So this is a small one shot that I wrote rather quickly, so if I have any mistakes, I do apologize. I hope you enjoy. Please make sure to read and review!


The minute Aramis woke up, a wave of sadness and pain consumed him. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Three years ago … the Savoy Massacre. That horrific day that only left Aramis alive. And now, that one survivor can't ever forget of what happened. This was the only day of the year where Aramis truly felt afraid. His happy, loving, normal self was automatically gone, and a broken Aramis took over.

He already knew this was going to be a slow, hard day.

Once getting dressed, he walked out into the garrison, where his friends were patiently waiting for him. Like always. And like always, Treville gave his best Musketeers a day off, just so that they could help Aramis make his way through the day.

He walked up to them and smiled weakly. "Thank you," he said softly., looking at each of them with sad eyes. "Thank you for being here."

Porthos placed his hand on Aramis' shoulder, almost gasping when the poor man flinched. "We know how hard this is for you, my friend," he said. "Just know that we are here for you. If you need anything … we'll be right beside you."

Aramis nodded. "I know."

"I say we drink," Athos announced.

Porthos snorted in return, his grin turning into a concerned frown when Aramis didn't respond. Instead, his comrade began avoiding any more eye contact and was now staring mindlessly at the ground.

In a few minutes, the four men walked into their favorite tavern, where they ordered over five bottles of wine and began chugging them all down. It was Aramis who barely had a drop. He was silent, caught in between his thoughts and memories.

Soon enough, he began to tremble - as he did every year- his body remembering how cold it was on that terrible day. He leaned forward and placed his head in his hands.

"It's starting, isn't it?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded slightly, closing his eyes. His head was pounding, and his shoulder began to sting like it did when he was shot.

"What, what's starting?" d'Artagnan asked.

"He's remembering," Athos replied simply; his voice was filled with concern and sadness. "It happens every year."

D'Artagnan understood, feeling sudden sympathy for poor Aramis. He honestly did not know that this was his reaction to the anniversary of Savoy. The previous year had had Aramis distracted with Marsac, so d'Artagnan did not even begin to understand what really happened on that day. But then he realized that after Marsac was dead, Treville had given Aramis a day off … and now he knew why.

"Oh, look who's here!" someone exclaimed.

Looking up, the Musketeers saw three Red Guards standing in front of them with taunting smirks on their faces.

"Monsieur Aramis, hiding behind his friends on the anniversary of the Savoy Massacre!" one of them, the one standing in the middle of his other two companions, said. "If God had known this was how you were going to deal with it, he would have let you die. What a shame."

His friends chuckled, their eyes set on Aramis, who refused to even look at them.

"How dare you…?" Porthos snarled, about to get up and show these bastards what he did to those who tried to hurt his brother, but stopped when he felt a shaking hand on his arm.

"Please, Porthos, don't," Aramis said, his voice emotionless, his eyes dulled and pained.

The bigger man obeyed and sat back down. "I would suggest you leave, Pierre," he said coldly. "I'm only doing this for my friend, who has suffered enough already. But if I hear any more of your disgusting comments about Aramis, I swear, I will hunt you down and kill you myself. Understood?"

"Killing a Red Guard soldier is treason and you know it, Porthos," the man to the right of Pierre, whose name was George, said with a grin forming on his face.

"Well, Porthos here is very determined," Athos said cooly. "I would listen to him, if I were you."
"Very well," Pierre said, his eyes glowing. "We will leave you to dealing with your precious burden."
D'Artagnan watched them leave with daggers in his eyes. "Bastards," he muttered once they were finally out of sight.

"It's fine, d'Artagnan," Aramis said, keeping his eyes closed. "Honest."

His breathing hitched suddenly and he gasped, his mouth opening in a silent scream. "M-Marsac," he whispered.

Porthos quickly wrapped his arm around Aramis' shoulders. "He's not here, Aramis," he tried to assure him. It wasn't working.

Aramis suddenly saw his dead friend standing at the doorway. "You sure about that?" he asked.

The Musketeer felt his mouth go dry. "You're dead," he rasped.

"Oh God, he's seeing them again," Athos whispered, cursing under his breath.

"Again?" d'Artagnan rephrased.

"It's somebody different each time," Porthos replied, pulling a confused Aramis closed to him.

"Oh God," the younger man muttered.

"You can't kill me that easily," Marsac was saying.

Tears began forming in Aramis' eyes at the thought of killing his best friend. He looked at Marsac again…

… but the man was gone.

The hallucination was over.

Aramis slumped against Porthos, taking a deep, collective breath. The tears were gone as fast as they came.

"Let's get you home," Porthos said softly.

Aramis barely paid attention to the eyes that fell on him on their way to the garrison. He was more focused on trying to put one foot after another. In what felt like hours, they finally made it. Aramis was quickly put to bed. The minute he hit the covers, he curled into himself, beginning to whimper.

He felt someone's hand in his hair, and understood that it was his friends, trying to bring him some comfort. He opened his eyes, gasping when he saw bloodied white snow on the ground, scattered with dead bodies. And the crows … he could hear them cawing. "No," he managed to whisper. "No."


Hours passed.

Neither Porthos, Athos, or d'Artagnan dared to leave their friend. Porthos sat with Aramis in his arms throughout the entire time, calming him down if any nightmare came to haunt him. Soon enough, Aramis finally managed to fall asleep, too hurt and exhausted to battle his demons any further.

Once making sure he was asleep, the three Musketeers walked outside his room.

"I just want this day to be over," Porthos growled out. "He can't keep going on like this. Every year … the same damn thing. It will never end, will it?"

"Aramis will be just fine," Athos said calmly. "Even though it does happen every year, he does get through it. And once he does, he quickly goes back to his old self. Everything will be alright."

Porthos sighed. "I know, I know," he said through gritted teeth. "The day just can't be done with quick enough."

"I had no idea that the Savoy Massacre hurt him so bad," d'Artagnan said. "Last year, we were so involved in Marsac, he had no time to grieve … like this. Dear God, I have never seen him like this."

A sudden scream got the men running back to Aramis' bedroom. Porthos fell on his knees beside the bed, and took one of his friend's hands. "Hey, hey, Aramis, this is just another nightmare," he said to Aramis, who was struggling to get out of his hold. "Please, wake up."

Aramis gasped awake. He felt sweat dripping down his face and body. He collapsed back into his covers, curling into himself again. "Leave me … please," he rasped.

The others did as he asked.


The next time Aramis woke, it was due to, yet, another hellish nightmare. After getting dressed, he walked out into the garrison, beginning to shiver when he felt snow fall on top of him. He saw his friends sitting at a table, and was quick to join them.

"How are you, Aramis?" Athos asked him cooly.

"I wish it would stop snowing … but I'm fine," Aramis replied.

Porthos chuckled. "Good," he said, patting Aramis' arm.

They fell into a silence.

"You want to show those Red Guards from last night who they were messing with?" Porthos then asked, a smirk playing at his face.

And with that, the thought of Savoy quickly left Aramis' mind. For the rest of the day, he and his comrades had fun drinking and taunting Red Guards. Gone was the frail and afraid Aramis, and back was the fun, loving, and happy Musketeer.