One. Two. Three. One leg behind. Slowly. Steady. Shallow breaths. One. Two. Three. Lean on your front leg. Slowly. Quietly. One two three. Ensure stability with your left hand. Steady. Shallow breaths. One. Two. Three. Reach out with your right hand. One. Two. Three. AND QUICKLY LASH OUT AND GR-…
„ARAMIS! What in the bloody hell are you doing?!"
… JESUS CHRIST! GRAB ONTO SOMETHING! GRAB ONTO SOMETHING! OoooW!
„Jesus, Athos! Do you want to give me a heart attack?"
At this point, Athos preferred not to answer.
It was three days ago that Captain Tréville ordered all four of them to escort an elderly madame Bouthillier back to her home in Lyon, telling them that he will not be expecting them for the next eight days. The way from Paris to Lyon does not normally take more than two days for experienced horseriders. Three days with a lady being escorted in a cart, leaving them two days of an unspoken but deserved leave after a long-week uneventful guard duty at the Jardin du Roi, the "healing garden" opening festivities.
However, on the morning of this fine day, d'Artagnan, kind soul as he is, had to run his mouth and tell madame Bouthilier that it was o-no trouble to bother them with her passion for flowers because they were indeed not in a hurry and therefore had nothing else to do than to enjoy the beauty of the nature. With that out he proceeded to help the madame out of the cart and join her in her search for a 'special kind of tulip' for her mother-in-law. Never mind that there were no tulips around here. Sometimes, Athos wanted to smack the insane diligence out of the boy's head. There went their two free days.
Despite the change of plans, Athos had to admit that it was a relief to spend a day in the woods near a small lake enjoying a relaxing day. They spent the whole day swimming, catching fish, sparring and cleaning their weapons all while keeping up a comfortable banter, much to madame Bouthilier's amusement. When it was clear that they would not make any progress towards Lyon today anymore and the sun would soon set, Athos decided to gather some wood to start fire for the night.
And that's how he came upon a curios sight. There, in the tree in front of him, high in its top branches was Aramis, quiet as a mouse, moving as slowly as he has never seen him before, reaching out his hand towards something Athos couldn't see.
With his eyebrows high in surprise and concern, Athos watched as Aramis jerked upon hearing his voice asking him about what he was doing, flailed around with both his arms, tried to grab onto a branch but missed, lost his footing and fell a good three branches below while all birds from the nearby trees flew away, spooked. Now heavily breathing, red in the face, with his feet steady on one of the lower branches, Aramis hung onto the trunk of the tree as if his life depended on it.
"I am not even sure I want to know." Athos stated, tilting his head to one side.
"It is those birds, Athos! They will not leave me in peace!" Aramis replied with a hint of despair in his voice.
"And are you feeling quite well in the head?" Athos asked, scrutinizing Aramis from head to toe. "You know what a long exposure to sun does to you…"
"The bastards shit on my hat! Was I supposed to let them get away with it? Sure, dear birds, JUST KEEP ON SHITTING ON STRANGERS' HATS!" He yelled the last part up in the sky as if speaking to the birds and Athos could only rub his temples, trying to calm himself, while the echo "shitting on strangers' hat, shitting on strangers' hat, strangers' hat" rang across the woods, sounding almost peacefully as some kind of twisted lullaby for adults. Adult. Athos had a feeling that Aramis sometimes forgot what that word meant and that it actually applied to him.
"I bet it was because of the feather," Athos decided that it was time to have some fun, too. "You cannot really blame them for wanting to avenge their kind," the edges of his lips moved dangerously up.
"How dare you!" Aramis pointed an accusing finger at Athos, still sounding deadly serious.
"I have been telling you for years that it is, indeed, a shitty feather," Athos pointed out. "Now literally."
Suddenly a cone was flying his way, which he easily avoided. Unfortunately, seemingly from nowhere, Porthos chose to appear behind Athos at that exact moment, getting the cone right in his head.
"What's ha-... OW!"
Offended, Porthos looked angrily in the direction the cone flew from. Seeing Aramis in the conifer, he spread his arms widely: "Are you crazy or what?"
"Are you seriously asking Aramis that question?" Athos rolled his eyes.
Porthos pointed his finger at Athos. "Touché," he looked back at Aramis: "And what's with the shitting? I think you spooked half the forest, madame Bouthilier included."
Aramis held his chin high, trying to grasp onto the last strays of dignity he still had left.
"First of all, I. AM. NOT. CRAZY. Second of all, I was on the mission to catch the ones responsible for damaging the heart of my style in an unmanly manner, when Athos came with his horrid voice, making the trees tremble, which almost resulted into me falling to my death."
There was a silence as Porthos tried to comprehend what he just heard. After a few moments, he looked at Athos with lost expression. Athos sighed.
"The birds shitted on his hat and he was trying to do god knows what to the birds when I came upon him in the tree and asked what he was doing, to which he reacted by getting startled and falling down a few branches," he explained.
"Thank you." Porthos said loudly and turned back to Aramis. "See? This is French."
Athos and Porthos both heard as Aramis mumbled something to himself.
"What was that?" They both asked in unison.
"Nothing."
"Aramis…" Athos used his don't-shit-with-me voice and Aramis knew better than to shit with him.
"I said my French was better," if they didn't know better, they would say that Aramis blushed.
It was Porthos's time to roll his eyes.
"How old are you? Twelve?"
"I refuse to respond to stupid questions," Aramis put his chin even higher.
"Of course, it was a rhetorical question," Porthos retorted.
Athos sighed again. Aramis and sun really didn't make a pleasant combination. As much as Aramis loved summer, there was always risk of him getting influenced by it in this weird way, which resulted in Aramis being hyperactive in the best case scenario, and in the worst…well…
"How long have you been without your hat?" Athos asked and noticed that Aramis looked almost guilty.
"Since I sneezed?"
"Aramis…"
"Dear lord, alright, I haven't worn it the whole day." Aramis admitted and after a moment added: "I'm not feeling too well."
"No, really? You look extremely well and comfortable up that tree." Athos chimed in with his usual level of sarcasm. When Aramis didn't respond to that, both Athos and Porthos became serious in an instant.
"Let's get you down, shall we?" Porthos said as a symbol of peace.
"I would love to say I can manage but I scratched my hand while falling down and it hurts like hell." Aramis admitted softly.
It was a bit scary to see Aramis during his sunny days (as him and Porthos named them) sometimes. It was as if it transformed him into a complete opposite of himself. Aramis rarely asked for help and almost never admitted an injury. That was one of his infuriating as well as amazing qualities. Amazing because it helps him to never lose focus, come what may, and infuriating because as his friend, Athos worries about him and some days it is nearly impossible to tell if he is injured or not.
The sunny days Aramis acted almost like a child. Sometimes it honestly felt like he was dealing with a five-year-old inside the body of an adult man. It was disconcerting because Aramis was the most seasoned soldier in the regiment, not to mention among the deadliest, and to see him suddenly become this carefree person who couldn't help but laugh at situations that weren't funny at all, or pout when he didn't get his way, was confusing to say the least. At the same time, it was also elevating to see him like that, though. Never in his life has Athos seen him so relaxed. Sometimes he thinks that it is because Aramis has been through so much in his life already, that this is his God's way of relieving him of some of the pain. And lord, does he need it!
Together they managed to get Aramis down the tree and take him back to camp, where d'Artagnan was already waiting for them with a pile of wood next to him (apparently, madame Bouthilier was quite experienced camper), about to start a fire. He jumped to his feet the moment he saw them coming.
"Where have you been so long? And Aramis, what happened to your arm? It is not serious, is it?"
Aramis just smiled.
"I'll be fine now that I am here."
D'Artagnan frowned. "What do you mean?" Porthos just waved his hand in a don't-even-ask manner and d'Artagnan made a silent note to ask about it later.
BANG!
All of them startled and reached for their weapons. D'Artagnan looked around and frowned even deeper when the only thing he saw was Aramis sitting calmly against a tree, blowing the smoke away from his pistol, rolling it on his finger and hooking it back onto his belt. He smiled in triumph as he looked at the flock of spooked birds.
"You picked a wrong person to shit on, bastards."
Athos sighed and Porthos rolled his eyes.
D'Artagnan's eyebrows flew to his hairline. I really NEED TO ask them about what happened in those woods.