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Epilogue

Aramis sat on the edge of his bed, bowed forward with his head in his hands. It had been two days since the ambush and his episode, and he was still weak, only able to eat small amounts at a time as nausea still lingered. For all the progress he'd made since Savoy, he had been reduced to nothing again in one fell sweep.

He thought he'd finally recovered, finally overcome both the physical and mental strain Savoy had inflicted on him. He'd hit the mark every time in target practice; he'd kept up with Athos in a duel.

He'd found brotherhood again.

But it was all ephemeral, fleeting.

He didn't think he could continue to be a musketeer. His susceptibility to these attacks could debilitate him out of the blue in the middle of a mission, as had just happened. He hadn't been able to help Porthos and Athos when they'd been captured. At the very least, he was useless; at the worst, he was a liability. And there was no room for a crippled soldier in a regiment.

Aramis crooked his fingers in his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. But the Musketeers were all he had and the thought of losing that was as painful as the loss he suffered in Savoy. He had no idea where he would go—he had nowhere to go.

A knock sounded at the door a moment before it opened, and Aramis looked up as Athos entered, having elected to just announce himself rather than wait for permission. He bore a plate of bread and fruit.

He and Porthos had been so attentive since that day on the road, and Aramis has appreciated it, mostly. But he also knew he didn't deserve it. He remembered what he'd said to Athos after Porthos had been injured in that Huguenot church, how musketeers had to depend on each other, and his heart clenched as the truth was cast back upon him—his brothers could not depend on him to watch their backs.

Athos set the plate on the table and turned to study him for a long moment when Aramis gave no acknowledgement. "Is your head paining you again?" he asked quietly. "I can get some willow bark."

"No," Aramis said, dropping his arms and lifting his head. "I have just been thinking."

"Then I'm surprised your head doesn't hurt from the effort."

Aramis didn't have the heart to respond to the playful jab and lowered his gaze to the floor.

Athos was silent for a moment. "Aramis."

"I think I must leave the Musketeers," he confessed.

"Why?"

Aramis gritted his teeth and looked up again. "Do you really have to ask? It's obvious."

"Not to me," Athos replied, a thread of incredulity seeping into his tone.

Aramis clenched his fists. "I failed on that mission."

"You fought well."

"Don't patronize me," he snapped. "I was rendered useless, unable to come to your defense or rescue, or at the very least stay with our charge. I am not fit to wear the musketeer uniform," he said bitterly.

Athos merely regarded him with almost cool detachment. "I didn't see you when I was captured. Where were you?"

Aramis looked away. "I was fighting one of the bandits and we both fell down a small knoll. I struck my head at the bottom and was dazed for a bit. I almost didn't recover in time to avoid my opponent finishing me off."

"But you did."

"Yes. I killed him instead. When I made it back up the incline, everyone was gone."

"So, wounded and dazed, you still managed to best your attacker. And the circumstances of the terrain prevented anyone from noticing your position. That hardly reflects poorly on you."

Aramis surged to his feet. "I couldn't come after you! I knew…I knew something had to have happened, that you wouldn't…" He swayed on his feet and plopped back onto the mattress, silently cursing his frailty. "I wasn't able to come to your aid. All I could do was lie in those woods, helpless… I- I can't be a musketeer with such weakness."

Athos grabbed the room's single chair and dragged it over, taking a seat directly in front of him and leaning forward earnestly. "If I can be a musketeer despite my weaknesses, then so can you."

Aramis shook his head. "You chose to exert control over your addiction. You're not ruled by it anymore. I can't control when these headaches strike."

"How is that different than getting shot or stabbed?" Athos countered. "Those can happen anytime too."

"It is different."

Athos huffed. "From what I understand, the headaches have gotten less frequent. Perhaps as more time passes, they will fade completely."

"That's not good enough!" Aramis hissed. "It will only take one time for me to fail again, for you or Porthos to be hurt or killed because of it."

Athos shot him a sardonic look. "Despite your acclaimed skill, you are not a one-man army. We watch each other's backs and make up for where one is lacking." He leaned forward again, expression softening. "Besides, Porthos needs you."

"Porthos has you," Aramis mumbled. His departure would be a blow to their friend, but Athos would see him through it. And the other musketeers were slowly warming to him; Porthos would be all right.

"Porthos needs us both," Athos replied. He sighed. "I need you both."

Aramis's heart gave a pang at the words, because he needed them too. "Treville cannot justify keeping me around."

"Treville knows not to let good things go."

Aramis chuffed at the semblance of his own words being thrown back at him.

Athos suddenly reached out and clasped the back of his neck, capturing his gaze. "Do not give in, Aramis," he beseeched. "You have survived too much to let this defeat you now. Trust me and Porthos to help when you need it, just as we trust you to care for us when we do."

Aramis's throat constricted at the rare openness in Athos's eyes. He wanted to resist, but the truth was it would hurt more to leave than to stay. This was his home, and these were his brothers.

He ducked his gaze and nodded.

Athos squeezed his nape and then released him, leaning back in his seat.

The door creaked open and Porthos entered, freezing as he took in the somber air. "Everythin' all right?" he asked warily.

"Yes," Aramis answered, his voice cracking slightly. "I thought I might take my meal in the yard today."

Porthos continued to glance between him and Athos. "Yeah?"

Aramis smiled. "Yes."

Athos stood and returned the chair to the table, then picked up the plate he'd brought and gestured for them to go ahead.

Aramis took a breath as he rose to his feet, cautious of the persistent tremor in his limbs. But he made it to the door and stepped outside, pausing to breathe deeply again of fresh air. Then with Porthos and Athos by his side, he took his first steady steps into the sun.