A/N: Thank you guests Uia and Laureleaf for reviewing the last episode! You can count on whump in this one. ;) And this episode is four chapters instead of three.

Chapter 1

The palace grounds were busy with activity as servants erected a shaded dais and placed cushioned chairs underneath for the King and Queen. Banners on tall picks were spaced along the gravel drive to give the entrance some fanfare for their anticipated guest. The Duke of Savoy was coming to Paris to sign a treaty with France. And since the King despised the Duke, he also ordered some of his dragon riders to be present as a flaunting show of his own might.

Thus, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos—and d'Artagnan—were just arriving to take up their positions. Porthos's broken arm was nearly healed and he no longer had to keep it in a sling, though he needed to do some strength building on the muscles to get them back in shape. It was his left arm though, so he could easily tuck his hand into the fold of his coat to support it while they stood at attention.

He kind of wished the injury wasn't that mended yet; he would have liked to have been excused from parade duty. But since they weren't required to do much other than stand around looking prim in their uniforms and Musketeer blue cloaks, Treville had ordered him to go.

"I do so love parades," he muttered as they made their way to the edge of the carriage path. "Heat. Flies. Boredom." That last one was probably the worst.

"Isn't the Duke supposed to arrive within the hour?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos snorted. "We can take bets on that."

D'Artagnan's mouth quirked. "I'll pass."

He glanced over at Aramis who was silently moving Rhaego into position to sit behind the line of musketeers. The marksman's gaze seemed far away as he absently straightened the straps of Rhaego's saddle. The russet dragon nudged Aramis's shoulder with his nose, but his rider didn't react and instead moved to stand a few paces in front of his dragon at the edge of the drive, removing his hat to hold against his chest and staring out at nothing.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos's mouth turned down. "Anythin' to do with Savoy doesn't bring up happy memories."

D'Artagnan looked like he wanted to ask more, but the King and Queen were heading their way from the palace and it was time to get in position.

As Porthos nodded for Vrita to sit next to Rhaego, he pitched his voice low to the russet dragon. "You wanna help Aramis today? Be on yer best behavior."

He then moved to stand next to Aramis, Athos on his left, and then d'Artagnan. The musketeers' three dragons sat behind them, necks arched high and proud.

The King and Queen took their seats under the shaded awning. The Cardinal stood on King Louis's right, Captain Treville on the Queen's left, also under the shade. Nice for them. The captain's dragon was in attendance as well, standing to the side of the dais.

All together they made for a very regal—and imposing—picture for the Duke to arrive to.

And just as Porthos had suspected, the Duke did not arrive on time. Nor half an hour late. Nor even an hour after that. The late morning sun turned to early afternoon and beat down on the back of Porthos's neck. He was sure if he reached up to touch his black curls, they'd feel like the surface of a hearth. Not that he would break strict formation. Whether the Duke was here or not, they were still on parade duty.

Porthos cast a surreptitious glance at Aramis, whose gaze was slanted slightly to the side and down. Usually Porthos could count on him for some inane banter to keep things interesting, but today there was no sign of his good-humored friend. He flicked a look over his shoulder at Rhaego to make sure the dragon wasn't fidgeting, but thankfully the scamp seemed to be behaving for once.

"It's just like the Duke to be late," Louis began to complain. "He's always paraded himself as my equal, when Savoy is little more than a pimple on France's chin."

Now there was an image. At least the royals were sitting under the shade.

"A strategically important pimple, Sire," the Cardinal replied. "The vital defense against Spanish influence on our border."

"I'm aware of that, Cardinal," Louis said petulantly, then muttered, "So is the Duke. Otherwise he wouldn't…keep us standing around all day."

Eventually the firing of the guns up at the gate announced the Duke's arrival and a few moments after that a carriage came rattling down the long gravel path. Behind it was the Duke, riding a large black dragon of Savron's size. It was a rather imperial display, which Porthos was sure was the Duke's intent.

The carriage came to a stop and the Duke dismounted from his dragon to go open the door for the Duchess. Another finely dressed man exited after her, and the King and Queen descended from the dais to greet them.

"Victor," Louis said. "I trust your journey was comfortable?"

"Dreadful," the Duke replied. "Your French roads are full of potholes."

The Duchess gave her husband a mildly chiding look before turning to smile at Louis. "But it was worth every bump and bruise to see you again." She took his hand in hers and kissed it.

"I have missed you, sister," he said. "More than I can say."

"Cardinal Richelieu," the Duke called. "I've seen healthier looking corpses."

Porthos had to suppress his own chuckle at that.

"You spend too much time at your desk," the Duke went on.

"Well, I assure you, I'm quite robust," Richelieu replied.

"I rejoice in your good health," Victor said with false sincerity. "You know Gontard, my first minister," he introduced the man who'd exited the carriage with the Duchess.

Porthos wished they'd get on with the pleasantries inside so the musketeers could finally be dismissed.

The Duke's dragon lingered behind the sovereigns, at first ignoring the Musketeer dragons as though they were nothing but useless fixtures. It figured the Duke would have a dragon as arrogant as him.

But then the beast turned its head their way, yellow eyes narrowing. Its nostrils flared with a sharp inhalation, and then its pupils dilated as it lunged at Aramis with a hiss.

Aramis jerked backward and tripped, falling to the ground in frozen shock as all three Musketeer dragons leaped to his defense, Rhaego planting himself directly over his rider and screeching up at the black dragon. Vrita and Savron had moved simultaneously as well, nearly knocking Porthos and Athos down as they shouldered their way forward. The royals screamed and scrambled away. Porthos's hand instinctively went to his fossilized dragon claw dagger, though he didn't draw it; he knew better than to jump in front of four dragons on the verge of violence.

"Maurgrim!" the Duke barked.

The black dragon growled low in its throat and slowly stood down, though its gleaming eyes kept glowering at Aramis, who was still on the ground under Rhaego's belly, looking stunned. Porthos quickly squeezed past Vrita to pull him out and back on his feet.

"You bring such a vicious beast with you?" Louis exclaimed in a high voice.

"My apologies," the Duke said. "Maurgrim has a thing for smelling weakness."

Porthos bristled at the snub even as he thought of his mostly healed arm. But no, the dragon had definitely had its sights set on Aramis, not Porthos.

And now the Duke was eyeing the marksman intently as well. Porthos shifted just enough to block his view.

Cardinal Richelieu cleared his throat. "I suggest we go inside and release the dragons before there is another confrontation."

"Yes, good idea, Cardinal," Louis said and nodded to Captain Treville in dismissal.

The Duke turned to his dragon. "Go with the carriage," he instructed in a low voice before following the royal party toward the palace.

Treville made his way over to the musketeers. "What was that all about?"

"No idea," Porthos replied. He looked at Aramis, whose gaze was distant and breathing coming a little too fast. "Aramis?"

Porthos reached out and squeezed the man's elbow, startling him out of whatever spell he was in.

"Sorry," Aramis said quickly. "I was caught off guard."

"We all were," Athos remarked.

"Get back to the garrison," Treville ordered. "Hopefully the King won't demand the presence of his dragon riders again and we can avoid the Duke's dragon."

Porthos was fine with that.

Aramis spun on his heel and strode away first, not even stopping to pick up his hat from the ground. Porthos bent down to retrieve it for him, gaze worriedly trained on his friend's back as the rest of them followed.

.o.0.o.

The royal party entered the palace and Cardinal Richelieu turned on his heel with a swish of his robes.

"I'm sure you would like to return to Savoy as soon as possible," the pompous man said. "We can discuss the treaty in here." He gestured to an adjoining receiving room.

"Actually," Victor interrupted. "We have had a long journey and I think it would be hospitable were we allowed to refresh ourselves. If that's not too much to ask."

Richelieu's eye twitched. "Of course. I was only trying to anticipate your desires."

Victor didn't bother to conceal his sneer.

Anne stepped forward with a genial smile. "Come. I'll show you to your rooms," she said to Christine.

The envoy from Savoy followed the two women, but once they were in a quieter hallway, Victor turned and pulled Gontard aside. "Find out everything you can about that musketeer Maurgrim went after."

The man quirked a brow in confusion. "Your Grace?"

"Maurgrim doesn't attack without cause. Something about that musketeer was familiar to him, and I want to know why."

Victor had only had direct dealings with musketeers once before—but there had been none left alive. Or so he'd thought. But his dragon had caught a scent and he couldn't ignore that.

Gontard bowed his head and slipped away to do as asked.

In the meantime, Victor was going to have to stall the signing of the treaty until he could get to the bottom of this.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan frowned as he watched Porthos and Athos watching Aramis with worried expressions as they reached the garrison. The marksman hadn't said a single word the entire way and almost seemed to be walking in a daze. D'Artagnan didn't think it was because of the Duke's dragon—surely the experienced musketeer wouldn't be daunted by that. And something had been off before the Duke even arrived.

Aramis suddenly pulled up short in the middle of the yard, but he wasn't looking at anything in particular or pursing his mouth in some kind of thought. Rather, his gaze was once again fixed on the ground and there was an unnerving tension in his bearing.

"Aramis," Porthos called.

He didn't respond.

Athos walked over and stepped in front of him. "Aramis."

The marksman flinched with a sharp gasp and blinked rapidly as though he hadn't even been aware they were there. "I'm fine," he immediately said, taking a step away from them. "Excuse me, Treville wanted me to do inventory of the armory."

With that, he quickened his pace across the yard and disappeared into the other building. Rhaego's expression pinched and the dragon whined at the blatant retreat. Athos and Porthos shared a concerned look before making their way to the yard table. Porthos sat down heavily while Athos made a detour to the kitchen and came back out with a bottle of wine and three cups, which he started pouring healthy servings into.

D'Artagnan sat down next to them. "What happened in Savoy?"

"Twenty musketeers were massacred," Porthos replied. He took his cup and knocked back a long drag. "Aramis was the only survivor."

D'Artagnan's jaw slackened in shock.

"They were camping near the French border," Athos picked up. "On a training exercise. They were attacked in the night by a Spanish raiding party that had dragons with them. There were only two musketeer dragon riders on the campaign and they were outnumbered."

D'Artagnan couldn't even fathom it—twenty musketeers killed? And one survivor, who happened to be Aramis. "How did he survive?"

Porthos's and Athos's expressions grew even more solemn, so much that d'Artagnan was suddenly wary of the rest of the story.

"He was wounded," Porthos said, voice thick. "His dragon grabbed him an' flew him to safety."

D'Artagnan glanced over at the russet dragon gazing forlornly at the closed doors of the armory. "So Rhaego saved him."

"Not Rhaego," Porthos corrected. "Aramis's first dragon."

He quirked a confused brow. "I thought Rhaego had always been Aramis's dragon." From what he'd learned about the Musketeers, pairings were permanent as long as the soldier served with the regiment.

Porthos shook his head. "No. Aramis paired wit' Rhaego three years ago. His first dragon was a green female, Grettir. When the musketeers were attacked in Savoy, she was wounded too. She flew Aramis as far away as she could an' then sheltered him against the elements even as she bled out from her own wounds. As it was, Aramis was half dead by the time we found them." Porthos's face grimaced in pain. "There's a bond between a rider and his dragon. To lose her, on top of all our other brothers in arms…it nearly destroyed him."

D'Artagnan leaned his forearms on the table, staggered by this information. He remembered Aramis offering comfort on a rainy night when he'd been struggling with the memories of his father's death. Aramis had told him it would get easier, had spoken with a surety that came from personal experience. And now d'Artagnan knew what that experience was.

Athos wordlessly pushed the third cup of untouched wine toward him before pouring himself a second serving to nurse.

Porthos drained his cup and set it aside, then stood. "He shouldn't be alone."

D'Artagnan watched him head toward the armory, waiting to see if Athos would follow and whether d'Artagnan should go too. But it looked like Porthos was handling this one alone, so d'Artagnan stayed where he was, mulling over everything he'd just learned as it reshaped what he'd thought he knew of his friend.

.o.0.o.

Aramis stood in front of the rack of muskets but hadn't actually picked one up. Images he'd long since put behind him had been assaulting him with renewed vigor—masked men pouring from the trees, blood splashed across the snow…the gleaming yellow eye and wide maw descending toward him.

It had been night when their group had been attacked, no way to know the color of the dragon that belonged to the leader. Aramis only remembered it moved like a shadow, black as the darkness it cut through, catching them off guard.

The Duke's dragon had done the same, that was the only reason the memories had been triggered with such intensity.

Except…that scar across the Duke's dragon's side, Aramis remembered seeing that before. Or thought he did. He'd sustained a head wound in the battle and had been dazed. Maybe he was remembering wrong, or maybe it was just a coincidence. They'd been attacked by a Spanish raiding party, after all, not the Duke of Savoy.

Although…how did they know it was the Spanish? That was just what Aramis had been told, afterward, and he'd frankly been too wounded and devastated by the massive losses that he'd never even thought to question how they determined that when the only surviving witness couldn't tell them anything.

He gave himself a sharp shake, trying to wrench himself out of those tumultuous thoughts. It was five years ago. He'd moved on.

Except right now he could hear their screams as if they were fresh, see men scorched by dragon fire or slain by the sword. Taken by surprise, the musketeers had fought with everything they had—and it hadn't been enough. Aramis could still see the blade punching through Marsac's chest, could hear his friend's dragon's dying screams as it was overtaken by two larger beasts.

Aramis took a stab wound to the side but managed to keep his feet and score a mark down the leader's back. Then someone had hit him in the side of his temple and he'd crashed to the ground, the snow instantly seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. As the leader was helped away by his men, he'd gestured at one of the dragons to go finish Aramis off. He remembered the beast stalking toward him, the scar on its side rippling with the inner glow of fire, and then…

He squeezed his eyes shut, his throat constricting to the point he could barely breathe. Grettir had tackled the black dragon, both of them rolling in a tangle of gnashing teeth and ripping claws. Maybe she'd been grievously wounded then, or before that, there was no way to know. He hadn't even seen whether she'd killed the other dragon or not, as he had already started to fade from his injuries. The last thing he was aware of was being lifted up, and then nothing.

The door creaked open, shattering the sensations into shards of glass. They still possessed the power to wound, but in smaller cuts than lances through the heart. Aramis started violently and whipped his head around as Porthos entered. His friend didn't say anything, just went over to the opposite side of the room and pretended to inspect a rack of swords.

Aramis breathed out, some of that heart-clenching turmoil settling some at his best friend's presence alone. Savoy had nearly broken him, but Porthos and Athos had been steadfast at his side, helping him recover physically and mentally. They were always there, except at Savoy, and Aramis thanked God they hadn't been.

"I'll be fine," he spoke up. "I just didn't expect the memories to hit me this hard."

Porthos turned around to face him. "There's no shame in it."

Aramis couldn't help but duck his gaze though.

There was a scratching sound outside the door and a snuffle that Aramis could instantly place, and his expression softened.

Porthos grinned. "He's worried about you."

"He was quite quick on his feet today," Aramis remarked.

"I thought he was gonna sit on you to keep the Duke's dragon from gettin' a shot in."

Aramis shook his head and headed for the door. Rhaego jerked back as he stepped outside, and Aramis reached out to give his dragon a fond pat on the neck.

He'd lost so much that fateful night five years ago, but in the years since had found a way to rebuild.

He just needed to get through the Duke's visit without any more stark reminders.