So this is the final chapter.

Thanks to all who read, follow and favorite. Also a big thank you for all reviews. It is so nice to know how much you like this story. We really appreciate your feedback.

We are currently working on a story about Aramis adventures as a soldier before he came to the Musketeers – as you can guess Aramis is kind of our favorite :-)

But as this story will take some time we might post a couple of one-shots in the meantime. Hope to read you again...

Treville

Treville eyes up the three men in front of him. He is utterly speechless. Again his eyes roam from left to right and back, but the result is the same: one swollen face with a black eye, one badly concealed bandage on the left arm and one face telling him that its owner is feeling very guilty. Although he just had asked Athos and Porthos to take care of Aramis. What in all probability could have gone wrong after all?

"Captain, we found Aramis," Athos repeats unnecessarily and Treville realizes that he needs to decide which of the sentences on his mind he will speak out loud.

'Thank you for the information, but a preliminary report would have been nice.'

or

'And where in hell did you search for the last twenty hours? Toulouse?'

or

'Ever heard of giving notice of departure? Just because I allowed you to follow a comrade you still have to make a report before end of work!'

or

'And where is the report about the black eye and the wound on the arm? Yes, the bandage is easily visible under the sleeve. I'm not blind!'

or

'Wherever have you been for the last twenty hours? Three man have been wounded in an alley close to the Bouloir's residence. Don't tell me you weren't involved in this or I'll let you muck out the stables for six weeks!'

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In the end he says none of these sentences. He knows he should yell at them. Even with his permission to leave Athos and Porthos can't just vanish for almost a day and that Aramis has left the garrison without permission, after what has happened to boot, is rather intolerable.

What prevents him from shouting is Aramis of all things or rather the look in his eyes. He looks guilty, yes, but there is something else, something close to relaxed, far from the hounded expression that he's been carrying since Savoy.

Savoy. When he was told about the massacre they at first said that there were no survivors. Only slowly he was able to piece together the whole story and with it the fault he carries for the deaths, for every single one of them.

And then there is Aramis. Who survived and whose sight reminds him every day of what he has done. He did try to help him, promised him time, time to recover, time to grow back into his duties as a Musketeer again. But that time slowly is running short. Aramis knows this too. But the way back just seemed to be loo long.

He has no idea what Athos and Porthos have done, but it obviously is something good and there is no way he will endanger this ray of hope.

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He knows he can't ignore this incident. He can't just compliment the three, express his relief, tell them of his guilt and ask them for forgiveness. He his their captain and those three men have disobeyed orders or at least interpreted them vastly.

But once … just once.

"Gentlemen, I don't need to tell you that thus long an absence from your duties without any preliminary report won't be accepted in the future without previous agreement. You're assigned to palace guard detail. Aramis will brief you. Was that all?"

For a moment they stand in puzzled silence until Aramis clears his throat.

"Ahem... Captain...," he looks at him dubiously, "regarding Baptiste. I take it that that … well... can't stay unacknowledged?"

Treville sighs.

"Not at all, Aramis. But a decision has to wait since Baptiste talked to me yesterday and has come to the conclusion that the Regiment of the Musketeers doesn't meet his expectations."

He withholds the information that he had given him the choice to either go and keep silent about the incident or to be left to the mercy of the rest of the garrison, who already had been on the verge of lunging at him to defend Aramis' honor. He knows that Aramis can't bear the looks of the others. But he also knows that it is the same for them. Where Aramis believes to see accusations the others simply want to apologize for not being there.

Aramis opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

"He probably will switch over to the Red Guards," Treville continues. "In this context I want to remind you, by way of precaution only, of the absolute prohibition of dueling. I don't want to find any complaints on my table. Am I understood?"

"Understood," Aramis repeats if not really convincing, and with a move of his hand Treville shoos all three of them out of his office.

He looks after them and when the door clunks shut he can't get rid of the feeling that those three surely will cause him a lot of trouble still.

- END Book 1 -

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Preview of Book 2...

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Montauban, September 1621

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It rains. No, Aramis corrects himself, it's not simply rain, it's a downpour and a heavy one to boot. He asks himself if God wants to strike mankind with another deluge. Well, He probably would have enough reasons to.

He tries a short thanksgiving prayer, for Marsac and him getting through the battle at Saint-Jean-d'Angély without so much as a scratch and for their journey to Montauban being without incident so far – save for the rain – but that is all he can think of to be thankful for.

His hat has surrendered to the rain a long time ago. The water accumulates in the brim until it his too heavy and repeatedly sloshes in small gushes along his neck down his cloak. The cloak is soaked already, just like his jacket, doublet and shirt, as well as his stockings, breeches and yes, the way it feels, also his smallclothes. Not to mention the water inside his boots, they obviously are water-proof enough not to let the rain drain off; just to mention something positive also.

He really hopes his saddlebags with the change of clothes will withstand the constant rain. His most burning desire is a piece of dry cloth on his skin once they have reached their destination. Most of all dry smallclothes, because while riding the wet fabric chafes on his legs and on other places and gradually he doesn't know how to stay in the saddle anymore.

The streets are rain-drenched, too, and the myriad of hooves of their horses isn't helping their condition. Every step causes a squelching sound, multiplied by their numbers, and Aramis notices they are slowing down. Will they even arrive today?

"The horses are getting tired," Marsac murmurs next to him. Or maybe he is shouting and due to the rain it reaches Aramis as a murmur.

He nods and looks up in an attempt to gain any indication of their platoon coming to a halt or even reaching their destination. It is useless. Although it is still early afternoon the sky is darkening and the heavy rain covers everything with a gray haze. The only thing Aramis catches sight of is more water in his eyes.

"You look wet," Marsac states and Aramis wants to strangle him.

"Do you know where we are?" he asks instead and Marsac shakes his head.

"No, but I hope that we didn't miss it accidentally."

Aramis doubts that. He can't imagine to miss an army of 25,000 men, even when they are spread around the besieged city.

"Hopefully they have prepared some kind of camp for the night for us. If we need to put up the tents in this weather they'll be wet before we can even get in. Then we'll never get dry again!"

Aramis can't envision to ever be dry again. He thinks of the last summer at his home, the one with Isabelle and how the sun had burned on his neck when he had walked with her through the grape-vines. It had been warm and dry then. But the thought of home doesn't really help him. It let's him remember how long this summer dates back already.

He could pretend that it is because of his life as a soldier. Times are uneasy since the Huguenots are on the rise again, challenging the social and political order of France. King Louis XIII wants to make sure his regency is defended at all events against this disruption, thus Aramis' missions by order of the crown are continuous and successive. So it would be easy to say that this is the reason he hasn't been home for years. But it would only be half the truth.

"I think we are there...," Marsac rips him from his musings and stops his horse with a click of his tongue. Aramis' mare stops on her own, as if knowing that her rider wasn't paying attention.

"I know this rain is crappy but are you sure it deserves this long a face?"

Just now he notices Marsac scrutinizing him. He never has been good at hiding his mood from his friend, but he also never made the effort. And if he isn't completely wrong that is mutual.

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Paris, October 1618

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It had been the first day in Paris for both of them when they met in the entrance hall of Charles de Valois, the man who maintains one of the best mounted regiments of France; rumor has it that he is trying to secure a duchy from the king.

Aramis didn't really know why his family knew the Valois family, that information was lost during the very loud and very angry lecture of his father when he had learned that his son intended to become a soldier rather than a priest. He supposed it was one of those old war stories. His family wasn't part of the high nobility. Title and land had been given to his grandfather as acknowledgment for his achievements in the army. It was one of those stories that had been told to Aramis time and time again. Hence he was surprised that his father was so flabbergasted when he told him of his decision to become a soldier. Obviously there was a difference between past accomplishments and future battles. Although in his mind in times of religious warfare a soldiers life promised just as much possibility to uphold the catholic beliefs than that of a priest. At least this was his point in the discussion with his father, who unfortunately wouldn't hear of it. The rant ended with his father's saying that he would never allow his son "to be trampled in just any infantry regiment."

And thus he was now standing in the too warm entry hall with the really ugly tapestries on the walls and too many trinkets on the tables, letter of recommendation in hand and beads of sweat on his brow, when suddenly an equally sweating young blond man entered, biting his lip nervously while looking around haltingly. His boots were dusty and while trying to wipe away the perspiration his fingers had left smudges in his face.

"Your first time in Paris?" Aramis supposed that this sentence didn't testify his ingenuity, but his counterpart didn't seem do mind. He nodded.

"Got lost three times. And some idiot of a wagoner almost shoved me in the Seine."

"I dodged one and almost made the acquaintance of the contents of a chamber pot."

The blond man examined him, as if he wanted to make sure that Aramis really was spared from this experience.

"Oh, by the way, I am Marsac," he eventually introduced himself.

"Aramis."