Every Breath Hurts
A/N Re-watching series one, episode one - I couldn't help but feel that Athos and Porthos were a little dismissive when Aramis told them he loved Adele. Given his reputation with the ladies, this is understandable but despite his passion for the opposite sex, I would like to think he rarely tells a woman he loves her without meaning it. This story is set after S1 E1 and before E2.
There are historical and geographic inaccuracies in this story - the Comte du Sullay and the province of Sullay are fictional. Apologies to the historical aficionados. Story is also un-beta'd. Apologies for any errors. G
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Vincent Fornier had worked as a receveurs royal in the province of Sullay for most of his adult life. While collecting the King's taxes was a position that afforded him some of life's comforts, it also made him one of the most reviled men in the province. So, when Fornier met Jean Renard and devised a way to skim from the royal taxes, he jumped at the opportunity.
With the Royal Treasury dangerously low on funds, the Cardinal had persuaded King Louis to order an audit of the taxes collected. Summoning the Comte du Sullay to the palace, the King demanded an explanation as to why taxes from his province were well under expected amounts. The Comte had assured him that the correct amount of tax had been given to the receveurs royaux.
And so it was that a trap had been set. Taxes were collected and given to the receveurs royaux and transported to Paris where, once again, a significant shortfall was discovered. Keen to make an example of those who steal from the crown, the King had immediately ordered the arrest of Vincent Fornier who, in turn, confessed to his crimes and implicated his accomplice, Jean Renard. The Musketeers were ordered to ride to Sullay to deliver a message of thanks to the Comte and, most importantly, to locate and arrest Jean Renard.
Renard had not come willing, killing two innocent villagers in his quest to escape. But the Musketeers had taken him into custody and were now escorting him back to Paris to stand trial.
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It was late by the time they had found a suitable campsite. The moon was already high in the sky and suffusing everything with a soft silver light. With the campfire burning steadily and dinner quickly eaten, Athos took a seat on a nearby log and glanced across to the far side of the clearing where Aramis sat alone, staring into the darkness. Sighing audibly, he watched the younger man take a long pull from a bottle of wine.
"After last evening's effort, I thought I asked you to hide the wine," he said to Porthos.
"I did," the larger man replied. "But you know Aramis – he's nothing if not resourceful."
"And working on yet another hangover."
"Can't 'elp thinkin' we could've prevented this," Porthos said. "He tried to tell us 'ow he felt about her."
Athos snorted.
"This is Aramis – given his history with women, we can hardly be blamed for our skepticism."
Porthos shot the older man a look that left no doubt of what he thought of that remark.
"Aramis may 'ave bedded more women than he's had hot breakfasts," Porthos said. "But he told us he loved her. When's he ever done that before, eh?"
Before the swordsman could respond, d'Artagnan joined them from the opposite side of the clearing where he'd laid out a bedroll for their prisoner and tied him securely to a nearby tree.
"Renard's been fed, watered and tucked in for the night," he said following their gaze to where the marksman sat awash in a sea of misery. "Okay, I know I'm still new here but is anyone going to tell me what's going on? Aramis has barely said a word for two days and now…this."
"Broken heart," Porthos replied succinctly.
"Aramis?" d'Artagnan said, his surprise evident. "I'd been led to believe that he's generally the one breaking hearts."
"Apparently, Adele was different," Athos muttered sarcastically, receiving another glare from Porthos. "Regardless, we have an early start in the morning and I have neither the time nor the inclination to watch him deal with another sizeable hangover."
"I'll take first watch," d'Artagnan volunteered.
"I'll talk to Aramis," Porthos said, motioning to stand.
"I believe it's time I spoke with Aramis myself", Athos told him. "D'Artagnan, keep an eye on Renard. The King will have our heads if he were to escape."
Aramis sat with his back against the trunk of a large tree; a wine bottle in his right hand and an empty bottle lying at his side. He noticed his friends walking toward him and he groaned internally.
"Please excuse my manners, gentlemen," he slurred. "Had I known I was to have company, I'd have ordered more wine."
"I believe you've had quite enough for one night," Athos said, his arms crossed over his chest disapprovingly. "This cannot continue. Upon our return to the garrison, you will speak with Treville about a short period of leave. Take it; get out of Paris and clear your thoughts of this woman. Do you understand?"
Aramis stared at the older man in disbelief. An odd noise escaped from his throat before his resolve shattered and he erupted into raucous laughter.
The swordsman raised an eyebrow, not impressed in the least.
"You find this amusing?" he asked when Aramis' mirth lessened somewhat.
"Did you…did you not hear yourself?" Aramis snorted. "Of all the issues on which you could lecture me – you choose alcohol and women?"
"Aramis!" Porthos warned.
Athos' eyes flashed with unguarded hurt before they quickly shuttered and his expression returned to its neutral façade. He held up his hand to silence Porthos.
"Since it appears I have the requisite experience to offer advice on such matters, I suggest you heed it," Athos replied sounding every bit like the Comte de la Fere. "In the meantime, get some sleep. We break camp at dawn and I expect you to be fit for duty."
Athos walked back to the campsite, leaving Porthos standing over his friend with a disappointed look on his face.
"He's worried about you, is all…we all are. This aint like you, Aramis," he told the younger man.
"Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think you do?" Aramis said before turning away and taking another long swig from the bottle.
Porthos shook his head, alternating between feeling guilty and wanting to string his friend up by his thumbs.
"Get some rest, yeah?" he said, then, with a heavy sigh, he followed Athos back to the campsite.
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The sun was attempting to send a few timid streams of light across the horizon, hampered by the volume of dark clouds that threatened rain…a lot of rain.
Working with quiet efficiency, d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos had a breakfast of bread and cheese and had readied the horses and prisoner - still, there was no movement from their fourth. They made their way across the clearing to find Aramis sprawled, face down on his bedroll, reeking of stale wine and snoring softly. Two empty bottles lay by his side with a third still held in his lax fingers.
"Resourceful indeed," Athos said as he reached down to remove the bottle from the marksman's grasp. "I believe this was taken from my saddlebag."
None too gently, he toed the inebriated man in the ribs. Aramis muttered something incomprehensible before the snoring continued.
"What do we do?" d'Artagnan asked. "He is obviously in no condition to ride."
Athos turned to address the others.
"Porthos…take d'Artagnan and deliver the message to the Comte du Sullay. We will meet and make camp at the fork in the river. The tree canopy there will provide shelter from the coming storm."
Porthos turned his gaze back to Aramis.
"Maybe I should be the one to stay," he said.
Athos shook his head.
"It appears Aramis and I have some matters to discuss," he said. "I will do my utmost to see that no harm befalls him until you return."
"Hey…I'm 'olding you to that," Porthos said with a wry smile.
"What about Renard?" d'Artagnan asked, looking back at their prisoner.
"He stays with me," the swordsman replied. "You will make better time without him. Just don't be surprised if you return to see Renard and Aramis tied to the same tree."
"Oy…you promised," Porthos grinned.
"So I did," Athos replied with the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"We should leave if we're going to stay ahead of that storm," d'Artagnan said looking skyward.
Gathering their belongings, he and Porthos mounted their horses and set off for the Château du Sullay.
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It was mid-morning by the time Aramis surfaced, jolting upright when he realized he'd overslept. Looking frantically around the campsite, his bloodshot gaze fell upon Athos, shading under a tree and watching him intently despite the pretense of reading a book.
He groaned as the mother of all hangovers made its presence known and his stomach threatened to defy him. Judging from the remonstrative look on the swordsman's face, Aramis' day was about to get a whole lot worse.
Athos rose from his position under the tree and walked toward the younger man. To Aramis' utter chagrin the swordsman deposited a water skin by his side and held out a small bottle.
"This will help to ease your headache. Take it."
"Athos, I-" the younger man's explanation was cut short when the swordsman spoke again.
"In ten minutes, I will be leaving to rendezvous with Porthos and d'Artagnan – with or without you. Therefore, I suggest you use that time to ready yourself."
Aramis bit back another groan as Athos walked back to ready their prisoner.
Yep, the day just got a whole lot worse.
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Still feeling the effects of too much wine, Aramis sat quietly on his horse; his shoulders slumped and the brim of his hat drawn low over his face. They had been riding for an hour and not a word had been spoken. Aramis glanced to his right where their prisoner's horse trailed behind Athos'. Renard's hands were bound behind his back and the reins of his horse were clasped tightly in Athos' hand as the swordsman led them along the trail.
Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as he realized they were still at least thirty minutes from the rendezvous point. Although Athos' tincture had helped a little, he wished his throbbing head would mercifully detach itself from his neck and bring him peace. But despite his body's protestation of last night's over-indulgence, it wasn't the real cause of his misery.
Adele had left him. Without a word of explanation or even a note, she had departed for the Cardinal's country estate. He had given his heart to her; told her he loved her and actually meant it…but she had chosen Richelieu over him. Not since Isabel had he allowed himself to feel so deeply for a woman and, despite his denials, the fact that she was mistress to the most powerful man in France only added to the exhilaration of an already passionate affair.
He huffed a laugh that had little to do with humour and more with irony. Perhaps it was kismet that the man renowned as a charming libertine had found himself on the receiving end of a broken heart; used for his body and discarded when he was of no further use. Perhaps he got what he had long deserved. Whatever the reason, Adele was gone and he would have to accept it.
Aramis wasn't usually one to lose himself in alcohol; on the contrary, the marksman was generally quite a merry drunk; the life of every party. But these past two nights he had shunned his brothers and his duty, allowing his misery to spill over into belligerence and hurtful words he didn't mean and could not take back.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple and whispered a string of curses under his breath. He had acted like a fool. He had given his heart to Adele and then, for the first time in his military career, he had let his personal life interfere with the performance of his duty.
The memory of waking to find that his friends had left him to sleep off his drunkenness, while Porthos and d'Artagnan completed their assignment, caused his stomach to roil with shame and humiliation. On any given day, this type of behavior would be seen as dereliction of duty and would result in serious repercussions, perhaps, even the loss of his commission. But his brothers had covered for him - they were his constant; his rock when he faltered, his strength when he grew weak. He silently vowed to make it up to them.
When, finally, they made it to the rendezvous point at the fork of the river, the Musketeers dismounted and tied their horses to a nearby tree. Athos glanced skyward, noting the heavy cloud cover and grimacing at the obvious storm approaching from the higher ground. He hoped Porthos and d'Artagnan were making good time.
The swordsman spared a glance at Aramis. He still looked pale and miserable: a far cry from the gregarious, affable young man he had grown to think of as a younger brother – at times, a rather vexatious younger brother but a brother none the less.
"We'll make camp over there," Athos said, indicating an area where the branches of the trees had formed an overhead canopy.
"Athos, we…we should talk." Aramis raised his eyes to meet his friend's and hoped Athos could read the apology in his expression.
Athos noted the sincerity in the younger man's eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"And so we will…later," he said gently. "But first, we should set up camp before the others get back. You know how ravenous Porthos gets after a day in the saddle. If the meal isn't prepared he is likely to eat one of us."
The marksman's lips curved in a grin and for the first time in days, he began to relax.
"I'll see to Renard and the horses," he volunteered. "Porthos prefers your culinary skills to mine."
Athos looked from Aramis to Renard and back, raising a skeptical eyebrow as he noted the lines of pain still etched into the younger man's brow.
"I'm fine," Aramis assured him. "And it is past time I pulled my weight on this assignment."
Nodding in reluctant agreement, Athos wandered into the nearby copse of trees to gather firewood while Aramis turned back to their prisoner.
"We are making camp for the night," Aramis told him. "Get down…slow and easy."
"It would help if I had the use of me hands," Renard said.
"All in good time, Monsieur. Now, you can get down of your own accord or I can drag you down – the choice is yours."
"Alright, take it easy…I don't want no trouble," Renard told him, slipping from the saddle and staggering slightly to keep his balance.
Taking some rope from his saddlebag, Aramis grasped the prisoner by the arm and led him further into the campsite. Selecting a nearby tree, he drew his dagger from its sheath, intending to secure Renard to the trunk until the others arrived. As the sharp blade easily severed the ropes, Aramis' traitorous stomach chose that moment to purge itself. With an agonizing spasm, it sent a surge of acidic bile to the back of his throat and he barely kept his feet as he turned his head and vomited.
With his hands now free and his captor distracted, Renard thrust his elbow back hard, eliciting a grunt of pain from the swordsman as it struck him a forceful blow to the face and knocked him to the ground. Renard sprinted for the river, hoping to cross to the other side and lose himself in the thick woods.
"Athos!" Aramis yelled, his vision wavering. "Athos!"
The swordsman was nearing the campsite with an armful of kindling when he heard Aramis call and he was at the injured man's side quickly. Heaving his friend to his feet, Athos held on as Aramis staggered against him. The younger man's right eye was already swelling closed and blood trickled from his nose.
"What happened?" Athos asked curtly, silently berating himself for leaving Renard in Aramis' care when, clearly, the man was still suffering the effects of last night's wine.
Aramis shook his head to clear it, mortified that he had allowed their prisoner to overpower him.
"He headed for the river," the younger man said urgently, breaking free of Athos' hold and turning to follow the fugitive.
Leading the way down the narrow path, Aramis skidded to a halt on the edge of the steep embankment.
"Renard!" he called as the fleeing man continued to wade toward the middle of the river.
The water was only thigh deep but he was laboring against the fast-flowing current. The marksman levelled his pistol.
"No!" Athos said, reaching out to grab the younger man's arm. "The King wants him alive."
"A warning shot, then….perhaps, by his left ear," Aramis suggested, his right eye now completely closed.
"I do not doubt your skill as a marksman," Athos told him. "However, with your recent run of luck, you could fire a shot into the air and kill him with a ricochet from a passing bird."
Aramis smiled wanly and looked back toward the river. The water levels were already rising as the storm in the mountains dumped excess water and debris into it. Soon, raging torrents and vortices would make crossing the waterway far too dangerous. This was his fault. Renard had escaped his custody and he'd be damned if he'd let his brothers down again. Unbuckling his weapon belts, he let it drop to the ground before removing his sash and long coat. Athos' gaze alternated between the younger man and the fast-flowing river.
"Surely, you are not intending-"
"I lost him and I will recapture him," Aramis replied. "Either that or explain Renard's escape to the King. I'm sure he'll welcome the news with his usual benevolence."
With an audible sigh, Athos also shrugged out of his doublet. They continued to quickly undress until both men stood in their shirts, braies and boots.
"There's nothing quite like pursuing a fugitive in one's undergarments to get the blood flowing," Athos said with a wry smile.
Knowing their pistols and gunpowder would be rendered useless if they became wet, they strapped on their scabbards. Renard was still struggling against the strong current but had almost made it to the other side. Exchanging a quick glance to signal their readiness, the Musketeers ran quickly down the steep embankment into the river.
The water was cold enough to take their breath away but it was the force of the torrents and the thick coating of slippery algae on the stony river bed that made the crossing particularly treacherous. Submerged branches and debris were carried along the river with such force that every encounter left the men bloodied and bruised by the impact.
The storm arrived without prelude. A deluge of large raindrops fell in sheets from the charcoal sky, stinging their skin, impeding their vision and adding to the water level that was now hip deep.
On the far side of the river, Renard had dragged himself free and, completely exhausted, he sat on the muddy bank trying to regain his breath. Knowing the man would soon disappear into the adjacent woods, Aramis surged ahead, ignoring Athos' warning to be careful. The words had barely left the swordsman's mouth when a large, moss-covered rock moved beneath Aramis' weight. His ankle twisted painfully before wedging between a submerged boulder and the trunk of a sunken tree. The marksman cried out through gritted teeth as he tried to free his ankle.
Hearing the Musketeer's shout and noting their proximity, Renard climbed quickly to his feet and staggered up the muddy slope and into the woods.
Aramis struggled to free his ankle but each twist sent searing jolts of pain shooting up his leg. He opened his eyes to Athos' concerned face.
"Go!" Aramis yelled above the deafening flowing of the river. "Get Renard."
At Athos' hesitation, he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder to reassure him.
"I'll be right behind you...go," he said earnestly.
Nodding his head, Athos reluctantly acquiesced and several long moments later, he dragged himself from the river to the bank on the far side. For a brief moment, he lay on his back drawing in huge gasps of air before climbing to his feet, his legs shaking with cold and fatigue. With one brief glance back at Aramis, the swordsman disappeared into the woods.
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Aramis tried to brace himself as the strong current pummeled his body, persistent in its efforts to drag him downstream. With his ankle trapped as it was, the threat of being displaced wasn't nearly as worrying as the risk of him losing his balance and falling beneath the surface where the pull of the rushing water would most likely provide him a watery grave.
"Stay calm," he told himself. "Your foot went in, therefore, it has to come out."
Taking a deep breath, he squeezed his eyes closed and clamped his jaw tightly shut before fumbling with numb fingers to grab his boot top with both hands. He pulled with all of his remaining strength until the pain became overwhelming and he let go with a scream of pain and frustration. His chest was heaving from the exertion and spots impeded his vision as he willed himself to remain conscious. He cast a hopeful glance to the bank but Athos was nowhere to be seen.
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Athos' eyes scoured the earth for any sign of Renard's trail that had not been obliterated by the torrential rain. He knew with certainty that the further he went into the woods, the more sheltered the ground became and the easier it would be to pick up the man's trail, particularly with Aramis' sharp eyes. But the marksman had not yet caught up and the sick feeling in his gut fueled the overwhelming need to return to his brother's side. He sprinted back to the river, mortified to see that Aramis was still caught mid-way across and the water-level had risen past the man's hips.
Treading cautiously, he entered the river again, finally edging close enough to place his hand on Aramis' shoulder. The younger man startled under his touch and Athos could feel the violent tremors beneath his hand as he began to lose body heat.
"R-Renard?" Aramis asked.
"There was no sign of a trail," Athos replied. "He is obviously a master woodsman."
Aramis' eyes stared fondly at his friend knowing that, despite Athos' deeply entrenched sense of duty to King and country, he had abandoned the chase to return to his side.
"A woodsman? B-Born and raised in the city?" Aramis shivered.
"Then, clearly he's a natural," Athos replied flatly. "At least he is smart enough to avoid getting his foot caught in the middle of a rising river. Now, hold still while I examine it."
Athos spent the next few minutes submerging in the murky water and trying to free the younger man's foot but the coating of slippery algae made it nearly impossible for him to get a good grip. He resurfaced with a gasp and swiped the lank strands of hair from his eyes before placing both hands on Aramis' shoulders.
"It's worse than we thought," he said somberly. "I'm going to have to cut the boot."
"I p-paid a k-king's ransom for these b-boots," Aramis objected, strengthened by the familiar banter. "I w-would rather you c-cut off my l-leg."
"I can hardly be held accountable for your fascination in overpriced footwear," the swordsman told him; feigning indignation.
Aramis scoffed.
"I s-stand alone in my c-continuing efforts to l-lift the d-dress standards of the M-Musketeers."
Athos gestured toward the knife in his hand.
"Hold still or you will not be standing at all," he said before taking a deep breath and submerging once more.
Aramis cried out in pain with every pull and twist of his injured ankle and, despite Athos' best efforts, the younger man's foot remained stuck fast.
"It's no use," Athos spluttered as he re-surfaced. "We need an alternate plan."
"My b-boot?" Aramis rasped.
"Gave its life in the hope that you may live," Athos told him. "We need something to help move that tree trunk…a few inches is all we need."
"Rope…t-tied to one of the h-horses?" Aramis suggested.
"It will never reach this far. We need something to use as leverage." Looking to the bank, the swordsman spotted sturdy tree branch. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."
Athos wearily set off toward the bank, fighting the ferocious pull of the water. He was only five metres from the edge when he lost his footing on the slippery riverbed and, with arms wind-milling madly, he disappeared beneath the surging water.
"Athos!" Aramis called, his eyes frantically searching for his friend. "Athos!"
With barely enough time to gasp for breath, the cold water forced the air from Athos' lungs and he was tossed over and over by the fast moving torrent. Disoriented, the urge to fight against the current gripped him and he started to thrash wildly. Blinding pain speared his side and caused him to inhale a mouthful of water as he made brutal contact with a huge submerged rock.
Breaking the surface, his body fought to expel the liquid from his burning lungs while, simultaneously, attempting to suck in a lungful of precious air. A thick blanket of agony wrapped itself around his chest as he tried to concentrate on his breathing, a shallow pant the only option if he was to control the pain. Lacking the energy required to swim against the strong current, he had no choice but to allow the fast flowing river to carry him around the sweeping bend until he regained his strength, ever-mindful that, with each second, the river carried him further from his trapped brother.
As the pain eased in his chest and his breathing slowed, he was able to ease his head up to look around, finding that he'd been carried several hundred metres from Aramis. The low branch of a large over-hanging tree, provided him with an opportunity and he managed a clumsy sidestroke and kicked his way close enough to reach out and take hold of the strong limb. Slowly, he moved his grip, hand over hand, until he reached the bank.
Attempting to take a deep breath triggered a round of violent heaving and coughing and he fell to his knees as his stomach and lungs convulsed repeatedly. Completely spent, he dropped sideways and lay in the mud knowing nothing but pain and gasping breaths. Staving off a strong desire to pass out, Athos climbed drunkenly to his feet and began to walk, stubbornly placing one shaky foot in front of the other. He had only one thing on his mind – returning to Aramis.
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The rain continued - not torrentially, as before, but heavy and unrelenting. Athos wrapped his arms around himself as he trudged his way back along the riverbank. The swordsman was sporting an array of scrapes and bruises from his unplanned journey down the river. The left side of his ribcage bore a large, red scrape that would no doubt transform to an ugly bruise but the ribs themselves appeared to have survived intact. He was beyond exhausted and cold to the bone and could only imagine what being trapped in near freezing water was doing to Aramis. Thoughts of the younger man's welfare spurred him on until he arrived back at the flooded river crossing.
Standing at the water's edge, Athos looked out at his friend. His gut tightened painfully as he realized, in the time he'd been gone, the water level had risen to the younger man's chest.
"Aramis!" he called. "Aramis!"
The lack of response was terrifying and Athos hoped it was due to the deafening roar of the flood-waters rather than Aramis' exposure to the cold. The younger man was struggling to remain upright; his body swaying back and forth as he resisted the force of the fast-flowing current. But, even from this distance, Athos could see the look of hopelessness on his friend's face.
Grabbing a sturdy branch from the bank, he re-entered the river once more, battling the drag of the current as he inched ever-closer to his injured friend. Aramis' skin was ashen, contrasting strikingly with his blue lips and the dark bruising around his eye. Athos' feeling of dread grew when he noted his friend was no longer shivering. He did not possess the younger man's medical knowledge, but he knew enough to know that the lack of shivering meant Aramis' body had stopped trying to produce its own heat. Holding the branch firmly under his arm, Athos cupped his hands either side of Aramis' face. The marksman was looking right at him but didn't appear to see him. Athos tapped his chilled fingers to the other man's cheek until the marksman's uninjured eye lost its glassy look and he drew in a few shaky breaths. Aramis stared wide-eyed at the older man before raising a shaky hand to Athos' face.
"A-Athos," he stammered. "I…I thought you…"
"What can I tell you…retrieving that branch took a little longer than planned," Athos told him, humour colouring his tone.
A hybrid sound, something between a laugh and a sob, escaped Aramis' throat as he pulled his friend into an embrace and held on tightly until his depleted strength waned and he slumped against him. Athos hugged him back just as fiercely, wincing at the coldness of Aramis' body, before gently manoeuvring his friend so he could see his face.
"I'm going to use this branch as leverage," he said. "But you must pull your foot clear as soon as you feel the tree trunk move. Do you understand?"
Aramis nodded languidly, frowning when Athos slapped his cheek.
"Do you understand? Answer me!"
Aramis nodded again but this time he added a whispered, "I understand."
"Be ready. I'm not sure how long I can hold it."
Athos submerged himself again, feeling around in the murky depths until he found the best place to position the branch. Resurfacing, he cast a quick glance at Aramis who nodded his head to signal his readiness. With a throaty yell, Athos threw his entire weight against the branch, his body trembling from the exertion. He held his position for several long seconds until, finally, he felt the tree trunk move slightly. Drawing from reserves he knew were close to empty, Athos cried out again as he continued to push down on the branch. He was rewarded when the tree trunk rocked back about three inches.
"Now, Aramis, now!" he yelled.
Aramis stared back at him. His reflexes and coordination had deteriorated badly in the cold water and before he could will them into motion, the branch gave way with a resounding snap. A guttural scream tore from the younger man's throat as the tree rolled back into position and the marksman felt the bones of his ankle crushing under its weight. Athos looked on in horror as the injured man's eyes rolled and he slumped, unconscious and face first into the water.
"No, no, no, no," Athos repeated as he made his way to Aramis' side as quickly as possible and lifted his face out of the water. "Aramis! Aramis!"
Athos wasn't even sure the marksman was breathing. In desperation, he held his friend around the chest and squeezed tightly, ordering the younger man to breathe. Seconds passed agonizingly slowly before Aramis coughed and spluttered as his lungs convulsed and spewed their watery content. Barely conscious, he turned pain-filled eyes to the older man before his head lolled forward as he lost his battle with consciousness. Athos opened the numbed fingers of his cold hand and placed the over the marksman's heart, relieved when he felt it beating strongly beneath his fingers.
"I've got you, brother," Athos quietly assured him. "Just keep breathing…keep breathing."
Without losing his hold, Athos manoeuvred himself closer until his chest was pressed against his friend's back. He knew that he, too, was losing precious body heat but whatever he had left, he would gladly share with Aramis.
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With his head resting heavily on the older man's shoulder, Aramis' raspy breathing was music to Athos' ears. Sometime later, a soft moan from the marksman told him that Aramis had regained consciousness.
"Aramis?" Athos said quietly.
A long moment passed before the younger man spoke.
"This is…without doubt…the worst hangover ever," he wheezed.
Athos stared at the ashen face for a moment, a small smile ghosting over his lips.
"If that is a challenge, I respectfully decline to accept," he replied with a regal nod of his head.
Despite their perilous situation, there was something about Aramis' ludicrous claim and Athos' unruffled reply that elicited quiet laughter from them both. When the smiles disappeared, Aramis turned contrite eyes to the older man.
"I'm sorry, Athos," he whispered. "About last night…the things I said. Forgive me, brother."
"It is I who must apologize," Athos replied. "I was blind to the fact that you truly cared for Adele."
Aramis huffed a bitter laugh.
"She played me for a fool," he said, slurring slightly. "Whatever we had, she…she threw it away to be with the Cardinal."
"If that is correct, then you are well rid of her. A good heart is oft times, blind to evil until it is too late."
Aramis looked curiously at the older man, wondering if he was speaking from experience. But before he could ask more, Athos spoke again.
"How is the pain?" he asked.
"I don't know," the marksman told him solemnly. "I no longer have…have feeling in my legs."
"It's just the cold," Athos assured him. "You'll be fine when we get you out of here."
Aramis' eyes dropped to the murky water that had now reached his shoulders. He allowed himself several deep breaths and then, with a concerted effort, he raised his head to look at his friend.
"You can do…no more for me, my friend," Aramis whispered. "You must leave…while you have the strength."
"Quiet. Conserve your energy," Athos told him.
"You must…save yourself," the younger man said more forcefully. "There is no…no sense in us both dying here."
"Would you have me sit safely on the bank and watch you perish?" Athos asked.
"If it assured your survival…yes, I would."
"What point is there in surviving with the knowledge that I allowed my brother to die alone?"
"Athos-"
"Shut up…I will not hear another word of this," the older man snapped, tightening his grip on his friend.
Aramis closed his eyes; his head lolling on the older man's shoulder.
"I don't even…even have my rosary," he said.
"You won't need them," Athos told him. "The others will arrive soon to free us."
"All for one," Aramis whispered.
"And one for all," Athos replied.
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Continued exposure to the cold was taking a punishing toll on Athos' body and he could no longer fight the drowsiness and confusion. The rain had eased some time ago to an unrelenting drizzle but the waters continued to rise and were now lapping at the base of Aramis' chin. Athos tilted the unconscious man's head safely back against his shoulder, fortified by the soft, raspy breathing that tickled his neck.
Aramis had lapsed into unconsciousness despite the older man's attempts to keep him awake. Frighteningly, marksman had not even stirred when Athos momentarily lost his footing and, for an instant, submerged them both. Heavy cloud cover blocked the sun, making it impossible to estimate the time and Athos searched the bank with desperate eyes, hoping for Porthos and d'Artagnan's arrival. Too fatigued to shore up his stoic façade, his chest heaved as a sob escaped and he rested his cheek against the top of Aramis' head.
"Forgive me, my brother," he said quietly.
Perhaps he couldn't retrieve his friend's rosary but there was something he could give him. Casting his mind back to a time when he acknowledged the existence of a benevolent God, Athos began to whisper…
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…"
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Startling awake, Athos' arms instinctively tightened around his unconscious friend. Confused and disoriented, it took several long seconds for him to recognize the voices calling his name. Turning his head toward the bank, his heart skipped several beats when he saw Porthos and d'Artagnan quickly divesting themselves of their leathers.
"Athos! Don't move," Porthos yelled. "We're coming for you."
"Hurry…Aramis is trapped," Athos called back, barely recognizing his own voice. "You'll need leverage – both of you."
The marksman remained unresponsive in his arms; his breaths slow and shallow and his blue lips slightly parted.
"They're here, Aramis," Athos whispered. "Hold on."
Having chosen two strong branches to use as leverage, d'Artagnan and Porthos cautiously made their way across the slippery, stone-covered riverbed toward their friends. When they were within reach, Porthos extended a large hand and clamped it firmly on Athos' shoulder. The relief was overwhelming and the older man felt his knees give way as he slumped, boneless, against him.
"Whoa," Porthos exclaimed, wrapping his large arms around both Athos and Aramis. "Easy now, I gotcha."
D'Artagnan made his way to Athos' other side and took Aramis' face in his hands.
"How long has he been like this?" he asked anxiously.
"Too long," Athos replied. "You must hurry. His foot is…is caught between a…a large rock and a submerged tree. I tried but I…I couldn't move it."
Porthos looked at his unconscious friend feeling the tendrils of worry wrap around his heart and squeeze painfully. His face hardened with determination.
"We'll get 'im out," he said definitively. "We'll get you both out."
D'Artagnan moved closer.
"You're exhausted," he told Athos. "Let me take him."
"No!" Athos shouted, tightening his hold on Aramis possessively. Acknowledging his irrational behaviour the older man calmed himself and continued. "Porthos will need your help."
D'Artagnan squeezed his mentor's shoulder before handing his branch to Porthos. He took a large breath and disappeared under the water to take a better look at the situation. A moment later, he resurfaced, swiping frustratingly at the hair hanging in his eyes.
"This side," he told Porthos. "The leverage would be more effective from the same side."
With a nod of his head, Porthos moved alongside the Gascon and positioned his branch before looking back to Athos.
"You've got 'im, yeah?"
"I have him," Athos replied solemnly. "Do it."
Their first attempt failed when d'Artagnan's branch slipped from his position. Far from put off, they had just repositioned their branches to try again when Athos' terror-filled voice broke the silence.
"Now! For God's sake, do it now!" he yelled.
Alarmed, Porthos and d'Artagnan turned to see that the water level had risen again. The swordsman's hand was clamped firmly across Aramis' mouth; his thumb and forefinger pinching the younger man's nostrils closed – it was now or never.
With a blood-curdling roar born of sheer desperation, Porthos and d'Artagnan called upon every ounce of strength they had and pushed down on the branches. They were rewarded, seconds later, when the tree trunk reluctantly rocked back.
"Get 'im out!" Porthos yelled, the strain extending the veins in his forehead and neck.
With the last of his remaining strength, Athos took a large step away from the tree, dragging Aramis with him and lifting the younger man's head above the water. The others were at his side in an instant, supporting their brothers against the drag of the current. Porthos placed his ear close to the injured man's mouth.
"Come on, Aramis, breathe!" he ordered as Athos and d'Artagnan watched fearfully. "Don't do this. Don't you bloody do this!"
Porthos' face was a myriad of emotion until, finally, he flashed a toothy grin at his friends.
"He's breathin'," he told them, taking the unconscious man in his arms and turning to look at Athos. "Let's get you two warmed up, yeah?"
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Athos winced as the ache of his abused muscles wrenched him from his slumber. With a low moan, he turned on his side, drawn to the warmth of the large camp fire. Frowning, he cast his mind back, recalling d'Artagnan all but dragging him from the river. He remembered them stumbling to the embankment but after that – nothing. Struggling to free his arms from a number of blankets, he gingerly sat up, releasing another involuntary moan. Squeezing his eyes closed, he willed the world to stop spinning; opening them when he heard d'Artagnan's worried voice.
"How do you feel?" d'Artagnan asked.
Athos looked at him contemplatively before replying.
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of stampeding elephants," he replied.
"Are you warm enough?" the young man asked fussing with the blankets.
Athos slapped at his hand with mock indignation.
"I'm laying by the fire and swaddled like an infant."
"You were half frozen when we carried you up here," d'Artagnan said, placing his hand on the older man's forehead and dodging another swipe. "You feel warmer now, that's good."
Athos cast his eyes around the camp until his gaze fell upon Aramis, laying just a few feet away. The marksman was also laying close to the fire and swaddled in blankets; Porthos keeping vigil right by his side.
"How is he?" Athos asked.
"Over the worst of it, I hope," Porthos told him. "He woke once, disoriented and confused. He vomited 'alf the river and passed out again, But he feels warmer and his colour is returning."
Dragging his blankets behind him, Athos leaned over their injured friend and cupped his cheek as if confirming Porthos' words.
"His ankle?" Athos asked.
"It's a mess," d'Artagnan replied. "We've splinted it and his toes are warming but he'll be out of action for quite some time."
"Ya gave us a right good scare; both of ya," Porthos added. "When I think of what could've 'appened if we hadn't come back when we did…"
Athos closed his eyes for a moment, willing away the vision of Aramis, unconscious and under the water. D'Artagnan's voice drew him from his dark thoughts.
"We'd been delayed by the Comte du Sullay," the young man said. "We were on our way back when the storm broke and we decided to take shelter near the stone bridge."
"I was teachin' d'Artagnan 'ere the finer points of winning at cards when…someone tried to steal our horses."
Athos frowned in confusion as Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a grin, feeling he was missing something.
"Who?" he asked.
"You're not gonna believe this," Porthos grinned.
"Take a look over there," d'Artagnan said, pointing to the opposite side of the camp where Renard sat tied to a tree; the epitome of misery.
"You shoulda seen he's face when he recognized us," Porthos chuckled. "Reckon he's gotta be the unluckiest bastard in the whole world."
A wry smile played at the corner of Athos' mouth.
"Aramis will be pleased," he said.
"Anyway, that's when we realized we had to get back. We may have sheltered longer if Renard hadn't arrived."
The three men silently contemplated the sequence of events for several long minutes, each of them knowing how close they'd come to losing both Aramis and Athos. D'Artagnan climbed to his feet, swiping at suspiciously over bright eyes.
"I'll see that Renard is bedded down for the night," he said leaving the others alone.
Aramis squirmed slightly in his sleep, then quietened under Porthos' comforting hand. The larger man raised his eyes to Athos.
"Tell me you didn't blacken his eye," he grinned.
"The thought crossed my mind, however, that was Renard's doing," Athos replied. "Nonetheless, I owe you an apology."
"For what?" Porthos frowned.
Athos dropped his gaze to the fire.
"I gave you my word no harm would come to him," he said. "And, yet, we nearly lost him."
"Oy, none of that," the larger man gently chided. "You kept him alive till we got 'ere. You risked you own life to save his. If anybody knows how hard it is to keep Aramis outta trouble, it's us, yeah?"
"Always placing himself between a rock and a hard place," Athos quipped.
"Forever putting 'is foot in it," Porthos grinned.
"Or jumping in the deep end," Athos countered.
"Getting in over his 'ead," Porthos chuckled.
Aramis squirmed restlessly again but this time it was Athos who leaned in to comfort him. The marksman muttered quietly before dropping back into an exhausted sleep. Porthos frowned at the look of pleasant surprise on Athos' face.
"What'd I miss?" he asked. "What'd he say?"
Athos flashed a rare unguarded smile.
"I believe he said I owe him a new pair of boots."
THE END
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A/N I couldn't find an author to credit for the borrowed quote "A good heart is oft times, blind to evil until it is too late." If anyone knows, please let me know and I'll post it.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to let me know. Gabby