After a brief break, I'm happy to be back with this short fic which is a gift for a long-time reader whose an Aramis fan. I think this will be 6-7 chapters in total and I'll be posting daily, except for a an extra day's wait in between chapters 1 and 2 as I'm currently out of town and without access to a reliable internet connection. Hope you enjoy!

The rain fell steadily, the drops falling gently but persistently, slowly soaking everything in their path. Aramis turned his face up to the moisture, opening his mouth and allowing the water to pool until he had enough for a shallow swallow. The small amount felt wonderful against his throat which was raw from his earlier screams of pain. There had been no one around to hear him so he hadn't made any effort to contain his sounds of agony, allowing himself the rare privilege of voicing his pain rather than stoically holding it in. A part of his mind believed that it had helped, even though he was certain that no matter how proficiently he'd sworn and how loudly he'd screamed, the torment of setting his leg was still an excruciating experience that he hoped never to repeat.

Normally, he would have been able to rely on the care of his brothers, the men never deployed on a mission alone, but this had been a personal journey to visit the Abbey of Clairvaux in order to renew his faith. It was something he did every few years, visiting different locations each time, but each time the purpose was the same. He loved being a Musketeer and knew without a doubt that he was meant to be a soldier, but occasionally the violence and death overwhelmed him and his ravaged soul could no longer be soothed by the caress of a woman. When that happened, he'd request leave and, smiling, shake his head at his friends who always offered to accompany him, completing his solitary pilgrimage and returning invigorated and ready to once more deal with the uglier side of soldiering.

He estimated that he was no more than a day's hard ride from Paris, and he'd been looking forward to seeing his friends again, knowing that they missed him as much as he had them. His first night back, they usually splurged on a meal at one of the better taverns in the city, ending the night at Athos' apartments where they drank and shared stories until the early hours of the morning; it was as much a part of the tradition as anything else.

Aramis shivered as more moisture pooled at his collar, slipping beneath the leather of his doublet to soak into his shirt. It was a relatively warm day, the rain itself initially welcome as it provided relief to the sun's heat, but the marksman knew his body was bordering on shock from the intensity of the pain from his broken leg. His right hand reached for it unconsciously, gripping just above his knee where his makeshift splint ended. The break was lower down and had fortunately not broken through the skin; if it had, it would have been an automatic death sentence given his current circumstances, his body likely succumbing to blood loss or infection before he could be found.

He sighed as he wiped at his face, trying unsuccessfully to rid it of wetness and keep the water out of his eyes. He'd fallen from his horse yesterday, the poor beast stumbling badly and Aramis ending up beneath the animal as it landed and rolled over his right leg. Sadly, his mount hadn't fared any better than he had, suffering the same injury, and Aramis had used the pistol in his belt to end its misery. When he'd managed to recover sufficiently from the pain, he'd pulled himself along the ground, eventually locating branches that could be used to immobilize his leg, and positioning himself in a small copse of trees that offered a modicum of protection.

The tasks had taken him hours to complete, the agony in his leg spiking with each minor movement and causing him to pass out more than once. The only consolation was that he'd managed to pull one of his saddlebags from the horse and it happened to contain what was left of his provisions. He didn't have much of an appetite, and without a stable water source, he'd consumed only the smallest amount of food and only once the throb in his leg had eased sufficiently for his stomach to settle.

As the muscles of his broken leg spasmed, Aramis gasped and he held his thigh again, waiting for the extreme pain to pass and wishing once more that he'd had access to his medical supplies, clearly envisioning the herbs that were inside and which would have offered him a measure of relief. The damaged muscles around the broken bone finally relaxed and Aramis breathed deeply as he tried to recover from the increasingly frequent contractions. It was in these moments that he wished that he knew less about injuries, recognizing the fact that he was growing weaker with every passing minute, the endless agony he was experiencing sapping his strength just as surely as any bullet wound would. "Stop it," he muttered to himself through gritted teeth, refusing to allow himself to give way to pity, understanding that a good portion of his ability to survive relied upon his mental state; as soon as he gave up, his body would follow and he could not in good conscience accept that his friends would discover him dead.

He tipped his face up again, closing his eyes and opening his mouth as he leaned his head against the tree at his back. He'd had nothing to drink for many hours and would have nothing available to him once the rains stopped, so he forced himself to take advantage of the moisture while it lasted. His stomach roiled uncomfortably at his next swallow and he forced himself to breathe evenly as he willed the nausea away, unwilling to be sick and leave his body even more dehydrated than before. He curled his left arm around his belly trying to soothe it until the need to be sick eventually passed. Shuddering, he opened his eyes to the gray skies above and reminded himself once more that his friends would be expecting him back that night and, when he did not arrive, they would go in search of him; he only needed to survive another day or two.

d'Artagnan surveyed the practice yard from atop their usual table, feet perched casually on the bench as he cut himself another piece of apple and popped the juicy morsel into his mouth. It was nearing the end of the day and he was just waiting for Porthos and Athos to join him so they might decide which tavern they'd be visiting that night. The larger man was just finishing giving some last corrections to a man with whom he'd been sparring while the older man was upstairs conferring with Treville, ostensibly about an upcoming mission they'd be embarking upon once Aramis rejoined them. The marksman had been away for over a week and all three of them were looking forward to their friend's return.

This had been the first time d'Artagnan had been in the men's midst when Aramis had decided to embark on one of his journeys of renewal, and he'd been confused at first why the man insisted on travelling alone. Porthos had taken him around the shoulders and led him away, explaining it to him that night as the two of them shared dinner with Athos, the marksman having already taken his leave to pack his things in order to get an early start in the morning. It seemed that Aramis felt he was most capable of communing with God if he left all the trappings of his regular life behind him, and that included his fellow Musketeers. If the men thought it at all strange, they didn't comment, obviously having gotten used to Aramis' eccentricity in the matter. Neither Porthos nor Athos seemed worried about their friend making the solitary trip and d'Artagnan took his lead from them, pushing aside any misgivings he might have had.

Their week had passed in relative boredom, the three remaining Musketeers assigned mostly to guard duty at the palace, as well as a short journey to a nearby town to escort a minor noble to Court. It seemed that the Captain had intentionally given them easier assignments that kept them close to home, saving the more complex missions for when they were reunited with their fourth. The thought of Treville's understanding in the matter made d'Artagnan grin, wondering if anyone else at the garrison realized that the inseparables were the commanding officer's favorites. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had arrived, reminding himself that the Captain had always been nothing but fair in doling out assignments to the men. Still, it did seem to be an odd coincidence that the three of them had not been given anything of consequence since Aramis' departure.

The Gascon's musings were cut short by Porthos' arrival, the man dropping onto the table next to him and snatching the half-eaten apple from his hand, taking a large bite. "Hey," d'Artagnan protested as he reached for the pilfered fruit, but the large man took another sizeable bite before handing it back to the young man, the Gascon looking at the core that he now held in his hand in disgust. "You could have gotten your own, you now," d'Artagnan groused as he tossed the remnants of the apple away, pointing to the basket on the table that contained more of the fruit.

Porthos wiped a sleeve across his mouth as he guffawed. "Not nearly as satisfying," he replied with a gleam in his eye, "or as much fun."

The Gascon tried to glare at his friend but it was impossible to be mad at the man, especially while he wore such an expression of complete joy. Changing topics, he asked, "Any idea what time Aramis will be back?"

Porthos' head turned toward the garrison gates, glancing next to the sun that hung overhead, gauging the time according to its location, "Two, maybe three hours tops."

They both looked toward the stairs leading from the balcony above, the sound of Athos' boots alerting them to the fact that their friend was finished with Treville. The older Musketeer joined them at the table, remaining standing as he removed his hat to scrub a hand idly through his matted curls, the heat of the day making them damp with sweat. "We have a mission?" Porthos asked perceptively.

Replacing his hat on his head, Athos nodded, "We ride out mid-morning." Porthos gave a dip of his head in approval. The Captain was familiar with their habits and knew that their evening would be spent reminiscing with Aramis, none of them finding their beds much before dawn, and the man was permitting them a later start the following day in deference to their plans.

"Details?" the larger man pressed, curious to know what they would be doing.

"Let's wait until Aramis arrives; that way I won't need to repeat myself," Athos suggested, his head turning automatically to check the garrison gates before turning back again to face his friends when no one appeared.

"What's the plan for tonight, then?" d'Artagnan asked, having been told of the traditional meal they would share, but little else.

Their conversation turned to the suitability of various taverns in the city, none of them the least bit aware yet that Aramis was in trouble and would not be joining them that night.