Surely, Treville will grant Porthos a commission. Surely, this will not be the only time Aramis has cause to see this man.

Pushing himself from the wall, he takes the few steps to his room, going inside to the dim coolness, leaving the door ajar on purpose.

He doesn't want to think of the darker images, but even as he dismisses them, they flash before him again: Porthos staring up at him as if surprised to be dying. And if is as if the pain is just as fresh now as it was then and it leaves Aramis winded. He could not have gone on - he didn't, he's sure of it. He died soon after. By his own hand.

He falls to sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.