Alright, so I've fallen in love with the series "The Musketeer!" One of the best series I've ever watched. I've already been obsessed with the Three Musketeers before, and watched practically any and every TV production of it I was able to find, both in Russian and in English. I was borderline obsessed. Still am. And while I was in Israel I started watching the series and fell in love ... and finished all three seasons in less than a week.

I've decided to take a break of writing for "Leverage," because my muse has literally dried on me for that show. I hope I'll be able to get back to fan girling over the show soon. I've already gotten a crap load of ideas for this series, and am excited to write about it.

For this story, as said in the summary, I will be tweaking with some stories that I think could have given my favorite character, Aramis, a bigger part. I know that I have tried to do the same with "Leverage," but it didn't really work out. I'm hoping this will.

I already see that this is going to be really hard, since I'm trying to stick with the language they used in the show, so please bare with me while I get used to it. I've been using a lot of stories as a base for how to write. Hopefully my careful 'studying' helped.

So now, without any further ado, I hope you enjoy my newest story! I will be updating as much as I can! Please make sure to read and review, as well as give me some requests if you want me to do something with an episode, or you have prompt! Thanks!


Chapter 1: "The Good Soldier"

Aramis sat at a table, a drink in one hand, his head in the other. He was staring off into the distance, his eyes blank. A raised the drink to his lips, letting the alcohol burn through his throat.

He suddenly felt a hand against his shoulder, and he flinched, jerking himself away from it. It took effort to contain a quiet moan.


He closed his eyes. Porthos.

Turning around, he saw his friend standing over him, a concerned expression on his friend. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked. The man took another drink, and Porthos saw that his hands were shaking. "Aramis?"

Aramis took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm fine, Porthos," he replied, a weak, tired smile forming on his face.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded again. "I'm sure. Just … tired."

Porthos scoffed. "'Tired,'" he echoed. "Aramis, what's wrong? Tell me."

His hand traveled to Aramis' shoulder again and Aramis winced suddenly, a hiss of pain escaping him.

"What the hell happened?!" Porthos exclaimed.

The swordsman sighed. "Marsac got a lucky shot," he said quietly. His word were laced with exhaustion. He ran a hand through his curly locks, his gaze dropping down to his cup.

"What?" Porthos' tone was cold. But full of concern.

"You heard me, Porthos," Aramis snapped, shooting a glare at him.

Hurt replaced Porthos' concern. He took a deep breath, closing his fists.

"I'm sorry," Aramis quickly said. "I shouldn't have gone off on you. I just need some rest."

"Let me take you up?"


Porthos grabbed Aramis' uninjured arm and pulled him up. He felt the man shaking against him, and when he felt his skin, he was icy to the touch. "Why are you cold?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he whispered brokenly. And he really didn't.

The big man got his brother to his room, where he helped him take off his jacket, and where he saw bandages wrapped around his shoulder. He swallowed.

"Why didn't you tell us?" he asked.

"You didn't ask," Aramis replied, smirking.

Porthos tried to laugh, but it turned into a half sob. "Get some rest," he said, trying to ignore the big lump in his throat. He reached for Aramis' hand and gave it a squeeze. "You need it."

Aramis obeyed. He smiled, and then let himself sink into the covers. His eyes closed immediately, and then he was in a deep sleep.

His friend watched over him as he slept. At some point, Athos and d'Artagnan found them, and Porthos took them outside and explained everything.

"He's in bad shape," he was saying, coming to an end to his story. "This thing with Marsac really hurt him-"

A sudden moan erupted from the sleeping Musketeer's room.

Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan barged through the door, and found Aramis tossing and turning, clearly in pain. He kept muttering things like, "Savoy," and "Marsac," and "Musketeers."

Porthos dashed over to him, trying to shake Aramis awake. This caused the thrashing man to cry out in pain.

Guilt washed over Porthos. "I'm so sorry, my friend," he mumbled.

Aramis suddenly shot up and grabbed Porthos by the neck, pushing him into a wall. His eyes were full of anger, but they were cloudy. He was panting, his breathing raspy.

Athos and d'Artagnan were about to try and get him off of Porthos, but Porthos shook his head. He turned back to Aramis, staying calm. "Hey, Aramis, it's alright," he said softly. "You're at the garrison, you're safe. You're not at Savoy. I promise you, you are not in Savoy."

Slowly, Aramis calmed. His breathing evened out. "Oh God, Porthos, I am so sorry," he said.

"It's alright," Porthos quickly told him. "It was nothing. Really."

Aramis collapsed then, and d'Artagnan quickly managed to catch him. They got him back onto the bed, where he sat with his head down.

"I am so sorry," he kept repeating.

"I'll get him something warm to drink," d'Artagnan offered.

Athos nodded, and watched him leave the room. "What did you see?" he then asked. He leaned against a wall and crossed his legs, preparing for his story.

Aramis took a shaking breath, and let it out slowly. "Savoy," he muttered. "I was back there again. I saw … all those men again. My brothers. And Marsac … he just left." He paused. "And then I killed him. He was my friend … and I killed him."

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Porthos assured him. "It's over now."

The shaken man shook his head. "It's never going to be over."

D'Artagnan walked back into the room, carrying a cup warmed up wine. Aramis grabbed for it and gulped it down. Like earlier, he let the liquid burn his throat. When he finished, he said, "Thank you."

"Do you think you could rest a bit more?" the youngster asked, clearly worried. "You need it."
Aramis shook his head. "I don't know."

With help from his friends, he stood up. They made their way down the stairs and sat themselves down at a table. The cold wind chilled Aramis' bones, and he shivered.

Athos got them all some wine, and then they began drinking. Aramis stayed silent the entire time, keeping to himself, drinking his wine. He kept seeing that battle, those dead bodies. His head began to spin, and he reached for the table to steady himself.

"You alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I'm fine."

"Last time you said that …," Porthos started, but was cut off when Aramis glared at him.

He raised his arms in surrender.

Aramis kept to his silence again, too tired and hurt to make or be part of any conversation. Pretty soon, everyone retired to their rooms … but Aramis stayed, afraid to sleep. Still, the memories continued to plague him. Those God awful pictures burned into his mind, and he couldn't get them out. He began to grow cold, like he was then. He hung his head, holding back tears.


Treville walked out onto the porch and looked out at the garrison. The first thing he saw was Aramis, sitting at the table, staring onto the ground. He was visibly shaking, and the Captain realized that he was thinking of Savoy. He sighed, beginning to make his way down the stairs.

He silently sat himself down beside Aramis, and instantly noticed the blood soaking through his shirt. When was he shot? he asked himself.

"Marsac managed to shoot me when I killed him," Aramis suddenly said, as if reading his mind. His words held no emotion, and it bothered Treville to see his Musketeer like this.

But instead of saying anything, he took to nodding. He stared at Aramis' empty expression, the unfocused and hurt eyes that were set on nothing. "Did you get any rest?" he finally asked him, afraid for the answer.

Aramis shook his head. "The memories wouldn't let me sleep," he replied simply.

Guilt took over Treville. "I'm sorry," was all he was able to say.

"It was not your fault," the other man murmured. He looked up. "It was mine."

Treville reached for the man's hand, and was slightly startled when Aramis pulled away. He whimpered quietly, grasping for his shoulder. "This is most definitely not your fault, Aramis," he tried to say, but it didn't seem to be working.

"You know, my friends tried to wake me up earlier," Aramis began. "And because my mind kept telling me that I was back … there, I almost Porthos. I lunged at him, thinking he was the enemy. I could have killed him."

His voice broke, and he looked away.

This was not the Aramis Treville knew. But this was all too familiar to him. He suddenly remembered the state Aramis was in when he came back from Savoy. He was hurt, guilty, and afraid. He wouldn't come out for anything for weeks, unless it was the King who sent for him. And when he did go to the Palace, or was forced to accompany Louis somewhere, he was silent, never saying anything that he didn't need to say.

That Aramis that Treville had saw years ago was now back, and Treville told God that he would do anything to get the Aramis that was so full of joy and love back.

"Aramis," he then said.

The Musketeer looked up again, his eyes pained.

"Aramis, this was not your fault," Treville continued. "You did what you had to do to save me. And you could have just let Marsac kill me … but you didn't. And I am so grateful for that. I am proud to know you, Aramis, both as a friend and a comrade. You did the right thing, remember that. Don't let your guilt destroy you. Look past what happened. It is definitely going to be hard, but knowing you, you will succeed. And we all will be there for you along the way."

With that said, Treville patted Aramis' uninjured shoulder, and then went back up to his quarters, leaving Aramis to think.

Aramis took Treville's words into account, and realized that he was right. He smiled slightly at the thought of his friends being there to help him and support him. With that in mind, he went back into his room to catch up on some sleep.

And Treville didn't call for him until he woke up.