The escape attempt was, perhaps, ill-conceived. Aramis can admit that. He should have planned better before he tried to run. He should have moved faster, not bothered with his cuffs around his wrists after the cuffs on his ankles were undone. He should have tried to get his hands on a weapon.
But he didn't, and the cuffs are back around his wrists and ankles, and two men are hoisting him up onto the beam again. When he's dangling in the air, his shoulders immediately burning from the pain, Grimaud nods sharply at one of the men, who gives the other a boost. The man stabs a knife into the beam in front of the chain, creating what Aramis fears will be a fairly effective impediment to any escape.
That is, he thinks, assuming he gets another chance to try. Judging by the look on Grimaud's face, he's not certain he will.
"Leave us," Grimaud says, his voice quiet but full of authority. The men file out immediately.
Aramis watches Grimaud silently as he hangs from the beam. Normally, this is when he would make some sort of comment about the situation, perhaps an overly-brave assertion of how quickly he'll be free and how much Grimaud will regret this. He doesn't do it now. There's danger in Grimaud's quiet, and Aramis has the feeling that any words will only make it worse.
"You used this to free yourself," Grimaud says quietly, holding up the crucifix.
"It did me more good here than you thought it would," Aramis retorts, unable to help himself.
There's no anger on Grimaud's face. Instead, there's an almost clinically detached calm that, perhaps paradoxically, gives Aramis more cause for concern than any anger would.
Grimaud drops the crucifix in the fire again. Aramis doesn't react. He does flinch involuntarily a little when Grimaud pulls out a knife and steps towards him, but the knife never touches his skin. Instead, Grimaud yanks open his leather doublet and slices up the front of his shirt, exposing Aramis' bare chest.
"If this was what you wanted, you could have just asked," Aramis remarks, his building panic showing itself in the quips that spill from his mouth. "You're a handsome enough man-"
"You're the Musketeer who was a monk," Grimaud says. It's not a question. "Your faith has helped you here more than I thought it would, but it won't help you again."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Aramis bluffs.
Grimaud bends down and picks up the crucifix. It's white hot by now, and even though Grimaud is wearing gloves, it must burn his fingers. Despite that, Grimaud shows no signs of discomfort. Aramis wonders briefly if he can even feel pain. He's heard stories of people who can't, and it's the only explanation he can think of for Grimaud's ability to keep getting up, no matter what they throw at him.
"I am," Grimaud says, stepping towards Aramis with the white-hot crucifix. Aramis realizes what he's going to do a second before he does it, but it's not enough time to do anything, not that Aramis thinks he would be able to do anything regardless.
Grimaud presses the crucifix against Aramis' stomach and Aramis can't help but scream.
After a moment, Grimaud pulls the crucifix away, leaving a perfect cross-shaped burn on Aramis' skin. The tiny part of Aramis' brain that isn't overwhelmed with pain notes that the fingertips of Grimaud's gloves have burnt away, and yet he still doesn't flinch. Aramis wishes he had some of that stoicism. The burn on his stomach is distracting him from the burn of his shoulder muscles, at least.
Grimaud looks down at the crucifix for a moment. "Your faith will not help you here," he says again, his voice almost dispassionate.
This time, Aramis is marginally more prepared for the burning metal against his skin, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.
Grimaud presses three little crosses into Aramis' skin before he tosses the crucifix back onto the fire. Aramis watches the arc it cuts through the air, wondering if Grimaud will press it to his skin again or if he'll let it melt away to nothing.
"You Musketeers are trouble," Grimaud remarks. "I wouldn't have had to do this if you didn't try to run."
"You're a sadist," Aramis accuses, his voice raspy. "You would have done it anyway."
"You need to be alive for now," Grimaud tells him. "But you don't need to be intact."
"You told me that already." Aramis works hard to sound bored and comes close. There's a thread of pain in his voice that he can't fully hide. "Why do you need me alive anyway?"
Grimaud looks at him dispassionately. "Doesn't matter to you. You won't live long enough to care."
"So you do plan to kill me at some point," Aramis remarks. "Just not quite yet. Why not?"
Grimaud bends down and picks up the crucifix. It's white-hot again. "No more questions, Musketeer," he states, and he steps forward.
A bucket of water to the face wakes Aramis with a start. He splutters and coughs, but each movement just causes pain to rip through his body. There are a dozen crosses on his chest. At least his shoulders barely hurt any more, although his arms have gone numb. He's certain that isn't a good thing, but all things considered, he's alright with not feeling the pain.
"Your friends haven't shown up yet," Grimaud says. One of his lackeys scurries away with a bucket. The fire is almost out.
"You know they'll kill you once they do," Aramis says. His voice is hoarse, but he's pretty sure Grimaud's not going to give him anything to drink. "You're a dead man, Grimaud."
Grimaud's smile makes Aramis shiver. "I wouldn't be so sure. I bested your captain once. I'll do it again."
"You should have died when your mother tried to drown you," Aramis spits.
For half a second, so quickly Aramis almost misses it, a flicker of emotion passes across Grimaud's face. Aramis takes note of the apparent soft spot. Then he sees Grimaud pick up a switch of wood and he forces his breathing not to speed up.
"My mother was weak."
"Your mother was strong. Stronger than you."
Grimaud grabs a knife and slices up the back of Aramis' leather doublet. He rips the back of his shirt open, then lifts the switch.
"Your mother deserved a better son than-"
The switch lands on Aramis' back and Aramis sucks in a breath. He refuses to do any more than that. He's felt worse pain, a thousand times over. He's a solider, has been for half his life. A single strike from a switch is nothing.
"Do not speak of my mother," Grimaud says, his voice soft and deadly.
Aramis has never been one to follow orders he doesn't agree with. "Your mother has helped people. She works to make the world better-"
The switch lands again. "Do not speak of my mother."
"Are you ashamed of her?" Aramis spits. "She should be ashamed of you. I'm certain she is-"
Again, and again, and again. Aramis bites his tongue too hard and spits out a globule of blood. "Do not speak of my mother." Grimaud punctuates each word with another blow.
Aramis smiles with bloodied lips. "But I've only just managed to get you talking!"
Grimaud comes around in front of him and grips Aramis' hair, tugging it hard enough that it sends a million pinpricks of pain across his scalp. "You don't want me talking, Musketeer."
Aramis bares bloodstained teeth. "Angry men slip up. Why shouldn't I make you angry?"
"If I slip up, you won't be intact or alive," Grimaud spits. He's still holding the switch, now dripping with Aramis' blood.
"You need me alive."
Grimaud shakes his head. "My plan will work just as well if you're dead."
And there's the slip-up Aramis needed. Someone is holding Grimaud's leash.
"Then why don't you just kill me?"
"Oh, believe me, I wouldn't mind doing it at all." Grimaud's breath is hot in Aramis' face. "But for now, you live."
"You have my thanks, then, monsieur," Aramis replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Grimaud drops the switch and walks over to the fire. He pokes at it a bit with a stick, enough that a few embers spark and sputter. It might produce just enough heat to keep him warm, but none of the heat reaches Aramis. He doubts his request to build up the fire will be granted again, so he doesn't even bother to try. Instead, he dangles from his chains, blood trickling down his back, and waits.
The second a gunshot rings out, Aramis knows he's saved. Grimaud looks around, a bit of worry in his eyes. Apparently, this is not going to plan.
Aramis whistles as loudly as he can. "In here!" he bellows. "Ten men-"
Grimaud strikes him with the butt of a pistol and pain flares across Aramis' entire torso. He coughs, trying to get his lungs to work again, as two men converge and take him down from the beam. The dagger embedded in it gives them a moment's pause, but not enough.
"Ten men, ten muskets!" Aramis manages to yell. "Sixteen pistols!" Adrenaline is coursing through his veins, wiping out the pain. It's going to hit hard once he comes down, especially now that his arms are no longer stretched so far. He can feel sensation coming back into his hands and arms. In ten minutes, it'll be mind-numbing pain. Now, it's what he needs to fight.
"You're a dead man, Grimaud," he adds, just as a finishing touch.
Gunshots fire everywhere. Aramis tries to count, to figure out how many men are there, but there's no way to tell. There's enough to worry Grimaud. "They're surrounding us, stop them!" he yells.
"You've awoken something in Athos," Aramis replies, his voice too breathless for the taunting to be clear.
Grimaud's fist slams into his jaw. "Go," he tells the man holding Aramis, and he grabs onto Aramis himself. He presses his pistol to the side of Aramis' head.
"You think you can use me to protect yourself?" Aramis pants. "My friends know I'd lay down my life to stop you, so go ahead."
At the end of his sentence, Porthos comes bursting into the room, guns out. He uses one like a club to hit another man, and while Grimaud is distracted, Aramis slams his cuffed fists into his face. He's at a clear disadvantage, cuffed and injured, but if he can just keep Grimaud busy for long enough that Porthos can take over-
Grimaud slams his head into Aramis' and Aramis drops to the ground, stunned. He kicks Grimaud when he gets close. His back is screaming in pain from being against the ground, but the adrenaline makes it easy to ignore the pain for now.
Another man grabs him, but Aramis uses his feet to flip him away. Porthos is fighting two men across the ruined room, and Aramis would help if he could, but he has his hands full. Grimaud and one of his lackeys, the same man Aramis just flipped, grab him and push him out of the room. Porthos is still fighting, and Aramis can't tell if he's winning or not.
Aramis tries to fight as Grimaud drags him along, but the adrenaline is starting to wear off and he hurts. Grimaud ignores his struggles entirely.
"Stop!" Porthos yells, and miraculously, they do.
Grimaud presses his pistol to the back of Aramis' head again, but this is their chance to stop him, this is their chance to win. "Lower your weapon," Grimaud growls, but Aramis interrupts.
"No, Porthos." He's suddenly exhausted.
"Lower it, I'm leaving!"
"Kill us both."
Porthos is staring, but not firing. "Do it!" Aramis yells. "Shoot, now!"
"Shut up!" Porthos bellows. There's silence for half a second, then someone else fires. Athos.
Grimaud fires back, the gun right next to Aramis' head, and the sound explodes through his brain. Something hot hits the side of his face. Grimaud lets go of him and he drops, one hand clamped over his ear, the other hand raised to accommodate the chain. Grimaud makes a run for it while Aramis is struggling to get off his knees. D'Artagnan yells, and someone fires, but Aramis knows the shot missed. Grimaud is gone.
He gets to his feet as d'Artagnan lets out a bellow of fury. "You should have all fired!" he yells, fury coursing through his veins. "Killed us both!"
D'Artagnan and Porthos step towards him, but he turns away. One set of footsteps stops, but the other - Porthos' footsteps, Aramis could recognize them in his sleep - continues.
"You shouldn't keep secrets!"
"I wanted peace!" Aramis retorts. He knows he probably looks ridiculous, the sides of his shirts and jacket falling down his arms, his burnt chest and whipped back bare. He doesn't care. "We've all seen what war does to the world! It makes refugees! Men like Grimaud, places like Eparcy." His fire starts to leave him as his wounds begin to hurt more and more.
"There can be no peace as long as Grimaud lives," Athos says matter-of-factly. He strides forward, takes Aramis' hands, and begins to pick the locks on the chains.
"No," Aramis replies, "not for you, my friend." He and Athos look at each other for a moment. Aramis breathes. He can feel blood trickling down his back.
Aramis' knees buckle and he crumples forward, falling onto Athos. He hears shouts of surprise, but all he's really aware of is pain and the sensation of Athos' holding him up. After a moment, the encroaching darkness takes hold, and then he's not even aware of that.
Aramis looks small in his unconsciousness, his torn doublet and shirt bunched at his wrists, held up only by the cuffs Athos has yet to unlock. Athos' hands are curled around him to keep his body from falling to the ground, and Athos can feel the warm blood on them.
Ideally, they would take Aramis somewhere clean to treat the wounds, but they clearly need treating now. Aramis' skin feels too hot, some of the burns on his chest look dangerously angry, and his back is still bleeding. They don't have any time to waste.
"Porthos, get the medical supplies from the horses. D'Artagnan, with me."
Porthos doesn't argue, which worries Athos almost as much as Aramis' state does. Before the war, before everything went wrong, Porthos would never leave Aramis' side when he was wounded. But apparently the unbearable tension between them has reached the point where Porthos will willingly let an injured Aramis out of his sight.
But this is a problem to deal with later, not when Aramis is unconscious and bleeding in his arms. D'Artagnan is standing next to them, his eyes wide and almost frightened. He's grown in so many ways, but in many others, he's still the boy who came blustering into the garrison years ago. No matter how much experience he may have gotten with wounded men, he still hates seeing his friends hurt.
Athos can't blame him for that in the slightest.
"Help me lift him," Athos says, nodding at Aramis. "We should get him back inside." He looks dubiously over at the ruins where Grimaud held Aramis. "If that counts as being inside."
D'Artagnan nods and picks up Aramis' feet while Athos tries to pick him up under his arms. The second he does, though, Aramis lets out a moan of pain. His shoulders are horribly bruised and swollen, but Athos isn't quite sure how he can carry Aramis without hurting him somehow.
"I think you'll have to pick him up," d'Artagnan suggests. "But be careful with his back."
Aramis' back is a bloody mess, and Athos isn't entirely certain how many wounds are actually there, so that's easier said than done. Still, Athos manages to hold Aramis against his chest without seeming to hurt him, so he considers it a victory.
D'Artagnan trails after him worriedly as Athos carries Aramis into the ruins. "You'll need to brace him upright," Athos tells him. "We can't lie him down."
"Okay," d'Artagnan agrees. "Should we take the cuffs off?"
Athos curses himself for not thinking of that himself. "I'll pick them while we wait for Porthos."
He's only got one cuff off by the time Porthos arrives, the bag of medical supplies slung over his shoulder. He sets it down and jerks a head at Aramis. "How is he?"
"We haven't been able to look much yet," Athos replies, finishing up the second handcuff. "Can you pick the locks on his feet while I see to his back?"
"Yeah, sure," Porthos replies, his eyes flickering worriedly to Aramis' face, drawn and pale even in unconsciousness. Athos passes him the lock pick, then grabs the bag of medical supplies and pulls out a skin full of water. He wets a square of cloth and carefully dabs it at the blood on Aramis' back.
The reaction is immediate. Aramis' eyes fly open and he cries out, kicking at Porthos and trying to hit d'Artagnan. His arms don't move much, but his legs hit their target. Porthos lets out a pained "oomph" as Aramis' feet connect with his ribs.
"Aramis!" d'Artagnan cries, but Aramis doesn't seem to see him. "Aramis, it's us-"
"Aramis," Athos says, grabbing Aramis' head with both hands and forcing him to look at him. "Aramis, it's alright. You're safe. It's us."
Aramis' eyes are feverish and wild for another moment, then recognition sparks in them. "A-Athos?"
"Yes, Aramis," Athos replies, tentatively letting go of his head. He leaves one hand curled behind Aramis' neck, his fingers tangled in his hair. "You're safe now. Grimaud is gone."
"Grimaud is gone," Aramis repeats, his voice a little breathless. "We didn't catch him-"
"We'll catch him next time," Athos replies. "Right now, I'm more worried about you. We need to clean these wounds."
Aramis blinks at him once, twice. "I'll need my bag-"
"I can clean them, Aramis," Athos corrects. "And I have the supplies right here. I'm going to wash off your back so I can see how bad it is."
"He used a switch," Aramis replies, his voice a little distant. "Eleven times. I don't think any of them were hard enough to do internal damage."
It's not good, but it could be much, much worse. "Do you think they'll need stitches?"
Aramis hums softly, wincing as Athos gently begins to wash the blood of his back. "I don't know. I'd have to look."
"I'll take a look," d'Artagnan offers. Aramis startles, eyes going wide as he looks over at him. He seems to only notice just then that Porthos and d'Artagnan are there too. "I've gotten to be a decent medic," d'Artagnan adds, his voice gentle.
"And to think you once threw up when you had to reset my dislocated shoulder," Aramis replies, exhausted but warm amusement in his voice.
D'Artagnan shudders. "Dislocated limbs are horrible."
"D'Artagnan draws the line at resetting dislocated limbs," Athos says dryly. "He's willing to cut into infected wounds to drain the pus-"
"That was one time, and it was revolting."
"-But he refused to reset my shoulder or Porthos' knee."
"I must have traumatized him," Aramis teases, his voice threaded with pain. Athos is cleaning his back as gently as he possibly can, but he's fairly certain there's no way he could do it without causing at least a bit of pain. He's hoping to cause the least amount possible.
Porthos still hasn't said a word. He's bent over Aramis' chains, taking far longer than usual to pick the locks. Athos frowns at him, wondering if he's concussed or still angry or both. He's guessing both.
"D'Artagnan, come take a look at these," Athos says. "I'll hold Aramis up."
"I can hold myself up," Aramis protests weakly.
"You don't need to, my friend," Athos replies. He crouches next to d'Artagnan and awkwardly takes his place, bracing Aramis gently. As d'Artagnan begins to tut over the wounds on Aramis' back, Athos frowns at the ones on his stomach. He didn't notice before, but now he can see that they're all shaped like a cross, a specific cross that Athos recognizes.
"Grimaud didn't like my rosary," Aramis says quietly, following Athos' gaze. "He didn't like it from the beginning, but I think he liked it even less when I used it to pick my cuffs."
"Whatever would the monks think," Athos replies dryly.
"I'm certain they'd disapprove," Aramis replies, aiming for cheerful and missing. "When Grimaud finally finished, he made sure the crucifix melted completely, so I didn't have a chance to try that trick again."
"Most of these aren't as bad as they could be," d'Artagnan reports. "I'm going to clean them out with spirits, Aramis."
"Make sure to do it thoroughly," Aramis replies, nothing in his voice betraying fear over the idea. "Do any of them need stitches?"
"A few might," d'Artagnan admits. "I'm sorry."
"Nothing to apologize for," Aramis replies easily. "Do you have the spirits you need?"
"In the bag," d'Artagnan replies, pulling out a bottle. "Do you want something to bite down on?"
Athos picks up one of the halves of Aramis' doublet and folds it, offering it to Aramis. Aramis tries to grasp it, but his arms refuse to move. Looking horribly embarrassed, he allows Athos to place it in his mouth and bites down hard.
D'Artagnan is gentle, but pain is visible in every line of Aramis' body anyway as the alcohol-soaked rag touches his back. "I'm sorry," d'Artagnan tells him miserably. "I need to stitch two of these. Should I do it now or give you some time?"
Aramis shakes his head. He spits out the leather and manages a hoarse, "Now."
"Are you certain?" Athos asks, frowning. "If you want to wait, we can wait."
"Now," Aramis repeats. "I want it over with."
"You should bite down on your doublet again," d'Artagnan suggests. "Porthos, can you get him a new shirt?"
Porthos doesn't respond. Aramis' hand twitches in an aborted attempt to touch his shoulder, but his arm refuses to move. "Porthos," Athos says firmly, reaching out and tapping his shoulder.
Porthos jerks up, his eyes disoriented. "Concussion," Aramis diagnoses quietly. "Porthos, can you hear me?"
"'M not gonna shoot," Porthos says, his voice slurred. "'M not gonna shoot, Aramis."
"No one wants you to shoot, mon ami," Athos says quietly. He waves over one of the cadets that rode with them. "Keep an eye on Porthos," he tells the boy. "He's concussed."
The boy nods. Concussions are common among the Musketeers, perhaps ridiculously so. Everyone knows how to deal with them, and Athos knows Porthos will be in good hands until d'Artagnan can see to him.
He also knows that Aramis is going to want d'Artagnan to see to him in about five, four, three, two…
"D'Artagnan, you should check on him," Aramis urges, right on schedule. "You don't have to do the stitches quite yet."
D'Artagnan looks worried. "I can do them now, Aramis. Porthos is in good hands."
"You should see to him," Aramis replies. Athos knows that, if Aramis could move his arms, he would be trying to see to Porthos himself, regardless of his other injuries. He's seen it happen before. "You can stitch me up after."
D'Artagnan meets Athos' gaze over Aramis' shoulder. Athos nods minutely. It's not worth arguing about, and giving Aramis a bit of a break before stitching his back isn't a bad thing. His body has been through enough trauma already.
"Alright, but I'll be quick," d'Artagnan replies, standing. "And then we'll do the stitches."
"I await your return with bated breath," Aramis replies dryly.
D'Artagnan leaves, following the cadet and Porthos out to the wagons. Athos stays where he is, his hands keeping Aramis' trembling body from falling into the dirt. For a moment, things are quiet.
"You knew Porthos would never take that shot," Athos says quietly.
"Did I?" Aramis replies, his voice utterly mild. Athos can see why the queen chose him to be her representative for the peace talks. Beyond the fact that he can speak Spanish and is unquestioningly loyal to the throne, Aramis is also masterful at saying just the right thing, when he puts his mind to it. That fact has driven Athos mad over the years, considering Aramis often chose not to.
Aramis hasn't done it with Athos in years, not really. Hearing the too-careful words directed towards him again for the first time in so long is an unpleasant experience.
"Why on Earth would you think that he would?"
Aramis scoffs. "I haven't forgotten that you held me at sword point yourself, Captain." The scorn in Aramis' voice is unexpected and cutting. "The mission comes first. I understand that. I was willing to let Porthos put the mission first. He could have shot me, I wanted him to, if it would stop Grimaud."
"None of us would have seen that as an acceptable loss."
"Once, perhaps, but we are not as we once were. Porthos was right. I shouldn't have kept secrets, but we haven't been that close since I got back from the monastery. The three of you are still close, but I-" Aramis cuts himself off in frustration. "It doesn't matter. Porthos should have shot."
"It does matter," Athos counters softly. "Aramis, Porthos was angry at you for leaving us to go to the monastery, I won't deny that. But that doesn't mean he's willing to kill you. That doesn't mean that we're still angry with you."
"Porthos is."
"I can't speak for Porthos," Athos replies, because sometimes he suspects that himself. "But I can speak of myself, and I'm not angry with you any more, brother. I never had any right to be angry with you in the first place. If you asked d'Artagnan and Constance, I'm sure they'd say the same."
"Porthos would not."
"I don't give a damn what Porthos would say," Athos says, the anger in his voice surprising even himself. "If Porthos is still holding a grudge, that is a matter for Porthos to deal with. It doesn't meant you deserve it."
There's an uneven tinge to Aramis' breathing, but Athos can't tell if it's from his injuries or their conversation. It might be from both. "You're not angry, though?" he finally asks in a very small voice.
Athos has never been inclined towards hugging, but he wishes he could hug Aramis now. He settles for pressing their foreheads together gently. "No, I'm not," he says quietly. "You have my forgiveness, Aramis. I do not think you have done anything you need to be forgiven for, but if you want it, it's yours."
This time, the unevenness in Aramis' breathing manifests itself in a definite hitch. Athos presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You are my brother, Aramis. No matter what you do, you will always be my brother. There is nothing you can do to change that."
"I'm sorry," Aramis whispers, his voice choked. "I'm sorry I left, I'm sorry I didn't fight with you, I'm sorry I kept secrets, I'm sorry."
"I forgive you," Athos replies, running a hand through Aramis' hair and holding him as close as he dares. "I forgive you."
When they're finally ready to move out, Aramis is faced with a dilemma. The cart is filled with Spanish prisoners and is thus not the best place for him to travel, but there's no way he can ride a horse himself. The thought of riding with someone else makes his torso ache with the mere expectation of pain. And yet, there is no other option.
"Aramis," Athos says, appearing at his elbow the second Aramis pushes himself shakily to his feet. His too-big shirt - he thinks it might belong to Porthos, which makes his stomach flip oddly - billows around him. "Do you want to ride with me or d'Artagnan?"
"Whichever of you is willing to ride with me," Aramis replies. He wonders if Porthos wasn't mentioned as an option because of his concussion or because he is unwilling to ride with Aramis. He doesn't think he wants to know the answer.
"You should ride with me," d'Artagnan puts in. "Athos is still a little sore from his own time with Grimaud."
Guilt clogs up Aramis' throat at the reminder. He hasn't even thought of how Athos is, whether he's still in pain from his mostly-healed ribs, whether he got hurt at all during the fighting. He's supposed to be their medic, he's supposed to pay attention to these things. He should know-
"Stop blaming yourself," Athos says dryly. "I don't know what you're blaming yourself for, but I can see it on your face. Stop it."
"Was anyone injured in the fighting?" Aramis asks. His voice comes out as a rasp.
"Nothing serious," d'Artagnan replies. "We were lucky. Your warning helped."
It's hollow praise, like a compliment given to a child. Aramis is the reason they were all in this situation in the first place. He's the reason they couldn't stop Grimaud today. He's the reason-
"Stop it," Athos scolds again. "Your time in the monastery seems to have made you even worse about guilt than you were before, as difficult as that is to believe."
D'Artagnan snorts. "Come on," he tells Aramis, gingerly wrapping a hand around his hips, carefully below the marks from the switch. "Let's get you over to the horse."
The horse d'Artagnan leads him to is not d'Artagnan's own, but Aramis'. "Where's your horse?" Aramis asks, noticing that he can't see it anywhere.
"Long story," d'Artagnan replies. "I'll tell you on the ride home. If I give you a boost, will you be able to get up there?"
Aramis scowls. "I think so," he replies, although he's still only got the tiniest bit of painful mobility in his shoulders. "I suppose we'll find out."
D'Artagnan boosts Aramis up enough that he's able to clamber onto the horse. It's painful and he's breathing harshly once he finally stops moving, but he's atop the horse. D'Artagnan climbs up in front of him, gathering the reins in a loose grip.
"Are you alright?" he asks worriedly. "Do you want laudanum? We have some in the saddlebags."
"I'm fine," Aramis replies, even though he's certain riding is going to be very, very painful. "Save the laudanum for someone who needs it."
"I can get more once we get back to Paris," d'Artagnan counters. "Aramis, you can just take some-"
"I'm fine, d'Artagnan," Aramis bites out.
"Are we ready to head out?" Athos asks mildly, trotting over to them.
"We are," Aramis replies before d'Artagnan can say anything. "It's not that long a ride," he adds to d'Artagnan quietly, once Athos rides off to assume his position at the front. "I'll manage."
"You can just take the damn laudanum," d'Artagnan mutters, but he doesn't mention it again.
The ride is agonizing. Aramis rests his head on d'Artagnan's shoulder as d'Artagnan babbles some story in an attempt to keep Aramis' mind off the pain. It doesn't work. By the time they reach Paris, Aramis is shaky and sweaty and potentially about to vomit. D'Artagnan, thankfully, doesn't make any more comments about laudanum.
"You should see a physician," he says when they finally reach the garrison. He has to help Aramis off the horse, which would be humiliating if Aramis weren't so focused on remaining conscious through the experience. "I did my best, but I don't have any actual training."
"Physicians are bloodthirsty bastards," Aramis replies hoarsely, once he scrapes up enough energy to talk. "I think I've lost enough blood already."
D'Artagnan's mouth turns down in an unhappy fashion. "At least let Constance fuss over you, then? She'll do it whether you want her to or not, and she's gotten quite good at dealing with injuries."
Aramis just hums in response, too little breath in his lungs to form words. D'Artagnan wraps an arm around his hips again and helps him up to his room.
"The queen will want to know what happened," Aramis murmurs. "I should tell her-"
"You're staying here," d'Artagnan commands. "We'll talk to the queen. I'll go back down with Athos, and I'll send Constance up here, alright?"
Aramis would rather he not, but he doesn't think he's got much of a choice. "Fine."
D'Artagnan deposits Aramis on his bed gingerly and leaves. Aramis considers trying to take off his boots, but his shoulders are still stiff and sore, and he's not sure he'll be able to manage it.
Constance arrives in a flurry of skirts, bumping the door open with her hip, hands carrying bandages and a bowl of water. "You can never just have a simple mission, can you?" she sighs, setting the bowl down and shaking her head at Aramis. "Always have to go and get yourself hurt."
Aramis can't help but smile, just a little. "I assure you, capture was not my intention."
Constance huffs. "Alright, off with that shirt. I'm going to take a look at you."
Aramis doesn't move. He really doesn't want to admit that he can't lift his arms enough to take off the shirt, but he knows Constance will find out. He's not going to be able to talk her out of looking over his wounds, and so he'll have to tell her sooner or later that his shoulders are so stiff he can barely move them.
"Aramis, can you take off your shirt?" Constance asks, concern on her face.
"I was a fool," slips out from Aramis' lips instead of an answer. "I should never have- I was a fool."
"Aramis-"
"I just wanted this war to be over. War never solves anything, it only makes more problems and hurts more people. The kings can declare it because they never have to see it, but for the soldiers…" Aramis shakes his head. "I am half French and half Spanish. I am living proof that the two can be reconciled. The Queen is Spanish. The Dauphin is part Spanish, for God's sake." In truth, the Dauphin is more Spanish than he is French, but no one can know that. "Why are we fighting our neighbors?"
Constance sighs deeply and sits down next to Aramis on the bed. "I don't know," she admits. "It doesn't make sense to me either." She rests a hand on Aramis' knee and squeezes gently. "You thought you were doing the right thing. I'm still not convinced you weren't." She frowns at him. "D'Artagnan didn't really have time to tell me what happened. He just said you got captured by Grimaud. Tell me the rest."
Aramis doesn't want to talk about it, but he's fairly certain no one can keep anything from Constance when she decides she wants to know something. The thought of lying doesn't even pass through his mind - it's impossible to lie to Constance - and instead the whole mess of a story comes spilling out. How Anne said she wanted peace and asked for his help. How he had meetings with the Spanish ambassador that seemed positive, and how he didn't realize this one was a trap until it was too late. How Grimaud tied him up and left him dangling from a beam. How he managed to escape.
How Grimaud made him regret it.
Constance helps him out of Porthos' too-big shirt to survey the damage herself as Aramis tells her about receiving it. For a moment, he considers censoring it so as not to speak too graphically in front of Constance, but she gives him a look and reminds him that she has seen worse. Aramis doesn't try to keep anything from her after that.
Constance's hands are cool and gentle as she cleans and dresses the wounds. She has better bandages than d'Artagnan did, and she wraps them gently around Aramis' torso. It's a difficult balance of making them tight enough for the switch marks on his back while loose enough for the burns on his front. It's painful, but it doesn't hurt as much as receiving the wounds did. Aramis keeps his eyes fixed on the wall and continues his story. He stops when he reaches the moment the Musketeers arrived.
"Well?" Constance prompts. "I saw Porthos stumbling around in the courtyard like he was drunk, so the battle must have been interesting."
"It was my fault Grimaud got away," Aramis says. He's certain Constance will not agree, but he's equally certain he's right. "He used me as a shield. I told Porthos to shoot, but he didn't, and Grimaud got away."
Constance is silent for a long moment. Aramis would hunch in on himself if he could move without agony. He is half waiting for Constance to agree with him, and he knows she won't, but she could, and he's not sure what he would do if she did.
"I'm glad," Constance says, and Aramis does a double take, heedless of his torso.
"You're what?"
"If the only way to stop Grimaud was by killing you too, I'm glad he got away." Constance takes Aramis' hand in hers and runs her finger along his knuckles. "We'll get him later, Aramis. He'll be stopped. But you are not an acceptable casualty."
"Constance-"
"Porthos would never take that shot. None of us would."
"You should. If it's the only way-"
"There's always another way, Aramis," Constance says, shaking her head. "You know that. And you are not an acceptable loss."
There are tears welling in Aramis' eyes. He blinks them back. He will not be so weak as to let them fall.
"We all love you," Constance says, and then she whispers, "Oh, Aramis," as the tears start to fall, regardless of everything Aramis does to try to stop them. She pulls him in for a hug as gently as she can, and it's a little painful, but Aramis is willing to bear it.
"I'm sorry," Aramis gasps against her shoulder. "I'm sorry-"
"You don't need to be." Constance twists her fingers through his hair, tugging on it just enough to keep him grounded. Aramis wonders when she figured out that quirk of his. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
Athos said that too, and Aramis knows they both mean it, but he doesn't think he's going to be able to believe it until the words come from Porthos' lips as well.
Grimaud begins his smear campaign against the queen. They all know it has to be Grimaud, even if all the evidence points to Sylvie, because Sylvie would never do it but Grimaud would.
Sylvie is whipped, and Athos sits by her side, and Aramis sits in his room and wishes Porthos had taken the damn shot.
It's not until later that Aramis hears a knock on his door. "Come in," he calls distractedly, trying to still his trembling fingers enough to pull on his boots.
The door opens, and only then does Aramis recognize the footsteps and wish he hadn't spoken.
"Hey," Porthos says. He looks uncomfortable, his weight shifting from leg to leg. There is a line of neat stitches along the side of his head. Aramis did not put them there.
"Hey," Aramis replies cautiously. He puts down the boot - his hands are shaking too much to grip it anyway - and stands. "What-"
"I think we need to talk."
Aramis blinks. "Um."
Porthos closes the door behind him and steps forward. He gestures at the bed. "May I?"
"Of course," Aramis replies, stepping to the side. He hovers awkwardly next to Porthos, not wanting to sit so close to him. Normally he would, but he's not sure how it would be received now, and he's too scared to find out.
"Sit down, for Christ's sake," Porthos demands gruffly. "You look like hell."
Aramis sits down on the end of the bed. There is space between him and Porthos that has never been there before. Aramis doesn't know how to make it go away.
Porthos sighs. "Athos talked to me."
Aramis doesn't think he's going to like where this is going. "He did?"
"Before everything with Sylvie. And then Constance came over too, and then d'Artagnan followed her. So I ended up talking with all three of them."
Aramis really doesn't like where this is going. "What did they say?"
Porthos shrugs. "Said I needed to fix things with you."
Aramis doesn't think the tremble in his hands is just from the lingering muscle strain in his shoulders. "Oh," he rasps.
"I think they've got a point," Porthos adds, and Aramis can feel his heart pounding in his chest. "We haven't been right for a while now, you and me."
"It's my fault," Aramis manages. "I shouldn't have left you. I should have come back."
"We went to Douai," Porthos says, his voice a little gruff. "Athos and d'Artagnan and I. A monk met us and said that you weren't taking visitors."
Aramis blinks. His chest feels too tight, and there's not enough air in the room. "They never- I didn't-" He knew that there was a war, of course, and part of him regretted that he didn't go to fight with his brothers, but he didn't know that they'd come to try and fetch him. He didn't know that his brothers had come for him, even after he left them-
Porthos frowns. "They never told you?"
Aramis manages to shake his head. "I was a new initiate at that point. I was in confinement, and I wasn't supposed to have visitors, but I thought they would have told me-"
"You still could have come to us," Porthos says, his voice a little petulant. "You knew we were fighting."
"Being in the monastery was a sacrifice," Aramis replies. "Sacrifices aren't supposed to be easy. I wanted to go back to you, but I made a vow-"
"And while you were off torturing yourself, you were hurting the rest of us too," Porthos spits. Aramis wishes the vitriol in his words weren't as common as it is, but he knows he deserves it.
That doesn't stop him from matching it.
"At least you three had each other," he retorts. "Anyway, you said you learned to live without me, so what does it matter?"
"It's not like we wanted to!" Porthos snaps. "We had no choice! You didn't give us a choice!"
"Going to Douai was my decision! I had every right to make it!"
"And we have every right to be pissed-"
"Except you're the only one who is!" Aramis cries. There's more desperation in his voice than he would prefer. He knows he should shut his mouth, but he can't. "The others say they've forgiven me and I'm trying to fix things with you but I don't know how."
"You're not trying that hard," Porthos snaps.
"I am, Porthos, I swear," Aramis half-begs. "I just want things to be like they used to be-"
"They can't be, Aramis." Porthos sounds half angry, half exhausted. "Things can't be the way they used to be, not anymore."
"Then can we at least try to make things better? I'm trying, Porthos-"
"You call telling me to shoot you 'trying'?"
"I wanted to stop Grimaud!" Aramis' hands are shaking violently now, far more than they were before. He hurts all over, and his anger is bubbling up in his gut, and he knows he should stop this now but he can't. "I wanted to stop Grimaud, and I still think you should have taken that damn shot. We're soldiers, Porthos, sometimes we die-"
"I know that soldiers die!" Porthos bellows. "I know, Aramis! I was on the damn front lines, I was fighting in Spain while you were hiding away in a monastery-"
"Then why didn't you shoot?" Aramis yells, rocketing upright. He's only taller than Porthos for a few moments before Porthos stands too, and he's only got an inch on Aramis, but his boots give him a bit more height, and he uses every bit of it. "Why didn't you shoot me?"
"Because I couldn't!" Porthos is furious, and Aramis knows he did this, but he doesn't regret it one bit. He's getting answers from Porthos, finally, and hot fury is better than the cold dismissal he's been getting ever since he came back from Douai. "I couldn't fire with you in the way."
Perhaps Aramis should be glad to hear that Porthos couldn't fire on him, but he's still too angry. "If you'd fired, none of this would have happened," he snarls, gesturing expansively. "Sylvie wouldn't have been whipped, the queen's name wouldn't be smeared-"
"Oh, and we both know you just care about the queen," Porthos replies derisively. "You'll do anything she asks-"
"I wanted peace!" Aramis bellows. "I just wanted peace, and I thought you would understand that. I thought you wanted peace too."
"Don't turn this around on me-"
"This is on you! I'm my own person, Porthos. I'm free to do whatever I want to do, and I don't have to tell you if I don't want to. You don't own me, and I sure as hell don't owe you anything."
"I wish the others hadn't convinced me to talk to you," Porthos says, his voice ice cold.
Aramis is shaking in fury, and he feels horribly close to tears. "If you'd just fired when I told you to, you wouldn't have to," he retorts, and he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
It's only a moment later, once the fog of fury clears a bit, that Aramis realizes he just stormed out of his own room, his feet bare and in nothing but his shirtsleeves. He's not about to go back in - he's far too proud for that - so he walks off, bare feet padding on the floor. For a moment, he considers going to find Athos, but he dismisses the thought immediately. Athos is going through enough already without adding Aramis' problems to it. Next, he considers trying to find Constance and d'Artagnan, but they're probably dealing with their own problems as well, and Aramis doesn't want to bother them.
In the end, he finds himself in the armory, which is thankfully empty. For a moment, he considers cleaning rifles to steady himself, but his hands are shaking too much. His shoulders still burn, and he doesn't know how long it'll be before he can move his arms freely again.
He shot Marsac in this armory. He doesn't often think about it, but the thought is stuck in his head now. If Porthos had shot him, he would have fallen the same way Marsac did, gracelessly onto the ground, blood leaking from his chest. He wonders if anyone would have caught him the way he caught Marsac.
Aramis waits in the armory for a while, and then he slips back out and returns to his room. It's empty, as he expected it would be. He closes the door and goes to his bed, kneeling next to it. He has no rosary anymore, but that doesn't stop him from praying.
He prays until his knees ache as much as the rest of him, then he manages to crawl into bed, curling up on his side and pressing his eyes shut, hoping the next morning will bring a better day than this one did.