New story! Don't worry, I will continue the other one, but less frequently. I do want to work on other stuff, too.

This one will mostly focus on Aramis, as well as his three friends, and will have a lot of hurt/comfort and all that. I got this idea from school, actually, since we are learning about World War I. You will see what I am talking about.

Please don't forget to read and review! Enjoy!


The four of them flinched as the sound of a canon exploded around them, and dirt fell on top of their heads.

Aramis was quick to shake the grime out of his hair, his eyes falling on his brothers.

They were all tired, hungry, and hurt in some way.

Athos' arm had been grazed by a musket ball, and was now securely bandaged by their best medic - Aramis. D'Artagnan's ribs were slightly bruised, and were already mended by the same man - Aramis. Porthos had been shot in the shoulder earlier, and had avoided infection thanks to the same man - Aramis.

Aramis did everything, and never asked for anything in return.

Now, as he sat with broken ribs, a recently relocated shoulder, and a heavy graze on his cheek, in a dirty trench, surrounded by dead men and even more dirt, he still hadn't made a single complaint.

But his friends saw right through him, and knew that he was exhausted. He was pale and sweating, struggling to keep his eyes open. His entire body was shaking with fatigue, even though he tried hard to keep in place.

Another explosion.

Porthos watched as Aramis gasped, and he couldn't help but crawl over to the marksman and take his hand.

The poor man sucked in a breath and winced, the small amount of fear that had been lingering in his eyes turning into recognition.

The two of them locked gazes for a few seconds, but were interrupted by, yet, another explosion, and the sound of men screaming.

Aramis' eyes shot up, and he began to stand up.

Porthos just pulled him back down and pressed his own forehead against his friend's. "This is not your fault," he said softly, ruffling Aramis' hair just a little.

Aramis just closed his eyes. "I should have protected them," he replied, his voice weak.

The next thing they all knew, they were running towards the enemy, muskets and rapiers on the ready.

Athos stayed as close as he could to Aramis, ready to help him if need be. Somehow, he never needed to.

The marksman was giving it his all. It was as if he just forgot all of his previous pain. The only thing on his mind was to try avenge the soldiers that had died because he didn't save them.

When it was all over, and the enemy had retreated, the four Musketeers and about fifteen others were all that were left.

Once finally realizing that it was done, Aramis practically collapsed, all of his energy leaving him. He looked around him, his eyes filling with tears as he saw all of the dead bodies littering the ground.

"Aramis," someone said.

Looking up, Aramis saw that it was d'Artagnan. He had a concerned expression on his face.

"You're bleeding," he pointed out.

Aramis looked to the left of him, and saw blood forming on his arm. Taking a closer look, he realized that he had been shot.

"Oh," he simply said. "I did not notice."


They began making their way back to camp.

The fifteen soldiers that were left, who were only kids, rushed back, wanting to get out from the battlefield, but Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis had to take their time.

When they finally did make it, they were greeted by their general, who hated them all for reasons unknown.

"I watched you collapse, soldier," he said coldly, pointing his index finger at poor Aramis. "You have been made to fight, not grieve over a few losses."

Before Aramis could reply, Porthos stood up for him. "Some of those men were our brothers. We have a right to feel emotion if one of them - or in this case, all of them - die. Not to mention that Aramis is also injured. He had treated everyone but himself during the battle, and needs medical attention more than anybody."

"You cannot send so many men to battle like this," Athos said. "More than half of them die in a couple of minutes. How do you expect us to win this war?"

The General scoffed. "You're the Captain, figure it out." His eyes hardened. "And you," he continued, turning back to Aramis. "Don't ever let me catch you doing what you just did." He reached out and pulled Aramis by his hair, forcing the soldier to look at him. "I promise you, you will be punished if you do it again."

With that, he left.

Aramis' head dropped down, and he leaned against Porthos, groaning quietly.

"We need to get him to the medic's tent," d'Artagnan said. "Fast."

Porthos growled quietly. "I want to kill him," he whispered under his breath.

"Don't, my friend," Aramis quickly said. "The war has done this to him and nothing else. It has ripped all of his humanity away. It's done that to many."

His three friends heard the sadness in his voice, and the understood exactly what he was saying. They knew that he was right.

Deciding not to dwell on it any further, Porthos began helping Aramis to the medic's tent, where he was instantly treated. It was painful, and they all hated seeing Aramis forcing himself to not scream.

When it was all over and done with, the four of them went to their own tents. As much as Aramis protested against resting, he was finally convinced when it seemed that he couldn't even bring himself to talk anymore.

As he sat down on his makeshift bed - which was nothing but some hay wrapped in fabric - he unconsciously reached for the cross around his neck. He sighed, memories of Anne entering his mind.

I wonder how my son is doing, he thought to himself. He cursed at himself, knowing that he could never think like that. Ever.

"Get some rest, mon ami," Athos said, patting the man's uninjured shoulder. "Who knows what missions we will be put on tomorrow?"

Aramis scoffed. "All I know is that they will be nothing but death traps," he replied, letting his eyes close as he laid back, his arm wrapping around his ribs.

He was asleep in seconds.