As always, a HUGE thank to Kevin for the proofreading!

1- Water

Aramis walked into the water, enjoying the unusual resistance as much as the delicious iodized air that filled his lungs. The sea rose above his knees, waves occasionally reaching his hips, the moisture and salt sticking his shirt to his skin. It should have been unpleasant but, much to his surprise, he found the feeling invigorating.

Maybe his brothers had been right.

He raised his head, gazing out across the whitecaps, wincing when he met the sun in the horizon. There was a chill in the evening air but he wasn't cold. Casquet and Gilette had warned him about the tide that could pull you out to sea or in against the treacherous rocks hemming the alluring creeks. Yet, the waves seemed weak enough, and he had no intention of going far away from the coast. He let himself dive into the blessed water.
His left arm was still a bit stiff, but didn't hurt anymore.

He had never swum in the sea. Well, except this one day, at La Rochelle, when he'd fallen from the boat and had had to make his way back to shore through waves of blood and corpses, avoiding the sharp-edged reefs and the cannonballs. He'd been a bit too busy, all the while, trying to save his life, to enjoy the feeling.

After that, he'd been to Normandy a bunch of times, to escort a precious cargo on its way to the colonies, or to deliver some royal missive to a ship's captain or a spy disguised as a random traveler. But, for him, the place associated with war rather than adventure, and certainly not with leisure.

Perhaps that was the reason why he'd fought so much Athos and Porthos when they insisted he should go and enjoy the hospitality of the Comte de Canteloup a few days before them.

"We'll be on our way immediately after our return. You won't have much time to get bored," Porthos argued.
"I'll have even less if I come with you."
"It doesn't take three 'f us to deliver a contract to a wine merchant. It's hardly a mission for Musketeers to begin with. His Majesty only sends us because Monsieur Bouillot knows Athos and will offer him an unbeatable price. Besides, you've had one hell of a month, and you're still recoverin' from your injury."
"I'm perfectly f…"
"Aramis," Athos interceded, as gently as he could while remaining inflexible. "You've been granted a leave. Just take it."
"He's right, y'know," Porthos concurred. "You realize even Athos takes more time off than you do?"
At that, their leader barely raised an eyebrow, and the big man insisted, a bit more mischievously than necessary: "You know what they say: sometimes, you jus' have to step out of your comfort zone."
"Are you implying that my comfort zone is a place where I'm being chased, punched, and shot at?"
"What I actually mean is that you worked too much, but you're the one who said it."

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, Aramis had to admit that there had been some truth in Porthos' statements.
These past weeks, his usually insolent luck had seemed to desert him. He'd been caught in the act by two of his mistresses' husbands, one of them chasing him in the streets before he had the time to put his pants back on; had received a punch in the face the day before an important Court ceremony, trying to defend Porthos after a rather heated card game; had lost his hat running after a purse snatcher; and, during their last mission – or the 'last straw', as they'd called it – got shot.

They'd had to escort the Comte de Canteloup from Limoges, where he was hiding after a diplomatic mishap in Spain, to his castle, where he was supposed to remain secluded, as far from the King's eyes as possible. The man was… bizarre, at the very least. At first, he seemed the friendliest aristocrat Aramis had ever met. He had tolerated all the difficulties of the journey; never protested Athos' choice to favor very modest inns or, sometimes, to even sleep in the open, to avoid suspicion; he'd taken all his meals with them, exchanging jokes and tales from his own missions aboard, not once making them feel like anything but fellow human beings on a common errand.
Unfortunately, this affable demeanor had made things complicated. Tréville had expressly made clear that, if de Canteloup's lineage, and his late father's friendship with Henri IV, had permitted him to avoid prison, the Musketeers' orders were to kill the man themselves rather than letting the Spaniards believe that the French Court was standing for him. What the Comte had done to cause such turmoil remained a mystery, but it seemed that Louis XIII's clemency didn't go as far as to create an international incident.
Quickly, though, De Canteloup's rudeness had come to light. On horse, he gossiped about nobility and ministers. At meals, he burped and farted profusely, offering vague excuses only when he remembered that was the thing you were supposed to do. At night, he usually woke up half a dozen times to relieve himself, bumping into dishes and other people's baggage. Once, he'd fallen on Porthos, and it had taken all of the seasoned soldier's experience not to reflexively throw him over and stab him in the throat.
The Comte had laughed.
He had been one very carefully controlled reaction away from getting gutted, and he had actually giggled.
Four days after their departure, the Spaniards had caught up with them. The seven men had been, just like the Musketeers, in plain clothes, but nobody had wasted any time to pretend. Shots were exchanged. Three enemies were down, and Aramis had a bullet in his arm, when everyone still standing drew their blades. He didn't remember the commotion in detail. No master swordsman usually did. You spent years training not to have to analyze an occurring fight. He did recall the pain, the lightheadedness, the relief when he'd managed to overcome his opponent despite his wound, followed by dread when he'd raised his pistol on the last Spaniard, only to find de Canteloup right in his line of fire.

"You will do your best to bring him home safe and sound," Tréville had stressed. "But under no circumstances should he fall alive into the hands of the Spanish."

He didn't think even him could make that shot.

He didn't want to kill de Canteloup.

He was a Musketeer, not an assassin.

And, as infuriating as he could be, the Comte was a good person.

Aramis had neglected his duty before. Had, on several occasions, favored a very peculiar interpretation of orders in favor of remaining faithful to his own code of honor.

But never had peace in Europe been at stake.

He pressed the trigger.

The bullet flew past de Canteloup's head – and Aramis could have sworn that he saw some of the Count's hair fly up in the air – before barely lodging itself into the Spaniard's elbow.

Not a killing shot, but de Canteloup had been pleased all the same.

Pleased enough to offer the men who were disposed to slaughter him to stay in his country estate, as a thank for having worked so hard and saved his life.

Aramis wondered if the naïve and rough Comte had been aware of the irony.

x

Aramis' current luck being what it was, the invitation had proven itself a poisoned gift.
The estate in question, at the edge of a small wood, was more a farmhouse than a castle. It was still far bigger than Aramis' apartments, but left in a neglected state. The walls were damp, the corridors cold and windy and the furniture dusty, especially in the guest rooms. There was a large fireplace in the main room, which did its job of preventing every occupant from freezing to death, but provided most of the light, since the remaining two servants had apparently decided that the less money they spent on candles, the more they would keep for themselves.

Casquet and Gilette, self-declared valet and cook, were a couple. Both ageless, grey, potbellied, with a thick Normand accent, and both as lazy as corpses in the lunch queue.
When Aramis had arrived earlier in the afternoon, the pantry was empty and the bed unmade. He had ordered the two idle attendants to take care of his room, and had gone to hunt dinner. It had rained on and off for days, and the ground in the forest was so soggy Aramis had remained on the edge. He'd come back with three hares, then found some only partially germinated potatoes in an overlooked kitchen garden, and entrusted Gilette with the whole thing before heading for the seaside.
He would have to send her to the market in the morning, he mused between two breast strokes. And order Casquet to air the bedchambers and do something about the dust.
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he had not been invited to play supervisor, a role he felt utterly incapable of endorsing.

I knew I should have waited for Athos.

Well, at least this keeps my mind busy.

Aramis didn't like peace.
He pretended that he did, usually when he was comfortably curled up against his last conquest, but love was heat and passion again. True peace, as appealing as it was occasionally, unsettled him. He disliked not hearing the noises of Paris through his windows, could scarcely stay two weeks without being sent on a mission and, most of all, hated being alone.
Alone, he felt useless and bored. But, most of all, he started to think.

When they'd finally made it to Paris, after releasing de Canteloup into his men's charge in Normandy, he was exhausted. The infection in his wound was mild, but the light fever, combined with the indignities of travel, had been enough to render him a bit lethargic. Tréville had sent him to bed, not having any objection – as if he'd been in condition to voice one. He'd slept for ten hours, finally waking up to find a worried Porthos next to him. The big man had answered his interrogating frown, explaining that he'd been dreaming, repeating, among other semi-coherent things, "I'm not afraid."

Aramis had dismissed his brother's concern with a joke, but the tale had unsettled him.
He was not afraid. Hadn't been of anything for years. He was a soldier. That meant facing death and handling it. He'd never harbored any illusion about that, not even when he'd first enlisted, more out of spite than vocation. And then… Then, he'd saved more people than he'd killed and, no matter the consequences, had never shunned fighting for what he believed was the greatest good.

Quickly, his superiors had noticed his special skills and had made him "more than a mere soldier", as a smirking Colonel had once said, only half-jokingly. Aramis would have loved to claim that he had despised the dubious compliment. But, at the time, being considered better than the rest of the troops had made him proud.
Being a sharpshooter meant that you didn't always confront the enemy, blade against blade, in the heart of the fray, your brothers by your side. A sharpshooter was an expert. He waited for the right moment. A moment only he knew. That bid him a license to make critical decisions, and sometimes, even to circumvent orders.
He enjoyed this.
In fact, waiting in ambush was the one situation when being alone and in peace didn't bother him.
As years passed, pain and grief, along with the admirable men he'd met and whom he was now blessed enough to call his brothers, had tamed his childish pride. But the feeling of fulfillment had remained.

So yes, his life choices had come with a price. But he was more than willing to pay.

"I'm not afraid."

He was cold.
The sky was overcast, and Aramis could see some mist lifting from behind the small cliffs.
It's going to rain.
He swam in the direction of the beach, and retrieved the rest of his clothes as fast as he could. His leather jacket on his wet shirt, he walked to the house, dreaming about the jackrabbit stew Gilette, as lazy as she was, had probably long finished cooking now.
When he arrived at the domain, it was pouring rain, he was drenched and shivering, and his spirits, until then slightly brightened by the swim, were starting to plunge down again.
He opened the door, and was met by the delicious smell of the food, but also with unexpected light.
The main room was filled with candles, neatly arranged in big silver candelabras that were nowhere to be seen when he'd vainly explored the house in search of basic necessities. The fire burned high, most pieces of furniture had been dusted, the table was set and, on a comfortable chair, an elegant man was smiling at him. He must have been in his late twenties. Chubby, with a sympathetic, handsome face, red hair and a trimmed moustache with no beard.
"Hello, my good sir," he greeted. "I'm Eustache."
Aramis' own face must have displayed a mask of incomprehension, because he appended:
"Charles' son!"
"Charles?" Aramis repeated.
"Charles de Canteloup. The Comte! He told me you would be here. Oh, Dear God! You have no idea how relieved I am !"

x

À suivre :)