Aramis didn't look back. He couldn't. He could still feel the force of Porthos's embrace, see the sadness in d'Artagnan's eyes, hear the warmth of Athos's voice as he bid him farewell. Their one last moment, hands stacked together as they uttered the oath that sealed their brotherhood, still echoed in his mind. And it would have to suffice for now.

Because if he looked back, if he paused for even a second, he'd change his mind.

So Aramis walked away, his stride determined. One hand moved to the old wooden rosary that now hung around his neck – a more suitable replacement for the queen's gift that had almost brought destruction upon everyone he cared about. As his fingers traced the wooden beads, he tried to keep his mind away from the parcel he carried tucked away inside his doublet, but the slim package weighed heavily on his mind. The parcel's seal was already broken. He'd read the contents over and over until there was no doubt what it contained – new orders. His orders.

Aramis knew he couldn't turn back now – because this about more than just vows and duty. It was about penance.

He'd vowed to forsake all worldly things, to do whatever it took to atone before God. But he hadn't expected it to be quite this hard. He had expected to retire to a monastery, to live out his life in quiet devotion. But instead he'd found himself summoned to the palace early this morning for a private audience with the king. And that was when he learned the true cost of his vows to both God and country.

He'd given up everything: his possessions, his position in society, his commission, every connection to his son and to the queen, the companionship of his brothers, even their trust in him… all of it was gone. But it wasn't enough. On top of all of that, his humble plans for the future had also been ripped away. He'd silently hoped that a career in the church would offer him a chance to begin anew, to find peace and a new life. But now he knew that God required a greater sacrifice and he had finally been forced to surrender even this humble hope, and with it his desire for the quiet penitence of a monastery and the peace he'd hoped to find there.

Because when he'd arrived at the palace that morning, he was faced with Minister Tréville and the stony face of the King of France as he hadn't appeared in a long time. This was a man who knew what he wanted and knew he would be obeyed. It was the king reclaiming his authority after he'd foolishly sat back for so long, allowing Rochefort to come in and take it all away. Today there was no sign of the weak, frightened child. The king stood in his place.

"I tire of words, monsieur," the king had said. "And if you are as loyal as you say, you will obey my commands without question or hesitation."

Aramis hadn't dared to look at Tréville, though he felt more uncertain than he had at his own trial. Still, some response seemed to be required.

"I am, as always, your majesty's servant, and as such, am solely devoted to France and to the will of God."

"And as I rule France at God's decree," Louis said, with only a hint of irony, "your devotion will compel you to take these orders and uphold them with your life." Refusal was impossible. Aramis took the sealed parcel in silent submission. "I am sorry for Rochefort's accusations against you, Aramis." The king's voice softened only minutely. "But we will not stand for any hint of disloyalty. If you fulfill these orders, you will have regained our faith in your devotion."

He was dismissed with a curt wave, but the implication was clear. The orders were even clearer, with no room for misunderstanding.

So now, leaving his brothers behind him, he did as commanded and left Paris without delay. By twilight, he had reached the designated meeting place, a safe house several hours' ride from Paris. There Tréville greeted him with a grim smile.

"Did they believe you?" he asked.

Aramis nodded. "I told them I would retire at the monastery in Douai."

"You gave them no reason to suspect the truth?" Aramis shook his head, but Tréville pressed him. "I know you Aramis, and they know you even better. You're telling me that you said nothing that could serve as a hint, did nothing to raise their suspicions?"

"I swore I wouldn't." Aramis felt the heat in his voice. "I know what's at stake and I've given up everything. And still you question me?"

Tréville simply stared, assessing him coolly. Finally with a nod, he gestured for Aramis to join him. "Then come. We have much to discuss. You leave for the Spanish border in two days. Let's make sure you're prepared for every eventuality before then."

And that was how Aramis came to be a spy for the French crown. Every morning and every night thereafter he prayed for absolution, asking God to accept this as his penance. Because no other act of repentance would satisfy the King of France. He'd given up everything to regain the king's trust, to ensure Louis never suspected that Aramis had ever been anything but completely loyal to the crown. He would prove himself a loyal servant, and in doing so, dispel the last clouds of suspicion that Rochefort had cast on him…and by extension, any lingering doubts about Queen Anne's faithfulness. If King Louis required a tangible act of devotion to prove Aramis's loyalty, then proof is what he would have.

It wasn't the way he'd planned it, but it fulfilled his oath of duty to both God and King. Just as he'd vowed in that prison cell, he had renounced every pleasure he'd once had in life – even the quiet pleasures of a simple religious life.

He was empty now of all but duty.

Nearly three years later, near the front lines…

Aramis took a deep breath, pressing his back to the trunk of the tree as he sat, waiting. He calmly loaded his musket, taking extra care as he hefted the weapon into position and checked his supply of powder.

These Spanish muskets weren't up to the quality he'd been used to in the musketeers, but he'd had ample time to adapt. Sometimes it seemed that he had done nothing but adapt – to the culture, to the rules, to the strange camaraderie among men he was silently betraying. Adapting to new weapons was minor in comparison.

But he always took extra care to clean and repair his weapon, waited an extra breath to confirm his shot. The others called him obsessive, but it wasn't that. He just kept remembering that first shot he'd missed, during his early days in the Spanish army. It had caught him by surprise – not least of all because the shot he'd intended to wound the man's shoulder had instead hit him in the neck, dead center. The spray of blood was unforgettable enough. The fact it was a musketeer only left the image imprinted on Aramis's mind, etched so deeply he could never remove it.

Aramis has almost lost his nerve then, run back to Paris to tell Tréville he was done.

But he couldn't. And they'd discussed this before Tréville had sent him off. He had understood (at least in principle) the unpleasantness that went along with his role. Aramis had to fight for the Spanish. It was the only way to gain their trust. So he did. But if he missed a bit more frequently than he used to, his new superior officers never knew the difference. They knew him to be a decent shot. Not exceptional, perhaps, but far better than majority of their soldiers who'd seen little in the way of real battle. Even with the occasional miss, Aramis was still enough of an asset to earn his keep.

"The lieutenant says the French scouts are approaching just over that ridge," his companion said. Aramis turned his head slightly to see the young Spanish soldier at his side.

"How many?" he asked.

Matías hunched down beside Aramis, disguised by the brush as they stayed out of sight. "Maybe half a dozen. It's a small party. The lieutenant seems confident we can handle them quickly."

Lieutenant Cordero was always confident, but Aramis knew that it was partially a front, a necessary persona to inspire confidence in his men, even in the direst situations. But then, given his mission, the lieutenant had no other option. They were on French soil, and Cordero commanded only a small number of men, but that allowed them to keep their camp hidden, and it was the perfect base for raids and scouting operations. Their position was invaluable, but they were on dangerous ground. Especially if the French scouts found their camp.

"He wants you to take out the leader, if you can," Matías said softly, "as soon as he comes in sight. After you fire the first shot, the others will come from the south side to cut off the Frenchmen's escape."

Aramis nodded, breathing deeply as he steadied himself. Then he looked back to Matías.

"All right," he said. "Follow closely."

Matías did, holding his own musket carefully as he copied Aramis's movements. They crept up the hillside and through the brush to a small rise where they could look down on the clearing below. They'd have a clear view of the path the French scouts were traveling, as well as the stand of trees to the south where their Spanish comrades were waiting to ambush the enemy.

Lying on his stomach to stay out of sight, Aramis pulled his musket into position and surveyed the clearing.

Three soldiers stood just past the tree line, looking about cautiously. And they were musketeers. Aramis closed his eyes briefly, suppressing a curse. He preferred regular infantry if he was honest. They were less skilled. Most of them just green recruits, nameless young faces who threw themselves into battle as if they were asking to be killed. It was the nature of war, of course, and Aramis was accustomed to it after all this time.

But the misgivings always in the back of his mind were easier to ignore when faced with anonymous infantrymen, rather than the all-too familiar uniform of a musketeer.

"Get ready," Aramis whispered to Matías. He watched the trees on the far side of the clearing, hearing the approach of the remaining Frenchmen. "Don't fire until I do." Matías nodded. Aramis pretended not to see his hands tremble slightly. Like always, Aramis was struck by how young his Spanish friend truly was.

The remaining three French scouts approached their comrades in the clearing, still slightly obscured by the trees. Aramis sighted down the barrel of his musket, seeking out the leader. His gaze immediately went to the tallest member of the group. Even at a distance, his bearing and the style of his armor marked him as the most likely target, probably the leader.

Aramis took a breath, steadying his heartrate, and prepared to take the shot. He lined up the musket, took another breath, and eased his finger onto the trigger just as the tall musketeer fully emerged from the trees and turned to face the spot where Aramis was hidden. A breath caught in his throat in a half gasp and only years of battle-field experience prevented Aramis from visibly startling. As it was, his breath hitched, his grip faltered slightly, and Aramis fired. Matías took that as his signal, firing also. But while he hit one man in the leg, Aramis's shot veered off course, hitting the ground in a spray of dirt near the leader's feet. The musketeer jerked back, shouting orders as he scanned the tree line.

Aramis froze, watching him intently, drinking in the sight of Porthos for the first time in nearly three years. If Aramis hadn't been able to hear his shout, he might not have believed it. But no, even encased in battle armor and shouting orders, the lead musketeer was clearly Porthos, emerging from the spray of dirt sent up as Aramis's errant musket ball had struck the earth.

"Morbleau!" Aramis swore, grabbing Matías as he scurried backwards, praying their position hadn't been spotted.

Cordero and the rest of his men had heard their shots and charged into the battle, pistol shots ringing out amongst the yelling.

Aramis discarded his musket, sliding down the edge of the embankment until he was level with the clearing, then drawing a pistol as he turned to enter the battle. But then he heard Matías shout and spun, getting off one shot to take out the nearest attacker. The second, however, was already on them, sword in hand as he lunged at Matías. Aramis shoved him sideways, barely drawing his own sword in time to deflect a thrust. Still, he staggered, struggling to regain his footing as he saw more musketeers advancing from the trees.

A quick glance showed the fighting behind him, in the clearing, had escalated. Swords now joined the fray. But as Aramis parried, Matías firing his pistol and reaching for his own sword, he realized that these men had been lying in wait.

Against six men, even six musketeers, their ambush should have succeeded. But now, with more musketeers flooding into the battle from multiple directions, the odds were stacked against them.

It seems the French had planned an ambush of their own.

Aramis fought wildly with sword and main gauche both drawn as two musketeers pushed him back towards the center of the fighting. Working to keep his footing on the uneven terrain, Aramis feinted right before landing a strike to the left that connected solidly with his opponent's shoulder. He heard Matías cry out, and Aramis felt a sharp slash at his side as he turned towards yet another attacker. The sting was enough to make him gasp, but Aramis didn't lose a moment before he countered, parrying again and slashing at his attacker's leg.

It earned him a slight reprieve and Aramis spared a glance for where Matías lay before he turned and retreated several paces, allowing him to rejoin the others. As if out of nowhere, Cordero emerged from the trees, a pistol in each hand, raising both to fire into the midst of the fighting.

He caught Aramis's eye briefly and gave a curt nod, delivering a silent command to cover him, before he plunged forward into the center of the chaos.

Aramis sheathed his main gauche and switched his sword to his left hand, drawing his second pistol with the right. Last shot, he thought to himself. He raised it towards the mess of soldiers, French and Spanish, and saw the swordsman advancing on Cordero's position. D'Artagnan…dusty, battle-worn, a bit older perhaps, but recognizably d'Artagnan. Aramis took a deep breath, raised the pistol and fired.

He thought he heard d'Artagnan cry out when the ball hit its mark, but at the same moment he heard something behind him. He dodged a few seconds too late as a sword hilt connected with the side of his head. It was a glancing blow, not enough to knock him out, but enough to leave him reeling. He staggered, fell to one knee as his vision swam and he fought to regain focus. He raised his sword left-handed to block a descending strike, the force of the blow jolting up his arm. The next blow took advantage of his poor balance and sent him all the way to the ground, landing on his side. A boot kicked his hand, sending his sword flying out of reach.

He lay, gasping, eyes watering at the sting of dust and the stab of pain in his skull. The ringing in his ears merged with the shouts of soldiers, but the clang of swords had begun to die away. As he blinked furiously, clearing his vision, he waited for the final blow to fall.

It didn't.

When he could focus enough, he saw a musketeer standing over him, sword held in front of him, ready to strike if Aramis so much as moved. Another musketeer came to his side, dragging a defeated Spaniard who was shoved to the ground beside Aramis.

"You'll both stay down if you know what's good for you."

Aramis was happy to comply. It gave him the chance to look up and survey the fighting – what was left of it anyway.

The last few Spaniards were surrendering their weapons, overpowered by greater numbers. The initial scouting party of six musketeers had more than tripled when their reinforcements emerged from the hillside, and even with the few scattered bodies (a mixture of both French and Spanish, Aramis noted), Aramis and his comrades were outnumbered nearly two to one. The sheer numbers combined with the surprise attack meant they hadn't stood a chance.

Aramis breathed raggedly as he pushed his knees beneath him. The motion caused a sharp pain in his side, pulling at a wound that was growing damp with blood.

The musketeer pushed his sword close to Aramis's throat.

"Did you not hear me? I said stay down."

Aramis nodded, but said nothing. His head bowed, he breathed shallowly to calm his racing heartbeat, hoping he could ease the pounding in his head. He closed his eyes in defeat, and waited. He couldn't have said how long he sat there, counting his own breaths. It was long enough that he jolted back to full awareness when he felt his arms jerked behind him and felt his hands roughly tied. He choose to focus on the bite of the rope as it dug into his wrists.

That at least was easier to handle than whatever might happen next.