A/N: This is just a little something that came to me when I was reading – or rereading, I should say – one of my favourite books from when I was younger. As always, I really hope you enjoy it and I'd love to know your thoughts!
Along the Shore
'Aramis? Aramis!'
He stirs at the sound of his name, bones aching, muscles weary, his body sapped of all strength and tired beyond the asking.
'Aramis! Answer me!'
He groans, becoming aware of wet sand beneath his cheek, and heaves himself up and over so he is slumped on his back and can stare at the pitch-black sky above with its pinpricked stars - wide, open and endless.
'Aramis!'
There is the sound of boots splashing through salty water and droplets on his face, then d'Artagnan is beside him, long fingers fumbling at his shirtfront, sitting him up as the waves wash around them, running up and then down the shore of the now-tranquil bay.
'I thought you were dead! I have searched everywhere, everyone thought you were lost, drowned or-'
He listens with half an ear. D'Artagnan's joy, his relief, are piercing and he is suddenly glad despite the trials of the past night that he was not the one left behind, forced by a broken arm to wait on the outcome of a surely-damned mission. But then d'Artagnan is hauling him to his feet with his one good arm and all else is forgotten as exhaustion beckons.
It takes hours but d'Artagnan leads him, stumbling and sore, to a make-shift camp somewhere in the night, far, far up the beach. Torches burn, marking its bounds, but he is barely aware of them, having eyes only for his fellow musketeers, sprawled out in various states of sleep, limbs long, sodden and ungainly. Treville is there, haggard with worry and hollow-eyed but clapping a hand on his shoulder as d'Artagnan eases him down against an empty wagon, then covers him with a blanket before rising to go.
Sleep pulls but he manages to hook a finger in d'Artagnan's shirtsleeve, finding it stiff with crusted salt and rusted blood. 'Athos?' he rasps. 'And Porthos?'
D'Artagnan's eyes darken, the flickering torches catching the planes of his face with strange shadows that age and weary him. 'I'll find them,' he says, and Aramis nods, forcing away his fears as he drops into sleep once more.
The smell of onion soup creeps into his dreams, and he wakes to find a broad figure holding a full wooden bowl out to him, silhouetted by the dawn.
Clumsy with sleep, he grabs at it, lifting it to his lips and feeling its warmth spill down through him, the first nourishment he's had in who knows how long.
Above him, someone chuckles. 'Seems you're hungry.'
He looks up, registers that it is Porthos before him and instead of answering reaches out and tugs his friend down so they sit shoulder to shoulder. A lifetime or more seems to have passed since last they were together and he is content for a time to breathe in the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder and that which is singularly Porthos, solid and warm and steadiness embodied.
Porthos nudges him with a bandaged arm, a weary grin splitting his face. 'Good to see you awake. Thought you were going to sleep for a week.'
He tries to speak, coughs, tries again. 'What happened?'
Porthos sobers. 'D'Artagnan found me not long after you, brought me back here.' He huffs a wry laugh. 'Not sure how the lad managed it. Treville says he spotted me hanging off a rock about a half-mile out to sea. Had to take a boat out to bring me back.'
He digests this. 'And Athos?'
Porthos shakes his head, sharp and tight. 'No sign of him yet.'
'He'll make it.'
Porthos nods. 'Course he will.'
They sit in silence after that.
The story comes out bit by bit, told by survivors and grateful residents of the nearby villages. Nearly two-thirds of the enemy fleet had been sunk during the night, lost to fires set by himself and his companions as they had bobbed alongside the big ships in one-man coracles, bearing only a brush coated with tar and a sharp flint. France is safe once more, the raiders put down, and he tells himself that is what matters each time he struggles awake, woken by the memory of cloying smoke and burning planks and with the panicked screams of dying men ringing in his ears.
He passes the day caught between wakefulness and dreams, with Porthos drowsing against him, heavy-headed and snoring. He sees many familiar faces, learns of others missing, and d'Artagnan comes and goes, bringing back bodies and the odd survivor, though still there is no sign of Athos.
Finally he wakes from a bone-weary rest to see Treville crouching before him and Porthos, his face grim and voice sharp.
'Have you seen d'Artagnan?'
He shakes his head, Porthos with him, and Treville lets out a curse.
'That fool,' he says, standing up and crushing an already crumpled hat between his hands. 'Last time I laid eyes on him I told him to stay put. He's been scouring the beaches for survivors for near two days now. He needs some rest.'
'He's just keeping himself busy,' grunts Porthos, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. 'Can't fault him for wanting to help, stuck back here like he was.'
Aramis shakes his head foggily, runs his aching fingers through his salt-dried curls. 'Athos is still out there,' he states, certain of his next words right down to his gut. 'D'Artagnan won't stop 'til he's found.'
Beside him, Porthos shifts, then heaves upwards, a mountain on the move. 'Then I guess we'd better go after them.'
A gull cries, low and pure against the fading light of day as he and Porthos stumble along the shore. He does not know quite who is holding the other up, but what strength they have each regained is seeping swiftly away as they follow d'Artagnan's bootprints in the sand, which weave wider and wider the further they go. D'Artagnan was clearly flagging by this time, and so are they.
An age beyond what Treville described to them as the search-circle, he is starting to lose hope when he hears it - d'Artagnan's voice gone low and dangerous, echoing from behind an ancient heap of boulders once tumbled together by the sea. He exchanges a look with Porthos and they break into a heavy-legged run, drawing on their last reserves of energy as they round the rocky pile only to skid to a stop, sending sand scattering in the setting sun.
D'Artagnan is crouched over an unconscious Athos, his face a mess of cuts and bruises as he stares down two men, raiders both, each with matted blond hair, wild eyes and rocks in their hands. Two bodies already lie before him - one with a bullet-hole in his head that leaks bloody matter onto the sand, and the other with an arm outstretched, still holding a stained knife that matches a seeping wound in d'Artagnan's side - and he realises they have arrived just in time.
'Touch him and I'll kill you.'
D'Artagnan's voice is almost a growl, awash with desperation, exhaustion and anger. He has not noticed them yet, focused on his enemies, and Aramis takes advantage of it. Too tired for tactics, he steps forward, drawing his pistol from his belt and his sword from his waist, and hears Porthos doing the same beside him. They make a fearsome pair, emerging from the dying sun, and d'Artagnan grins sharp and fierce as he sees them before falling back, one hand resting on Athos' chest and the other clutched across his wound. Opposite him, the two raiders exchange a look then drop to their knees, their arms raised high, and Aramis knows that he and his friends have won.
Porthos glances at him. 'That was easy,' he comments, drawing some rope from his belt and moving forwards, his pistol still levelled threateningly.
He shakes his head, sheathes his sword and heads for d'Artagnan, who looks ready to collapse on top of a finally-stirring Athos. 'Something in this life has to be.'
This time it is his turn to help d'Artagnan, propping him up as he does his best to fall asleep mid-step, his body finally failing after being pushed beyond its limits. Porthos is assisting Athos, mindful of the gash on his forehead and his broken ribs, and the two raiders trail behind, bound by ropes and too exhausted to run.
A guard calls out a warning before he even spies the camp in the dusky darkness, but he keeps going, trudging forwards through the sand, stopping only when they are safe inside and he can ease an almost comatose d'Artagnan down by a campfire that has sprung up in their absence, sending sputtering flames high into the ink-coloured sky. He senses Porthos levering Athos to the ground by d'Artagnan's head, then hears his friend's low familiar rumble as he turns to Treville, who has come up beside them, bearing blankets, food and flasks of heated wine.
All he wants is sleep.
Still muttering to Treville, Porthos grabs a blanket and drapes it over Athos, who murmurs and sighs before curling into it until all that is visible of him is a mop of brown hair and a flash of white bandages. D'Artagnan stirs at the noise, so Aramis reaches out clumsily to grab more blankets from a helpful villager before sinking to the ground himself. 'Sleep, d'Artagnan,' he murmurs, tugging the blanket closer and finding himself ridiculously grateful when Porthos arrives to fling it over them both as he slumps down at d'Artagnan's feet, throwing a large cloak about his own broad shoulders and falling immediately asleep with several loud snores.
Safe in the knowledge that his friends are about him, Aramis allows himself a smile as he hears Treville's voice above him, admonishing but warm.
'Go to sleep, Aramis. You did well, all of you. Get some rest.'
And he does.
END