It was a bright and early morning when Aramis walked into the Garrison, a wide smile on his face as his eyes sought his comrades. Spotting them eating breakfast on the scrubbed wooden table in the corner he strolled over, flumping down next to d'Artagnan, who put down his spoon and regarded his friend with a quirked eyebrow.

'Someone's happy.' He said, to which Porthos snorted and shovelled another spoon of oats into his mouth.

'Probably spent another night with a ravishing woman, no doubt.' He muttered as he chewed.

'Porthos, why do you wound me so?' Aramis chuckled, nodding his thanks as he was passed a bowl of oats by Serge. He chewed for a while before becoming acutely aware of three pairs of eyes staring at him.

'Can I not just be happy?' he muttered to them after swallowing, wiping his mouth.

'No.' Athos replied, pushing his finished bowl away before yawning.

'Do I really need a reason to be happy?' The Medic asked, grinning.

'Absolutely.' Athos nodded.

'Well, I can't offer you one- I just woke up like this!'

'It's not natural.' Athos shot back, standing up and stretching. 'Not this early...'

'Then I am unnatural then!' Aramis chuckled, earning another arched eyebrow from d'Artagnan as all four men stood as Aramis finished his breakfast.

'What's the plan for today, then?' he asked them as he looked around.

'Well, Porthos and I have been tasked with delivering some papers to a lord about twenty miles away.' d'Artagnan replied, picking up his hat and putting it on.

'It's a nice day for a ride,' Aramis nodded, reaching for his gloves.

'And we-' Athos muttered, grabbing some cloths from the bench next to him. '-are on the cleaning roster for the day.'

'Cleaning?!' Aramis groaned, sighing as Athos thrust the cloths into his hands. 'You can't be serious.'

'Deadly, I'm afraid.' Athos replied darkly, sighing himself.

'Why not get the new recruits to do it?'

'Because they are training.' Athos muttered, shrugging on his leather coat to combat the chill of a fast-approaching winter. 'It's only about hundred pistols, and about the same amount of swords.'

'Wow, can't wait...'Aramis replied sarcastically, sighing again.

There was a few minutes of silence before d'Artagnan cleared his throat. 'Well,' he muttered, coming between Aramis and Athos and putting his hands on their shoulders, grinning. 'We can't stand around all day listening to you two whine about polishing- Porthos and I have actual work to do.' He pushed himself away, before laughing as Aramis threw the bundle of cloths at him.

'We should be back by nightfall- meet back here and we'll go to a tavern?' Porthos asked as he and d'Artagnan readied themselves to collect their horses.

'Sounds like a brilliant plan!' Aramis nodded, giving his friend a smile. 'Have a safe journey.'

'Enjoy your cleaning, lads!' d'Artagnan called behind him as he and Porthos made their way to the Garrison door.

Aramis shook his head with a grin and lifted his hand in a farewell gesture as he and Athos watched them turn the corner and head to the stables.

'Well,' Athos muttered, sighing to himself as he stooped to pick up the cloths that Aramis had thrown at the Gascon. 'The sooner we do the cleaning the sooner it'll be finished.'

''I suppose you're right...' Aramis agreed, his voice sombre as the two of them trudged slowly to the armoury. 'This is going to be so much fun...'

The house was bare now. Silent. Brooding. The man stood by his window, looking across at the piece of land by the front of his house with a scowl on his face; the grass was so long now it reached a man's knees. Weeds grew haphazardly through the grass, choking the life out of the meadow-flowers that were normally resplendent this time of year.

The bushes needed pruning too, yet the man hadn't the heart to do anything about it. He pushed himself away from the window and crossed the bare stone floor, his boots clacking on the hard surface, and into the parlour.

The room was dark and empty, completely devoid of any life or personality- he had banished his maids to their quarters hours ago; he couldn't stand to see their tired, blank faces day after day, hour after hour. He lashed out at them for the slightest thing, verbally and physically, and was beginning to tire of the way they balked from him when he entered a room.

He sat heavily in a wooden chair at the head of the scrubbed wooden table that the maids used to house the crockery. He used the polished table in the drawing room for eating normally, however had recently taken to taking his meals in his rooms; the solitude suited him.

He sighed deeply as he sank into the chair, his hands itching with frustration, with anger, with grief. This was no life. He was merely existing ever since it had happened; he was floating through his days with the faint hope that each would be his last. Anger now constantly filled his body, as if it were a weight he could not escape; a darkness had penetrated him, he knew, but he could not stop it- perhaps now he didn't even want it to stop.

As it consumed him again he let out a groan of frustration, swiping his hand across the table and sending a teapot and a cup and saucer set to the floor, where it smashed against the opposite wall with a large crash.

He looked up as he heard footsteps from above, a sudden bolt of hope filling his body. Maybe he was home? Maybe it had all been a horrible nightmare?

When he heard the clicking of boots on the stairs, he realised it was one of the maids, disobeying his orders once again. He'd teach her a lesson this time, he told himself, anger rising into his throat.

He had told her to stay in her room- she had no business walking about the house...

He made it to the parlour door when he heard the front door slam; he hurried to the window and watched as Marie, his head-maid, strutted down the path as if she owned the house, before turning into the woodshed, presumably to gather firewood.

He sighed deeply as he watched her shadowy figure through the soot-covered shed window, knowing he should help, or at least call someone to help. He again pushed himself from the window in a fit of anger-why should he do anything? He didn't care what she did, or what anyone did for that matter. He had lost. What was the point in the day to day, when in the end your life could end in an instant?

He crossed to his drawing room as an idea that had been brewing in his mind, first as a small ember of an idea, smoking gently in his mind, suddenly burst into flame, crackling and spitting in a way that made it impossible for him to ignore or push away.

He took the large gold key from his pocket and twisted it in the lock of his bureau, eyes narrowed as his shaky hands sorted through the papers and deeds, certificates and invoices, until he found what he was looking for. He brought them out, as if seeing the words would somehow validate his idea.

His hands were now shaking so much, both in anger and an excited anticipation, that he could barely make out the words scrawled on the thick, yellowing papers.

He walked over to the roaring fire that dominated the wall behind his desk; he didn't need to read the words to know what they said. He smiled to himself, an idea hatching in his brain as his mind whirred; yes. He knew what he had to do. It was so simple- after all, revenge was the simplest action of all.

He chuckled darkly as he ripped the paper in half before throwing them into the flames, where they caught fire instantly, the edges blackening as smoke drifted upwards.

He stood back and watched as the top pages furled up with the heat, leaving the signature on the last page visible for a few seconds before it too blackened in the flames. The envelope was thrown next, landing in the ashes before curling into itself as the official seal started to warp and melt in the flames; the seal of the Comte de le Fere.

Thanks for reading this little prologue, I hope its set the story up nicely.

As mentioned in the summary this is going to be a very Athos-centered whump story, although that's not to say I won't throw in some hurt!Aramis along the way!

Please review, as always I'd love to know your thoughts!