Mercy for the merciless

So this is slightly AU. The musketeers are older now, all grown up and at the end of their best years. They all have stayed in the regiment, unlike in the Series finale. Please remember that this is no historical biography and I'm just making some things up, because it's late and I don't want to research. Don't take any information from this for your doctoral thesis.

This was actually supposed to be a short one-shot... didn't work out! So have fun with this first chapter, a second will follow.

"Jesus, I will arise. Jesus do thou accompany me. Jesus, do thou lock my heart into thine, And let my body and my soul be commended unto thee. The Lord is crucified. May God guard and protect my senses so that misfortunes may not overcome me. In the name of God the Father, Son, and the Holy-"

"How is god supposed to block a bullet from hitting you or a sword from piercing you?" Josef laughed and some of the other soldiers joined in. Aramis didn't look back over his shoulder as he kissed the crucifix between his fingers and mumbled an "Amen." Just then he stood up warily, his bones and muscles arching from the last battles.

His body was tired and wasn't recovering as fast a few years ago. The war with Italy had started about an year ago and since then the musketeer fought at the front again. Every man that fell was replaced within hours, the age of the new soldiers became younger, their chances to survive shrunk. Aramis had noticed long ago that religion became less important for the people in France, the younger generation didn't see the sense in it. He was weary of arguing, weary of explaining this to those inexperienced men. They would die anyway so why make the effort? Most of them never reached the age of 25, none of them had fought in battle before since the last war was over ten years ago. None of them knew what it meant to lose every friend and brother they got and return home to a different country. None of them had served for more than a few years, none of them stood a chance. Aramis felt pity for them and their families, still he was annoyed by the disrespectful boys.

"He doesn't, lad." Aramis walks by the group of young men, straightened his shoulders on his way and tried to limb as little as possible. They were right, God had never saved him from a blade or bullet and his leg was the best example for it. It had been about four months ago as one of the Italians hit his thigh, the blade cut so deep that muscles and nerves were ripped apart. It had healed enough that he could fight and walk again, but the slight limping would never go away again.

On the other hand, the blade had also cut deep enough to course a heavy flow of blood, he had been on the edge. But there was God, his faith and strength, and it had saved him from leaving his brothers behind.

He walked into the tent of the Captain, the guards not even caring to stop him as he pushed through them. Porthos and d'Artagnan already sat around the small table, studying the map and arguing about the best way to attack.

Athos listened to their arguments, making his own additions in his thoughts. He greeted the marksman with one of his invisible smiles and pushed a chair for him back. "You came in the right moment. We're thinking were to put our marksmen."

Aramis bent forward and took a glance at the card, before pointing his finger onto two hills to the left and right of the battlefield. "Told you!" Porthos grinned at d'Artagnan, who crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "You're being childish." The younger man exclaimed and caused Porthos to laugh loudly.

Aramis couldn't help but smile, glad to have his brothers still around him, full of life and enthusiasm. The war had left it's scars on each of them, but they weren't to brought down by it. D'Artagnan had missed the birth of his third child, a son, about half a year ago. After being injured in a battle short after – it hadn't been anything grave, only a slight concussion – Athos had offered him to send him home to his family. But d'Artagnan had denied, unable to leave his brothers.

Porthos weren't in Paris as the house of him, Elodie and Marie-Cessette had burned down. Luckily none was injured or worse, but they were left with nothing but the small amount of money he sent them. Sylvie had been there, took them in even though the apartment of her and Athos hadn't been very large.

A few weeks ago, Athos had been injured in battle – a bullet hit his sword arm and forced him to stay behind for the following time. He still had a scarf bent around the arm and shoulder to take some weight of it and wasn't allowed to fight for some more weeks.

But in comparison to everything else that could have happened to them in the past year, the outcome looked pretty good in Aramis' eyes. They were soldiers and came to fight and lay their lifes down for the king and alone being alive was more than they could have wished for. They were almost in their fortys – d'Artagnan not that close to it than the others – and still fighting, still fulfilling their duty. They were only few soldiers that reached such an age and still served, most of them died in battle much earlier or were so heavily injured that they had to retire.

"When will we attack?" Aramis then asked and poured some wine in his cup.

"Two hours. Everything's prepared and the sun will be blinding them." Athos explained as he leaned back in his chair.

Two hours later…

"Let not any of our enemies, thieves, bandits, or evil-doers approach us, if they do not intend to bring to us what was intended from your Holy Altar. Turn around their evil intent to glorify your name."

Aramis kissed his crucifix, loaded the last of his four muskets he had brought with him and laid down on his stomach.

"Are you scared?" The young soldier beside him asked with a raised brow. Aramis chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not scared of battle or of death. It's my duty isn't it. Still, I dare to pray and hope that it may save my brothers. It's never me I'm scared about."

The young man nodded as he seemed to understand and laid down beside him. "I have lost a good friend a month ago." He admitted and earned a sad smile from Aramis. "I'm sorry to hear that." The lad sighed and focused back on the task at hand.

A deathly silence hung over the battlefields and the hills that surrounded it. With his eagle-like eyes Aramis could easily make his brothers out as they stood at the front of the French soldiers. Athos sat high on his horse, for all to see that their leader was with them even though he couldn't fight. Athos had promised them to stay back once the battle started. Porthos and d'Artagnan flanked him, swords drawn and battle-hungry smiles on their faces.

And then, suddenly, a shout erupted, metal clashed and men joined the shout. It was like two waves that crashed against each other, metal met metal and bullets met flesh. Aramis took down four men, reloaded and did the same again. The marksmen were fast with their task, efficient as well. He had chose them by himself, each one had a steady hand and good eye like he. Nearly every shot found it's aim and soon the Italians were reduced and the bullets of the French marksmen empty.

Aramis got up to his feed, holding his sword high and waved towards the battlefield for all to see. Another, smaller wave crashed into the ocean of bodies and death.

While running, Aramis took a moment to make out his brothers. As promised, Athos had stayed behind with a few other Generals and injured soldiers. He observed the battle with a frown and searched for his brothers as well. Aramis made out a glimpse of a sword before it pushed itself into a mans stomach. He followed the bloody blade up towards the familiar hilt and further upwards towards d'Artagnans face. He was still alive and Aramis heart felt a bit lighter at this thought. There was no time to search for Porthos as the first enemies approached him.

They were terrible outnumbered, had been the whole war.

Only the well thought-out strategies from their Captains had brought them that far and saved at least a few lifes. Still, each of the battles could be the last for them and for France. The Italians had already come into the country far beyond the border – too close to French villages.

Aramis felt the familiar burning in his thigh, but there was no way he would let that affect him as he slashed his blade further into the skins of his opponents. His strikes were well-placed, fast, swift, almost graceful as he made his way through the field. Blood splashed into his face, dirtied his hands and clothes but he remembered that he did this to save the lifes of others. As long this wasn't French blood it was alright for now, he could later let the guilt for his sins wash over him. No was not the time. He felt his muscles burn and heart race as he had reached d'Artagnan. They now stood back to back, their swords pointed at eight soldiers that had circled them.

A dagger still stuck in d'Artagnan's arm, forcing him to fight only with his sword. His own dagger was lost in the mud beneath their feet. He shared a brief look with his brother, thankful that he had found him, thankful that he knew his back was save. Aramis let out a dangerous roar as the first soldiers approached, slicing them down merciless. He knew that d'Artagnan wouldn't be able to hold his own much long as they were so highly outnumbered. The lad may have been an excellent swordsmen but with one sword against four even he had only a little chance. Aramis didn't lose time with his usual little dances, the game he liked to play with opponent. He moved even faster, adrenalin giving him the strength he needed.

The time he had cut down his fourth opponent, d'Artagnan had managed to take down one of his. Aramis no took the place beside his brother, a bloody grin pointed at the Italians as they approached carefully – slowly, almost scared.

Aramis jumped forward and forced the first man's attention on him. From the corner of his eye he noticed how the other two strode towards d'Artagnan, unfortunately his own opponent was also well trained and not easy to kill.

Knowing about the trouble his brother was in, Aramis turned around for only a second to throw his dagger in one of the other two mens backs. The body slumped to the ground immediately and saved d'Artagnan from a deathly stroke to his head.

Unfortunately this one second was enough for Aramis own opponent to get a lucky hit as he pushed his blade through the marksman's side. Aramis groaned, his knees buckled but he forced himself to stay upright. His hand found the bloody part of his body fast and was immediately slicked with red liquid. He pushed his pain and worry aside, attacking the Italian again.

Porthos had seen how d'Artagnan fought only one handed with a well-skilled soldier and then his gaze drifted towards Aramis, who found a blade in his side only seconds later. The tall man let out a scream of rage as he ran through the battlefield, stumbling over corpses. He didn't give the approaching enemies any attention, cut them down in seconds before he finally reached his wounded brothers.

The battle had already died down, as on either side were only a few soldiers left. But the group that had surrounded them wouldn't back up, closing up at the three musketeers more and more.

Porthos hadn't missed how Aramis swayed and was barely staying upright, neither had he missed how d'Artagnan had ripped the blade out of his shoulder and had thrown it at Aramis' latest opponent. Blood now flowed fastly out of the shoulder wound, urging Porthos to end this quick.

Fury and worry filled him, making the fight unfair for his enemies. A few more italians fell, some decided to retreat.

The moment the danger was gone, Porthos was left with two of his brothers crashing to the ground.

"ARAMIS! D'ARTAGNAN!" He shouted and looked between the two, unsure to whom to go first. As Aramis was closest to him, he fell to his knees beside his dearest friend. "'Mis." The marksmans eyes fluttered open to look through blood-strained hair at Porthos. "Get him… back." Aramis whispered between ragged breaths. Porthos didn't miss the red liquid on his brothers teeth. "I won't leave you!"

Porthos looked around, desperately searching for help. It came in the form of Athos, who approached them fast on his horse and jumped from it before it even came to a halt. "What happened?"

"D'Artagnan shoulder wound, Aramis side. As much as I have seen." Porthos explained fast and pressed his hand hard onto the fast bleeding wound on his brothers body. Aramis groaned in pain, his eyes rolled back and he barely managed to stay conscious. "Save him… I can… wait." He then hissed, red stained saliva trickled down his chin.

"I take d'Artagnan and you ride back with Aramis." Athos then ordered after he had checked the condition of their youngest. D'Artagnan had lost a lot blood and was still unconscious, but with his cloak wrapped tightly around the wound, Athos had managed to stop the worst.

Porthos didn't dare to think or object the order of his friend and captain. He just did as he was told and heaved Aramis onto the horses back and jumped on it too.

"I will send you a horse!" He shouted and spurred the beast towards their camp. On horseback it was only a way of two minutes, so he was able to send Athos and d'Artagnan help fast. Porthos stopped in front of the infirmary tent and took Aramis from the animal. His brother hang limply in his arms, face pale beside the red that covered it. "D'Artagnan?" The wounded man asked barely audible as he was carried inside the tent.

"He's fine." Porthos lied. Aramis didn't need to be upset now, not now. He laid him on the next cot gently as a medic already hurried over. The man didn't even need to ask what had happened, as he found the stap wound easily.

"He will be okay, won't he?" This moment also Athos and d'Artagnan entered the tent and another medic looked after them. The lad now lay in the cot beside Aramis, the marksman able to see the unconscious face of his brother. "Care for… him first." He breathed and the gurgled sound he made in the process shattered Porthos heart.

"He is cared for, mon ami. You two are now in good hands, don't worry." Porthos laid his hand gently on his brothers face, wiping away some of the enemies blood. "God is with us now, he will make sure everyone will be fine." He murmured and hoped that faith would now give his brother strength.

Meanwhile the two medics worked fast and skilled, cleaning the wounds, sewing them.

"And? How are they?" Athos then stood up and asked as everything was done. The man who had treated to d'Artagnan smiled at him comfortingly. "He had lost a lot of blood, but I think with some rest and water he will be back to his feet in a couple of days. I only hope that he won't suffer an infection." Relief washed over them for a short moment, before they looked at the other medic.

"I've managed to stop the bleeding and blood loss won't be deathly for him… but I can't say for sure if anything vital was hit on his inside. If so, there is nothing I can do for him. We will see in the next minutes and hours."

Athos and Porthos san back down into their chairs, eyeing their brothers with worry.
"They will make it, won't they Athos?" Porthos suddenly asked, tears on the edge of falling down. The Captain gulped and grabbed d'Artagnans hand to squeeze it slightly. But he didn't answer. He didn't dare.

A few minutes into their silence Aramis awoke with a gurgled gasp, just to sit upright and cough and choke at the same time. Blood trickled down his chin and onto the think blanket that covered his unclothed torso. Porthos and Athos exchanged a short look, both knowing that blood could indicate to a wound on the inside – Aramis himself had tought them that many years ago,

Porthos manged to get some water into Aramis before he fell unconscious again.

"You know, he told me that he thought about retreating after all of this. Ending the life as a soldier to finally settle down… in safety. He said that he couldn't fight as good as before with his leg and that it would be the perfect moment, now that… that the King was married." A ghost of a smile rushed over his face. "He was so excited as he got the news. The King will soon have kids… his grandchildren."