a/n: My first Musketeers fic. I just love the show and everyones fics, and finally, I couldn't stand it anymore and had to write something with my two favourite characters. It was just a bones of a paragraph, but this is what I made out of it.
Includes: Implied child perversion, implied rape of a woman, sexual fantasy, violence, whump!, family.
Summary: AU. A young novice Musketeer recruit, Aramis(early 20s) is going solo to deliver a letter to the Ruling Lord in Lupiac, Gascony. In the company of a young lad(d'Artagan, about 13) from a neighbouring farm, the pair run into unexpected trouble on the road.
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
Message Abound
Aramis could do nought but watch in horror as d'Artagnan stumbled forward from the force of the blow, a silent cry on his lips as he tried to stay his feet, but fell to the ground all the same. He was already trying to push himself up, unsteady and dazed, and that was when their attackers converged on the lad like a murder of crows on a wounded creature.
Aramis struggled against his binds. Wrenching and pulling, but they had made a good job of it. They tore the flesh around his wrists, and his blood soaked into the rope and dripped from the tips of his numb fingers. Even if he could get free, he didn't know how much use his leg would be — but something as selfish as that wasn't going to stop him. It was his fault that the boy was even in this trouble in the first place.
Swears and vulgar oaths flying from his lips at the assailants, trying to draw their attention away from the young Gascon and to him. But his words and curses had no affect to draw their attention, but seemed to fuel their attack.
The lad had curled into the foetal position, his arms wrapped around his head as he attempted to protect his soft bits. But the kicks were harsh and lined with malice, relentless as they landed on any and every part of the boy.
"Stop! You bastards! Just stop!" Aramis cried, as not even the whimpers of pain could be heard from the lad.
The young Spaniard didn't know what he expected, they were thugs. That was all. It was an embarrassment that they'd caught him. If he hadn't been distracted by the lad — no, it wasn't the boy's fault. He was better than this, boy or no.
Even if it was just a simple message to the Ruling Lord of the area, he shant have let his guard down like he had.
d'Artagnan was just a simple lad, looking for adventure and a friend. Not seeing the harm at the time, and wanting company himself, the lad's bubbly enthusiasm rubbing off on him, Aramis had allowed for him to tag along. It was just a simple delivery, bandit attacks were rare on the main road, he didn't see the harm.
Now, he wished he'd sent the boy away. Maybe then, it would just be him in this dire predicament, and not the innocent lad.
The beating was harsh, but finally, mercifully, the bastards finally stopped at a gesture from the biggest of the trio, the assumed leader, and turned to Aramis.
There was a dark and sick light in the man's dark beetle eyes as he gave Aramis a sick twist of his lips. "Sad we ain't payin' 'nough attention t'ya, eh?"
Aramis sneered at the man. "Three grown men, attacking a single lad already knocked senseless — you're real men, you are!"
"Not yet, bu' maybe inna minute."
Aramis was actually surprised by this reaction, he'd expected to get a burst of anger and a beating like d'Artagnan's for his comment. But dread filled him when the other two thugs started to snicker and beetle-eyes started to undue his weapons belt.
"Don't you dare touch that boy, you immoral and depraved beast to pray on helpless children!" Aramis' struggles renewed.
The short thug made a high-pitched giggle. "Y're deprived, y'dandy boy! We get women all th' time, then, don' we?" he elbowed his companion who readily agreed, giving the shorter man a shove.
Aramis narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips, transforming his handsome features into the epitome of disgust. "The rape of women is a deplorable and disgusting thing."
"Why you — !"
"Enough!" beetle-eyes shouted, and Aramis was at least relieved that d'Artagnan twitched a little a the roared voice. "Jus' puttin' trash like you in yer place, thinkin' yer betta than us, when yer as low as th' piss outta m' prick!"
Aramis' eyes widened as it took him a moment to realize exactly what that might mean, just as the repugnant liquid spattered onto his chest. His eyes stung and he gagged on the scent, trying to twist away, but having little luck. The three thugs roared with laughter at the spectacle.
The bound trainee Musketeer was urinated on twice more. By the end it, his eyes were near stung to blindness as his head was dizzy as the fumes started to get to him, saturated with it as he was. It was a demeaning thing, getting pissed on — but at least the Spaniard could be appreciative that they weren't pissing on the lad.
"Enjoy th' show, dandy! It'll be a long 'un!" They collected all his weapons on his person that they'd stripped him from when they tied him down, and the equipment and supplies from his saddlebags still attached to the dead gelding, the poor beast — they'd killed his horse while he was still astride its back, that was what happened to his leg, it'd been pinned under the animal — gave Aramis a harsh kick and stomp on his injured leg, making him bite his lip to keep from making much noise.
Aramis cursed at them until they disappeared from sight, leaving the Gascon to succumb to his injuries and the Spaniard to the elements.
Aramis' attention immediately zoned in on the boy.
"d'Artagnan!" he called, "d'Artagnan!" but the lad didn't respond at all to the urgent calls of his name.
Panic and fear and any number of other useless feelings like guilt and shame, riddled Aramis' mind and heart so harshly that he could hardly get his thoughts into some semblance of coherent.
But he couldn't panic, it would not help them any. He needed to calm the torrent of anxiety inside of him. Foregoing a deep breath, afraid that he might addle his brain further by inhaling the harsh fumes, he painted calming thoughts in his mind's eye.
He remembered when he met the lad a few or so prior on the road.
He'd been glad the first day or so on the road, to be out of the bustling city of Paris, to be able to admire the natural beauty of Mother Nature at her finest, to be able to hear the birds sing, to scent the perfume of nature. But then the green and brown seemed endless, and pollen was clogging his nose, and birdsong was driving him mad, and the lack of press of people around him was making loneliness press on his heart. He was a social creature, he needed to be surrounded by friends and strangers alike to thrive. He liked the comaraderie of fellow men, the companionship of a lovely woman with her soft curves.
He'd started to daydream about the latter as he started to pass a small farm: The soft and lovely voice, skin smooth like silk, lips like a plumb, the scent that was warm and caring, fingers that were deft and clever, curves that fit perfectly with his tracing hands, the laughter that pulled him in —
when a young lad of no more than 13 jumped into his path.
In a set of loose shirtsleeves, a light brown old sleeveless serfs doublet, short brown trousers, and well worn shoes — he was clearly a farm boy but for the sharp rapier thrust naked through the belt on his narrow hips. His skin was a dark olive-tone with pitch straight locks to his shoulder, he had bright chocolate coloured eyes, and a proud Gascon chin. A few years more and Aramis was sure that girls and even women would be falling for the lad left and right.
Aramis' gelding startled, rearing up and kicking the air — he noted that the lad didn't even flinch — as he quickly calmed the beast. He looked down at the lad, wondering if he should be wary — it wouldn't be the first time that a group of bandits used children to trick travellers.
"Come to rob me, have you?" he mused, leaning forward on the saddle horn.
"I am Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac, Gascony!" the lad stated proudly as if that answered the question clearly enough.
Aramis smiled, clearly not a robber then.
"Alright," he allowed, "I am Aramis —"
"You're with the Musketeers!"
While he didn't have the pauldron with the Fluer-de-lis of a commissioned King's Musketeer, he bore the mark of a recruit. Clearly the lad knew of such things.
Aramis raised a brow in response to the interruption and the boy allowed a brief blush before he straightened.
"Yes," he threw his leg over the side of the saddle and hopped to the ground, giving his head a little bow.
The lad took a step back in sudden trepidation at the sudden approach. Seeing this, the Spaniard made no further approach, the reigns held loose in his hand.
"Charles —"
"Call me d'Artagnan!" the lad said, brimming with pride once more that the name seemed to bring him and stepping back to his original spot with the confidence the name gave him.
"d'Artagnan," he conceded. "Why have you jumped so unexpectedly in front of my mount, declaring your name, hm?"
d'Artagnan pointed to his right and Aramis followed the gesture to spot a small farm not too far away. "Is that you're farm then?"
The lad nodded and Aramis waited for him to explain.
Suddenly shy, he murmured, "We have housed Musketeers before, on their journey to or through Lupiac. If you wish for a place to stay, something to eat…"
They must be on the edge of Lupiac the — he'd travelled farther than he realized in his daydreaming.
Aramis looked at the lad, thoughtful. He had not realized the late hour. Who was he, a servant to the King, to deny such an offer? Good company if the boy was any indication, a warm atmosphere (though there was nothing as warm as a woman's touch) 'home' melted something old inside of him.
"If you insist so, lad."
d'Artagnan beamed at him and Aramis found that he could return a genuine smile. The Gascon lead the Spaniard to a turn-off in the road and as walking companions, to a well-worn farmhouse. It was there that Aramis had met Alexandre d'Artagnan, a man that very much reminded him in essence of Captain Treville. The pair had a friendly and genuine conversation while d'Artagnan brushed down his gelding and tack in the stable. He ate a simple stew that warmed his stomach in a way that any from even the finest of inns couldn't provide, with a homely wine.
And when he was to retire, he was about to make for the stable, but before he could do more than turn to the door, d'Artagnan jumped up and insisted that the young man take his room. Aramis tried to deny him, the stable was just fine, but the lad persisted until he was so emboldened to grab the young man's wrist and drag him there himself.
Aramis gave the older man a helpless look as he was dragged passed, but Alexandre just gave him an amused look before retiring to his own bed and left the novice Musketeer in the hands of his eager son. So that was how Aramis ended up sleeping in the lad's bed, and the lad lay curled up on the floor in a bed of linens.
In the morning, Aramis was left alone with Alexandre for breakfast while d'Artagnan was outside feeding the pigs and chickens and horses and collecting lain eggs.
"Charles craves things bigger than being a simple farmer's boy." He tried to explain. "He works most all day, there's little choice with just myself and we have not enough coin to higher help, I'm afraid. He doesn't have much friends, but he seems content at the moment with just his old Pa." Alexandre admitted to his guest, a tad shamefully that he could not provide his young son with all the things that the boy craved from life. "but as the days go by, it seems that the farm is getting just too small for him."
"All young boys crave adventure, sir." Aramis tried to comfort the man.
"Like yourself, I'm sure." Alexandre smiled kindly at him. "But sometimes, they are made for greater things than what they are born into. Before he had even grown into a man, his reach in life is cut short."
Aramis was unsure about what he could say to that, because as sad as it was, that sometimes was the truth of life.
But Alexandre didn't seem to want or need a response from the Musketeer recruit, because he had long since knew what Aramis did. "I was going to send him into town today for supplies. Would you be so kind as to let him accompany you? I know you are on business and would not want you to burden you so, we know next to nothing of each other. But I feel as if I can trust you, Aramis, though it had nothing due to being a Musketeer."
"He sword fights." He remarked instead.
"Yes. It's mine own from when I fought in the war, as many times as I tried to convince him otherwise, he insists on wearing it and learning. I find it hard to deny his enthusiasm and natural skill."
Aramis chuckled softly, he could just imagine. "I would not mind having the lad accompany me, he seems to have a soul that sings the same songs as my own. I would be proud to have your confidence to help look after d'Artagnan in your stead, sir."
That was how he'd ended up with the Gascon lad as his travelling companion. They'd made it into Lupiac without trouble, Aramis delivering his message to the Lord and d'Artagnan selling the old yellow mare he'd ridden on.
They be travelling for almost a half a day back to the farm when they'd been ambushed.
His gelding had been killed and Aramis' leg trapped beneath the heavy animal. And without hesitation, d'Artagnan pulled out his father's rapier and stood guard over Aramis as best as an untrained lad could against four thugs with pistols. He'd been able to take out one of them before they knocked the lad senseless. Aramis could just be glad that they didn't kill the boy out-right, and just gave him a beating instead. They'd be taken into the trees along-side the road (and weren't gentle about it either) and here they were now.
He owed d'Artagnan his life. He vowed he would return the lad to his father whole and alive. He would not take that good man's son away from him
If he could somehow shrink his hands down… but that was an impossible and magical feat. But the idea of it struck something inside him, a match of an idea. He'd never tried it before, had never had much cause to. But he'd heard talk of it from the men at the Garrison round a table of drinks.
If he could dislocate his thumbs, he just might be able to slip the ropes and get to d'Artagnan!
Taking a deep breath that made him gag on the persistent smell of urine drying on his close and skin, he set about his work.
From the sharp pain in his one thumb, he might've broken the digit in his haste instead of just dislocating it. It was painful — though not as much as what he knew the Gascon was struggling with — and worked on squeezing his hands free of the tight rope, slippery with his blood.
As soon as he managed to free himself of his binds, he hardly remembered to pop his thumbs back into their sockets before he scrambled/dragged himself across the distance to the boy.
"d'Artagnan!"
Aramis wasn't sure where he should touch because it appeared that no place was untouched by the thugs' assault.
Carefully, he turned the lad from his side and onto his back, manoeuvring his head into his lap. While he caused the lad pain, he was glad to hear the noise crack from his throat — it meant he was still alive.
He wasn't very knowledgeable in the healing arts, he examined the boy the best he was able. There was a definite concussion, he could feel the wound, lump and blood. It was obvious that he had some broken and cracked ribs. His face was covered in bruising, swelling and cuts with split lips and a broken nose, and it appeared the same was with his sword-fighting arm.
Aramis' own knee was twist and though he thanked his lucky stars that the horse had somehow managed to not break his leg, the same could not be said for his ankle.
Aramis brushed the tangle locks of hair from the boy's face. "Come on, d'Artagnan. Open you're eyes. I know you can do it, lad." He encouraged, finding a untouched spot on the boys cheek and running his thumb across it comfortingly, trying to ruse him.
d'Artagnan's face twisted in pain; Aramis' voice, along with the strong fumes of urine pulled him from the painless safe haven of his unconscious state. "'Mis." He somehow managed to croak.
"Yeah, that's it." He said. "I going to get you home, d'Artagnan. Do you hear me? Safe in you're father's arms. Safe from anymore harm."
"Pa...?" d'Artagnan mannered to flicker his sweet brown gaze open at that, but it was for a brief second before they were closed again.
"Yeah," he murmured softly. "Pa."
"Mm," the boy groaned.
Aramis did the best he could with what he had. Being covered in piss didn't leave him much choice, he was forced to strip d'Artagnan of his doublet and made strips out of it. Binding his head and then securing the broken arm to his chest.
With his leg, he knew he wouldn't able to pick the lad up and get his feet under him both. So he managed the latter and then the former. Holding the boy close to his chest. He'd stripped of his own long coat, hopefully taking most of the urine with it. It had been one of his few and his favourite, but he would gladly cast it, and everything else he had and owned, aside, if only the lad lived.
He was going to become the best medic the Musketeers had ever commissioned. He'd do his damnedest to make sure that no soldier perished while under his care — and he was damn well going to make sure that d'Artagnan wasn't going to be the first.
A sharp shock went up and down his leg every time he stepped, resulting in a jerking stumble that he new was hurting the boy even more if the whimpers were anything to go by. But he had little choice and continued on.
The d'Artagnan farm would have been about half a days ride on horse back, but now, injured and with nothing else to carry the burden of the boy, it would take him until night fall — if he were to be so lucky.
Aramis didn't know how he managed it, broken ankle and twisted knee — by sheer force of will, he assumed — but he'd made it (if only stopping to rest for fear of falling and crushing the boy beneath him when his leg seemed about to give way).
Alexandre was working in the fields in the dying light, when he spotted them in the distance, knowing instantly that something was amiss. He ran towards them, a wordless cry, as he realized that Aramis was caring his injured son in his arms.
Alexandre took his whimpering son in his arms, sparing Aramis a sweeping glance before he rushed back to the farm at a fast but smooth pace. Aramis tried to hurry after as best he could, but could not help but give himself a leisurely moment to pause and vomit, before he staggered on what might as well have been one leg to the homestead.
Although Aramis wanted nothing more than to collapse into the nearest seat, or even the floor, he disallowed himself this pleasure. His pain and suffering meant nothing in regards to d'Artagnan and he would not let himself peace until the boy opened his expressive eyes and there was no pain in them.
Alexandre was rushing around the cabin doing several things at once, it would have made the novice dizzy if he wasn't already so light-headed. Bowl of boiled water, stripped linen — anything and everything in the care of the boy.
He stripped the lad down to his smallclothes and cleaned the blood away, and poured the remaining of the very same wine they had dined on the night before on the open wounds. d'Artagnan moaned in pain and tried to move away from the inflictor, but Alexandre, his own face contorted, had no choice but to hold him still. He stitched the head wound, and the deeper cuts, wrapped his torso tightly to hold his broken ribs in place, and splinted the lad's broken arm as best as he could (the surgeon would make better work of it on the morrow).
When finished, Alexandre leaned heavily on the table that his son lay on for a moment, beaten and unconscious, breathing heavily in comparison to the boys shallow breaths, his head bowed as he sent up a prayer for his son to be well. Finally, he straightened and picked the lad up from the kitchen table and settled him in the master bedroom.
When he came back, he went to the water bowl and washed his hands in the lukewarm water.
Alexandre finally turned to the young man, slumped against the wall and putting all his weight on one leg, ready to collapse with a passing breeze.
"Is the lad all right?" Aramis begged before the man could force him out, his throat parched and voice transformed into the croak of a frog from begging d'Artagnan to be alright the entire way.
"I've done what I can, but it is too late in the night to go for the surgeon, it is too dangerous. Charles is strong, he will last through the night to be properly seen to." Alexandre said, watching the man with concern as he wiped his hands clean of blood. He worried for his son, but he felt genuine worry for the young man in front of him as well (his thoughts not at all in line with the Musketeer recruit's).
"I should not have left the priesthood." The Spaniard responded, desolate.
"d'Artagnan would have been targeted by those thugs in any case and I would not had even known. You brought my son back to me, Aramis. Thank you. Now let me see to you..."
Aramis shook his head, making himself all the more dizzy, "I do not deserve your kindness," and attempted to make his leave.
Alexandre grabbed the man's shoulder and forced him to sit in one of the only two chairs at the kitchen table. "Aramis."
The young man slumped back in the chair, the burden of shame, pain, and exhaustion finally consuming his body, and the last thing that he saw before he blacked out was the older man's look of concern, directed at him after all that he had caused.
When Aramis next awoke, pain throbbing hotly at certain points in his body, it was to find himself in the very same bed he slept in five or six days prior. d'Artagnan's bed. It took a moment for his sluggish mind to catch up with prior events and he jolted upright in bed.
"d'Artagnan!"
Aramis looked wildly as the bedroom door opened and Alexandre stepped inside. The guilt and shame was like a rapier through the chest as he looked at the man who had taken him in, fed him, gave him a bed and trusted him with his son.
He made to get out of bed.
"Stay where you are." Alexandre told him.
And Aramis stilled; his time at the garrison, under Treville's instruction, leaving him attuned to a commander's voice.
"I've been to get the surgeon and he's already checked over Charles," Alexandre said, "and now it's your turn, lad."
The older man stepped aside, and another older man stepped into the room, carrying a case. Aramis had no choice but to allow the examination, he couldn't very well fight Alexandre's kindness as much as he knew he didn't deserve it.
He didn't much realize until now that he very much didn't smell like three different scums' piss. Alexandre had treated him well after he blacked out — treating him to the best of his abilities, even washing him and he could see the small pile of the farmer's clean clothes at his bedside to wear when he was ready to get out of bed.
He felt pampered with the feeling of home and felt oh-so undeserving of the comfort.
The surgeon concluded that he had a light concussion, bruised ribs, a broken thumb, and indeed a wrenched knee and broken ankle. He was going to be bedridden for at least a week because of his leg.
"d'Artagnan?" Aramis questioned, his voice tense from the flared pain in his leg, even as the pain draught the surgeon had him drink before he left started to take affect, sweat beading his forehead.
"He's doing well. He had yet to regain full consciousness, but he had been in and out through the night. The surgeon says that's normal for his head wound, and his arm and ribs will heal in time."
Aramis let out a breath. All was not lost then. His mistakes had not caused the boy to stay in the darkness.
A shuddering breath went through him and he collapsed back onto the bed.
"Rest, Aramis. You deserve it, we shall talk later."
Aramis shook his head, instantly trying to get up again.
"Rest." It wasn't a suggestion.
"Sir." He responded, suddenly meek.
Alexandre left him alone with his swirling, self-despairing, misconstrued notions of his unworthiness.
The two me did get that talk, later that very day when Alexandre took the novice Musketeer a bowl of broth to eat, and Aramis told him of what had transpired on the road. Shame and guilt were his companion during the tail, it all laid out for the older man to bear witness to as the young man was unable to do much at all to protect his son — it was much the other way around.
d'Artagnan was the one that had saved him.
But Alexandre held no hate for the young man before him. "You saved each other," he remarked, "If it was either of you alone amid that ambush, I fear what then might have transpired. Thank you for bringing my son home to me, Aramis." And Alexandre left the Spaniard with that parting remark, leaving him to wonder.
It was the next night that d'Artagnan regained consciousness that wasn't so fleeting and unremembered. And much like Aramis upon waking, his first thought was of the other's well being.
When Aramis heard the news of d'Artagnan's awakening, against the Gascon father's insistence that he stay in bed, the Spaniard needed to see the boy himself.
Seeing no other choice than knocking the young man out, the older helped him to the master bedroom.
Catching the sight of his older friend, d'Artagnan's expression instantly lit and the pain was pushed aside.
Aramis sat heavily in the wooden chair that Alexandre occupied most times to sit at his son's bedside. "It cheers me so, lad, to see you doing so well. I only wish I could apologize..."
"Apologize?" d'Artagnan repeated through split lips in confusion. "I don't understand, Aramis. I don't remember much of what happened between the woods and here, but I remember hearing you — calling to me, telling me to be strong and hang on, promising to bring me to Pa. I feel as if you are my brother," he said quietly, suddenly shy.
Alexandre agreed heartedly with his son sentiment.
"I have done nothing for you to feel proud of," Aramis denied even as the lad's confession warmed his heart and made him feel pride — he should not be held in such high esteem by a lad so worthy.
"What you are, who you are — like father — is who I aspire to be!" the lad protested.
"You, d'Artagnan, is who I should wish to aspire to be."
d'Artagnan was stunned and blushed under the fierce compliment from the man that he had come to look up to, even in the short while that they had known each other.
They talked a few minutes more, before the exhaustion was too much for the lad and he needed to rest, Aramis looked to be on the same edge. But before they parted ways, the two d'Artagnan's shared a look. Aramis was going to make a hard time of it, but the pair would make the Spaniard see the kind of young man they both knew him to be — that it was plain to see, even after only this short while.
Over the next two weeks or so, both the Spaniard and the Gascon lad healed together. Aramis feeling brotherhood with the lad that he hadn't felt with anyone before.
He managed to send a letter back to Treville in Paris, informing him of his predicament. But the time for fun and leisure was over.
Aramis' leg was healed enough that it was time for him to go back to Paris.
He didn't deserve Alexandre's friendly disposition. He really was as low in regard as the piss that he'd been covered in before being allowed to clean up, now clad in a set of Alexandre's own clothing that the man could spare.
"I cannot take anything more from you than I already have!" Aramis despaired when Alexandre insisted on giving him one of his few horses. "You trusted me with d'Artagnan, the most precious cargo on God's green Earth, and I allowed harm to come to him. How can you be so kind-hearted towards me, allow me into your home, lend me your clothes, let me eat your food — and now give me a horse when I have done nothing but bring harm to you precious family?" he took a gasping breath, "You are too good a man for me to speak to, sir. You must be rid of me now, I will leave!" Despite Alexandre showing him otherwise, Aramis was finding it difficult that such a good man like this would find him worthy of such forgiveness and fondness.
"Will you allow me to call you René?" Alexandre asked unexpectedly, taking the young man by complete surprised, stunned into silence.
Over the several times that they had talked, Aramis had confessed to the man that Aramis was not his given name, but one he had chosen for himself when he made the choice to leave priesthood and become a Musketeer.
Tears making his eyes bright, he slowly nodded. And Alexandre pulled him in for a hug, like he was not a stranger or young man, but as if he were family, just a lad himself.
Aramis took everything from that hug that he could.
"You are a goodman, René." Alexandre released him from the hug but kept a firm hand on his shoulder. "If Charles could have an older brother, and me another son, there is no doubt in my mind that he would be you."
The sentiment touched something deep and lonely inside the Spaniard, and he bowed his head. "I thank you, sir. For believing me such a man worthy of that description. I will no forget all that you have done for me and so much more."
Alexandre gave him a warm smile. "You will take the horse, René. And make do to say goodbye to Charles, otherwise he will hunt you down."
Aramis chuckled at the truth of the statement, almost wanting to do that just so he would be able to see the lad an extra time.
"Aramis!"
As if his ears burned at the mention of his name, d'Artagnan came bolting out of the house and into Aramis' arms.
Aramis stumbled a bit as he caught the lad, preventing them both a tumble on the ground; his leg wasn't completely healed, but was well enough for him to make the ride back to Paris and the garrison.
Alexandre quietly retreated, going to prepare the Spaniard a horse and supplies so the pair could bid farewell more privately.
"I don't want you to go," d'Artagnan told him, reluctantly pulling back. "You could stay here, with Pa and me, on the farm!"
"As much as the thought would warm me, Musketeering is the life for me, lad.
"I had to try," d'Artagnan sighed, but looked understanding.
Aramis chuckled fondly. "It makes me glad that you did."
"One day," d'Artagnan claimed with determination, "I'm am going to come to Paris and become a Musketeer, just like you, Aramis!"
"I'm not quiet there myself, but," Aramis gave his narrow shoulder a squeeze, "That is something I truly believe of you, lad. You'd be the very best of us."
d'Artagnan beamed, a proud blush on his boyish cheeks. "I'm going to miss you!" he blurted, suddenly overcome.
Aramis leaned down, hands on both the boy's shoulders. "I will not forget you, d'Artagnan — the Gascon who saved my life and took me in, who became a dear friend and brother — I promise you that."
"The horse is ready," Alexander returned, holding the of the bridle to a small but strong looking horse in saddle and tack.
Aramis nodded and released the lad. With assistance from the older man, he was mounted in the saddle. He bent low and shook Alexandre's hand firmly and fondly, the older man briefly squeezing his bicep in silent plea for him to be well and safe. He then preferred his hand to the lad, who returned the shake solemnly and firmly.
"I will repay you, Monsieur. For all the kindless you have shown me," Aramis vowed atop his borrowed horse.
Alexandre shook his head. "I will accept no such repayment. It was willingly given,"
Aramis commented no further, but his intent was visible in his eyes.
d'Artagnan had lost the coin made from the sale of the old mare in the village center, not to mention the horse he was taking now, and the work in the fields that had to be put off as the young man and boy healed from the attack. The Musketeer recruit was going to repay the d'Artagnans for what they had lost, even though coin would never quite cover what the two Gascons had given the Spaniard.
Armis clicked his tongue and spurred his mount gently forward, heading across the same path that he had carried an injured d'Artagnan in his arms, and to the main road, sending on last glance behind him before Alexandre and d'Artagnan disappeared from his sight for good.
One day, hopefully, despite being at a disadvantage of being a farmer's son, d'Artagnan would become the best Musketeer he could know.
In the meantime, he returned to the Garrison to find a new recruit. With a big and rambunctious laugh that reminded him of the Gascon lad, Porthos was his name, and the pair made fast friends.
[the end]
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
So, what do you think on my first attempt at the Musketeers? I wrote this with such trepidation, fearing that I might soil these lovely characters, but I do so hope that is not the case. I feel like I might have gotten a bit carried away with Aramis' self-loathing after the attack, but the d'Artagnans gave him a place and a home that I really liked. Tell me your thoughts? :)
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