Bet you guys thought I forgot about this! I would never! :D And now the conclusion! Thank you to all of you who took the time to review Chapter 3: Jmp, Deana, GingietheSnap, weathergirl17248 (I knew I remembered someone else mentioning they'd followed me from the VPU without actually watching The Musketeers! *hugs you tight* thank you!) Arlothia, pallysdeeks, twaxer, lizard1969,

I'm fascinated by the way early experiences haunt and revisit you, remain present in your life for decades and decades - they can even shape who you ultimately become.

Khaled Hosseini

Athos and Porthos stood before the broken cross that sat splintered in the grass.

"Well this doesn't look promisin'," Porthos muttered under his breath as he knelt and shifted the broken pieces of wood as if looking for a way it could be mended.

"He was taken from here," Athos surmised. He glanced around at the disturbed earth around them. "He fought back."

"Of course he did." Porthos grinned wolfishly.

Athos shifted further away, crouching to look at some dark flecks on the grass. He saw Porthos reaching for something in the grass out of the corner of his eye.

"This is blood," Athos announced. "It could belong to Aramis or his attacker."

Porthos didn't respond and Athos glanced over at him. The larger man was staring down at something in his hand.

"Porthos?"

Instead of responding, Porthos shifted his hand, letting something small tumble from his hand only for it catch on a leather cord that was hooked around his finger.

A hand carved crucifix.

Athos recognized it immediately.

"He's not taken this off since Savoy," Porthos revealed quietly, eyes shifting to the larger, broken cross on the ground.

Athos stood abruptly, a fissure of rage slicing through him. Somebody had attacked and taken their brother while he stood over his mother's grave. Aramis had not even been allowed to say a final goodbye in peace.

"Somebody in town must know where he is," Athos decided. "We'll question every one of them if we have to."

Porthos stood too, the small crucifix clutched in his hand once again.

"We'll start with that bloody priest."

"I told you! I don't know where he is! I didn't even know he had returned!" Chabert defended.

"Really got a handle on your community, don't you?" Porthos growled sarcastically as he paced up and down the aisle.

"Was there anyone with a grudge against Aramis? Someone who would want to do him harm?" Athos asked in a comparatively calmer tone.

"I don't know," the priest shook his head. "The boy was charismatic. He was well liked as well as reviled, often both by any given person from one breath to the next."

"Who could ever dislike Aramis?" Porthos snapped. "He's the kindest person to ever walk this earth!"

"Porthos," Athos warned calmly.

"Well he is!" Porthos barked back, pacing away again.

"Yes, but this is – was – a wholesome Catholic community and he was a ba-"

Porthos whirled, pointing a threatening finger at the priest.

"Call him that word again and it'll be the last thing you say," he warned lowly.

The priest held up a submissive hand.

"And he was also half Spanish," Chabert went on.

Athos arched a brow.

"Are you not within a day's ride from the border? Was a Spanish child so rare?" he asked.

The priest sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

"In our town, yes," he answered reluctantly.

"Enough of this," Porthos growled. "We need to find him."

Athos nodded, focusing on Chabert again.

"Is there anywhere in town that a grown man could be hidden? Somewhere a struggle wouldn't be heard?"

The priest looked thoughtful and then shrugged helplessly.

"The old brothel house perhaps? It has been abandoned for years and is off the main road."

Athos shared a look with Porthos.

It was a good starting point.

Porthos strode back over to them, pinning Chabert beneath his dark gaze.

"Tell us exactly where."

"Aramis."

Aramis's eyes twitched but didn't open.

"Aramis…come now, mi pequeño amor, open your eyes(my little love.)

He knew that voice. He knew it so deeply that he would never forget it.

"Mamá?" he whispered, forcing his heavy eyes open and lifting his chin from his chest.

He watched through an unfocused, watery gaze as she glided towards him, kneeling at his side. Her hand reached out to gently comb through his wild hair and then rested on his cheek.

"Hola, mi hijo." (Hello, my son.)

"Mamá?" he breathed out again, hardly believing what he was seeing.

"You have grown so big," she observed warmly. "So strong, just as I knew you would."

"How…" he shook his head, grasping at his fleeting focus.

"Oh mi amor, what have they done to you," she lamented softly, her fingers gently caressing the hair across his temple.

"Are you real?" he asked, hardly daring to hope.

Her smile was soft and warm and exactly as he remembered it.

"No," she admitted gently.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"The laudanum," he realized aloud.

He snapped his eyes open, worried that she would vanish when he wasn't looking.

"Perhaps I am not real," she allowed. "But I have never left you. I have been with you, always. Here." She pressed her other hand against his chest.

"I'm sorry, Mamá. I never should have left you," he confessed, eyes stinging.

"I sent you away," she reminded. "I would always protect you, mi amor, no matter the cost."

"He lied to me," Aramis revealed. "He stole your letters. He never told me you were sick. I would have come, Mamá. I would have come," he promised fervently.

"Shhh," she soothed, stroking his hair again. "I know," she assured. "I know your heart, pequeño amor. I always have."

"Te quería Mama," he whispered. "Más que cualquier cosa." (I loved you, Mama. More than anything.)

"I know that too," she comforted.

His gaze snapped around to the door when he heard shouting beyond it.

"They're coming for you," she whispered with a smile.

"¿Quien?" (Who?) he asked

"Tus hermanos." (Your brothers.)

She smiled once more, sad, but warm and full of love.

"Mi pequeño amor… Tú eres mi corazón." (My little love… You are my heart.)

"Mamá…" he watched her stand and start to back away. "No te vayas." (Don't go.)

"Nunca te dejaré," (I will never leave you,) she promised gently.

"Mamá…"

She retreated further, blurring before his eyes. Or perhaps that was just his tears.

"Sé valiente, mi pequeño aventurero." (Be brave, my little adventurer.)

"No te vayas," he pleaded, but she continued to fade away.

"Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero." (Be strong, my little warrior.)

"¡Mamá!"

She was gone now, and he was left with nothing but her voice floating around him.

"Sé amable, mi pequeño amor." (Be kind, my little love.)

"No…" he dropped his head back against the post, feeling fresh anguish building in his chest. How could he have lost her all over again?

He didn't notice when the door to the attic burst open. He just continued to rock his head back and forth against the post in denial.

He didn't feel hands on him. Didn't notice the too tight rope around his wrists being cut away. He just continued to call out for her.

"Mamá," he pleaded, "don't go."

After Athos cut away the ropes holding Aramis, Porthos gently pulled him away from the post. He caught the marksman's lulling head and carefully let him rest against his chest. He frowned, barely making out the Spanish mumblings escaping his brother's blood-crusted lips. He had started to pick up a few of Aramis' more common Spanish phrases, but the only words he recognized now were 'mamá'. Aramis didn't even seem aware that they were there with him.

"Aramis," he called gently, trying, but failing, to get the marksman's dazed eyes to meet his.

Athos frowned at them and then reached forward, carefully taking Aramis' jaw in his hand and turning his head so he could properly look into his eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" Porthos asked, voice tight with concern.

Athos sighed and released Aramis to rest against Porthos again.

"He's been drugged."

Porthos jaw clenched.

"Wish we hadn't killed the man down below…I'd like to kill him again, more slowly this time."

Athos hummed his agreement and pressed his lips together, regarding Aramis in concern.

"I'll carry him," Porthos volunteered.

Athos nodded sharply and stood, crossing the room to retrieve what Porthos now noticed to be Aramis' boots, doublet, and weapons.

"His pistols are gone," Athos announced.

Porthos frowned, pulling Aramis more securely against his chest as he prepared to lift him. The marksman continued to murmur in Spanish.

"Fellow downstairs didn't have them," Porthos replied.

"That's because I do."

Athos spun sharply, his own pistol drawn in a flash. Porthos shifted, shielding Aramis with his own bulk and reaching for his pistol with his free hand.

They both glared at the blonde man standing in the doorway. His face was tanned by hours spent in the sun, and below two brown eyes was a misshapen, swollen, and bruised nose. He held both Aramis' pistols in his hands, one pointed at each of them.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

"Athos and Porthos, of the King's Musketeers," Athos introduced, his voice sharp enough to cut glass and cold enough to freeze a flame.

"Musketeers?" the man growled. "You killed my friend!"

"You kidnapped ours!" Porthos shot back.

The man glared at them, guns starting to waver as his arms grew tired.

Porthos hadn't realized Aramis had fallen silent until he suddenly shifted, drawing away from Porthos enough to peer around him at the man in the doorway.

"Gil…put them down." Aramis sounded exhausted and hurt and sad all at once, but even so the request was firm.

Both guns shifted to point at Aramis. Porthos tensed, ready to throw himself between them and his brother if needed.

"I should have just killed you," Gil hissed.

Aramis' weight subtly settled more heavily against Porthos, but his voice was steady as he responded.

"Perhaps you should have."

Gil's jaw clenched and something in his eyes shifted.

Aramis went rigid a moment before Porthos realized what was about to happen.

"No!" Aramis lurched against him even as Gil turned one of the guns to press against his own head and pulled the trigger. His body tumbled backwards down the stairs, the guns clattering after him.

Across the room, Athos' eyes went wide and he slowly lowered his pistol.

Aramis dropped his forehead to rest heavily against Porthos' shoulder, letting out a ragged breath. He only allowed himself a moment before drawing in a slow, fortifying breath.

"Help me up," he requested quietly.

"Are you s-"

"Yes," Aramis snapped, drawing away and visibly pulling himself together. Any signs of weakness were carefully hidden behind the mask of unflappable strength that Aramis always wore. Porthos hated when he did that, when he pretended that pain and injury didn't exist.

Porthos sighed and stood, hauling Aramis carefully up with him. He frowned when Aramis paled, a hand shifting to support his left side. His other arm hung limply at his side. Still, his expression remained stoic and unruffled.

Athos joined them. He had Aramis' weapons belt hooked over his shoulder, his doublet folded over his arm, and his boots held in his hand.

"Please tell me this town has a physician." The swordsman sighed. "Before those injuries you're failing to pretend don't exist kill you."

Aramis just pretended not to hear him.

Porthos chewed the inside of his lip as he stood next to Aramis. Athos stood on Aramis' other side and together they watched the marksman stare at the brand new, crisply painted, smoothly sanded cross that had been erected to mark his mother's grave.

"You didn't have to do this, Athos," Aramis offered eventually.

"I know. I did it because I wanted to," the swordsman replied evenly.

Aramis shifted, abruptly stilled, and stood rigidly for a few moments. Athos, Porthos, and the old physician Dupont – who had apparently been here since Aramis was a child – had all pleaded with him to rest for a few days. In the end, all they'd managed to force him into was a few hours past dawn.

The injury tally had amounted to a few broken ribs, a badly separated shoulder, a concussion, and a handful of bruises and scrapes. But for all Aramis' posturing, one would think he'd suffered nothing but a few bumps and bruises.

Porthos was used to it by now, but thus far it hadn't gotten any easier to stomach. It made more sense now than it had in the beginning, ever since they'd met his father. But he still didn't like it.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, unable to help himself.

"Fine," Aramis replied predictably, but his expression spoke of inner turmoil not yet put to rest. He absently reached up to toy with the crucifix that Porthos had returned to him.

"What did he want?" Athos asked. "This 'Gil'?"

"Recompense, I suppose…" Aramis mused distractedly. "For the life he thought he deserved…or thought I had… He wasn't quite clear on the matter himself."

"And the other one?" Porthos wondered.

Aramis shook his head slightly.

"I never even learned his name."

Porthos shifted, glancing at Athos. Something was still troubling Aramis, deeply enough that it was showing in his face.

"What did he say to you that you can't let go?" Porthos finally asked bluntly.

Aramis sighed shallowly and twitched a shoulder dismissively.

"He merely shed light on something from my past. But it doesn't matter… It did nothing but confirm what I already knew."

"And what is that?" Athos prodded gently.

Something in Aramis' expression broke, but only briefly, before he steeled himself. But there was a sheen of moisture in his eyes that told the truth of how deeply affected he was.

"That she would have done anything to protect me. That she loved me. So much so that she would risk never seeing me again just to keep me safe."

Porthos exchanged a startled look with Athos behind Aramis' back.

"What do you mean?" he asked in concern.

But Aramis shook his head.

"It doesn't matter now," he answered with a sigh.

Another glance exchanged with Athos and they let the matter drop.

"Let's go," Aramis decided suddenly.

Porthos glanced at Athos and the swordsman lightly cleared his throat.

"Are you sure? We can linger a while longer…"

"No," Aramis refused, stepping back away from his mother's grave, though his eyes stayed on the white wooden cross. "She gave me up so that I could escape this place and the people in it. She would've been happier if I'd never returned, I think."

He let his eyes linger on the grave marker a moment longer before turning away. Athos and Porthos followed.

"Are you sure you can ride?" Porthos worried as they made slow progress back to the horses.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Yes," he answered sharply. But then, more quietly, "Perhaps slowly, stiffly, and very carefully, but yes."

This time, it was Porthos and Athos who rolled their eyes. Perhaps one day they would stop being annoyed by Aramis' inability to accept the gravity of his own wounds…but it was unlikely that day would ever come.

End of Can't Go Home Again

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