to tease him over the years.

"If you are done, Minister," d'Artagnan says in an equally playful tone, emphasizing Aramis' title in a way that he knows will annoy the older man.

Aramis nods.

"Aramis has come to give a lesson and a demonstration in shooting. He is known across the country for his aim with a musket." d'Artagnan turns to Aramis. "Shall we?"

"After you." Aramis gives a slight bow and d'Artagnan holds back a sigh. Nothing has changed about the older man, not his smile nor his playfulness. How many headaches did it give them all those years ago?

Back at the range, Aramis easily gives his lesson about proper care for your rifle and musket. Such speaking has always come easily to him and he thinks nothing of the rapt attention as he picks up his favorite musket. It is not the same one the served him all those years ago but it was a gift from Porthos and has been used only at the range.

It is only when he kneels to aim that he becomes aware of a problem. He blinks his eyes, hoping that might clear it up. It hasn't. He forces himself to breathe, to put out of his mind the watching, anxious, expectant eyes of each and every soldier, the pride d'Artagnan has in him.

Nothing.

Try as he might his hand will not remain still long enough for him to take aim. Instead, it shakes like an old man's.

His pride refuses to let him pull the trigger. His shot will hit the board, but just barely. More than his own pride, the respect he has for how d'Artagnan has managed the Garrison and the respect he's brought back to the Musketeers refuses to let him fire. Instead, he stands, blowing out the fuse.

"I'm sure you can figure out the rest from there, lads," he tells them with a forced smile. "Good luck and d'Artagnan, let me know how they're faring."

He leaves without further word, without looking back to see the startled face of d'Artagnan quickly organize his men into their orders for the day. He doesn't see d'Artagnan look longingly at him, fighting the youthful urge to run after his brother. Locked away in his study at the Palace, ignoring all knocks from servants and even Anne, he stares at unfamiliar hands. They are wrinkled, speckled with the beginning of age spots, and gnarled by years of soldiering. These are not his hands. They are the hands of his grandfather, of an old man, wizened by years of hard truths. Even now there is a tell-tale shake, the unsurity of movement brought by advancing age. It was not there last night, that he swears. But it that the truth?

Nature, it seems has done what man and country couldn't for all they have tried during his long years. He may still have his charm and wit, but he is no longer the Musketeer he once was. Never again does he attempt to fire a gun. He accepts his bodyguards with such ease that everyone thinks him ill. He shakes them off with a fake smile that he hopes will one day be real again.

And never once does he step foot in the Garrison again.