For a while, I had a poll up on my profile page asking the question, 'Which background story would you guys like to see?'
The result? Aramis from BBC's The Musketeers. Played by the dashing Santiago Cabrera in the show, we all love him.
Aramis, in love with a Spanish queen who he could not have, and father to the heir of France…. but how did he get there? Become a musketeer? This is that story. Enjoy, and if you do, review!
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but it doesn't mean I don't love them. Et maintenant, pour l'histoire ... (If you wonder what that means, look it up.)
His name was Rene d'Herblay. Son of Alexander d'Herblay, a poor farmer who lived strictly off the land.
He was a charmer, a dreamer, a romantic. By age eleven he had half the town of girls flocking him, vying desperately for his attention. By age sixteen, one of them got it.
One evening in late May, he was rounding the corner of his father's sheep shed, carrying a bucket of water for the animals. The shed was dark and cool inside, and in order to see, he lit the lantern which hung above.
Once it had illuminated the small space, he went about watering the animals.
"Ah, Luciole, your ami here has eaten your food, has he not? You big bully, Marguerite." He took the oblivious sheep by the ear and dragged it out into the other stall. "I'll get you more, Luc, stop your blathering." The sheep quieted, looking at Rene with its large eyes, and its jaw working stupidly.
Rene made his way out to the back of the barn, shuffling his feet. It had begun to rain, and the sky often flashed with sharp-looking light. The hay would be wet, for the roof of the hayshed often leaked, but Rene, feeling rather lazy, didn't care. He'd rather be inside, curled on the hearthrug with a biscuit than out in the raid feeding stinky, ungrateful animals. Picking up a handful of hay, he turned around, making for the door. But something caught his attention. Blood. It was dripping all over his hands, off the hay. Dropping it in disgust, he searched himself. There were no cuts, no injuries of any size to produce that much blood. His hands had various small scratches from the day's work, nothing serious. Perhaps an injured animal…? Cautiously, he inched over to the hay. Not to his surprise, there was something. Not an animal, however, but a patch of soft looking blue, stained heavily in places with…blood. He poked it, and the blue shifted, flinching. A groan arose, and Rene jumped backwards, picking up the old rifle in the corner with one movement. It didn't shoot. It probably didn't even cock. There were no bullets, and he wouldn't know how to load it anyway. But he would always bash this stranger over the head with it.
"El agua, por favor ... tienes ... agua, chico? Tengo ... tiro - h-hombro, creo. Ayuadame."
"You speak Spanish." He mused, slapping his forehead when he realized he'd just said that in French. Switching to Spanish, he asked, "Who are you, sir?"
"¡Ayuadame!"
"Yes, yes I will, but I need to know your name. Please sir!" he glanced behind him, out the door. There was no one outside, and the lights were off in the house, making it look dark and tired in the glow of evening rain. This man looked like some kind of fugitive. He still felt as though there was someone there.
"¿Me puede llamar a un…. Muerto."
Rene's eyes got wide, and he tripped over himself trying to get out of the door. He was caught by his shirt by a thin hand.
"Tendrá que tomar el cuidado de mí !" The man drew out a knife, long and brilliant silver, speckled with blood. Rene felt its blade kiss his forehead, and he cried out, clutching the wound. It would scar.
Fear, clutching him like a vine of ivy does a stone Wall, he stumbled back to the house, passing Isabelle.
"What did you see?" he cried, feeling blood running into his eyes. He staggered in pain as the rain hit his wound.
"Rene!"
He started running. After that, he thought he would never hear tell of it again, nor breathe a word to other ears.
One day some time later, however, four men rode into their village on horseback, wearing brilliant uniforms and sporting rapiers at the hip. They were so serious, and very intriguing.
"I am Captain Treville of the King' Musketeers. We are looking for a man named Frances Boudreaux. He is an escaped prisoner of the Musketeers. About this tall, shaggy hair, brown eyes. Wore a stolen blue velvet jerkin. He was wounded, so he would be bleeding." The tallest one said, lightly jumping from his horse. The animal grunted and tossed its head skittishly. It was only Isabelle and Rene out in the streets, for it was a hot day. Neither one said anything for what seemed like a long time. Rene wished he wasn't so desperately afraid, so that he could have been of some help to these… Musketeers. That is what they called themselves. But fear once again stopped him.
"You haven't seen him?"
At last a voice could be heard, one far too familiar to Rene to ignore.
"I have, Monsieur, he…." She paused, a bit frightened, glancing at Rene. He only stared at her. "hid in Rene's shed. He gave him this injury. She lightly touched the bandage on his forehead, and he flinched.
"Let me see that. The man peeled back the bandage, and winced. "It was deep. You are lucky you did not go blind, or loose the eye."
"Yes, I was."
"So you were very close to him when he cut you. Did he look as we say?"
"Indeed. In all but one way."
"What is that?"
"He looked afraid."
Treville's expression softened slightly. "Yes, he would, too. He's got the guillotine to fear, Lad. Say, how long ago was this?"
"Five days I'd say. He told me- "Rene's gaze wandered.
"Hmmm?"
"He told me that he was called, 'Dead One.' Muerto, is what he called himself."
Treville's eyes grew wide with sudden realization. "He knows we're coming."
"Sir?"
"He knows we plan for him to die, and he knows where he needs to go to escape that. He is going to Milady."
One of the Musketeers still on horseback, a young man with blonde hair and curious brown eyes gave a sound of discomfort, and Rene noticed only then that he was slowly slumping over.
"What is wrong with your friend?" He asked.
"Arnaud was wounded by Boudreaux. He speaks Spanish, and has translated everything Boudreaux has said to us so far. Until our 'Muerto' stabbed him in the gut. He has made it this far, but needs rest." An idea struck the man. "You understood Boudreaux- you speak Spanish, do you not?"
"Fluently."
"Good, Arnaud shall rest here, and you may come with us." He looked to the North. "That is where the Dead One is."
TBC