AN:This story was born out of a conversation late at night with JackFan2 and turned out to be, incidentally, my birthday gift to her, because she totally deserves it!
We see Aramis being taken prisoner the day before Constance is rescued and from there on, the only glimpses we have of him are a few times in his cell and at the trial. A journey to the border and back would've taken Athos and company at least four days and, when we next see Aramis at his trial, you can tell that some time has elapsed, because he looks dirtier and utterly exhausted. So, why not take a shot at guessing what happened in those five days uncounted for?
My deepest thank you go, once more, to the lovely and absolutely wonderful Laurie_bug at LJ, who so kindly and patiently put up with me pestering her about beta-ing this story. Any remaining mistakes, as always, are of my own fault.
Also, I should mention that any character lines that you feel like you've heard before, it's because you actually have, because they are stole- borrowed from the show ;)
For JackFan2, a gift wrapped hurtAramis, complete with a little angst and comfort ;)
The circle of Red Guards closing around Aramis moved as effectively and deadly as a noose, tightening around his throat.
Aramis barely registered the motion, his mind still seething in rage at Rochefort's actions. How dared he to speak to the Queen in such manner? What would he do to her, now that she was all alone and left unprotected inside the palace?
Once already had he tried to force himself on her...what if Rochefort gave in to his vile urges once more and Anne was unable to defend herself this time?
The thought alone almost brought Aramis to his knees, strength failing him as he imagined the horrors in store for the Queen. He held a hand out, searching for balance, only to have his arm battered away by a hard club.
"No funny business, Musketeer dog!" one of the guards hissed, taking no small amount of pleasure in using the club one more time, just to prove his point.
Aramis grabbed onto it without even pausing to think. His hands were eager for an outlet for all the anger and frustration boiling up inside. The fact that the guard had assaulted him with no provocation was the invitation, Aramis realized, that he had been waiting for.
Growling in anger, he launched himself, catching the man completely by surprise. Foolishly, the Red Guards must have thought him tamed and subdued just because he had chosen not to resist his imprisonment before; unable to comprehend that he had only done so to protect the lives of his brothers. Now, though...
The idiots had yet to take his pistols and swords from him, but the Musketeer didn't even think to use them. He wasn't trying to escape; he knew that to be impossible and it would certainly place the lives of the Queen and the Dauphin at great risk. No, he just wanted to make someone else pay for the turmoil and naked fear inside his chest.
The guard's nose shattered under the force of the club Aramis had pulled from his hands, blood gushing out and rendering the man useless as he used both hands to stem the flow.
The other guards, to their credit, reacted fairly quickly. But an enraged Aramis, with a weapon on his hands and blind to all reason, was a force to be reckoned with.
The commotion, in the otherwise quiet corridor, soon attracted the attention of more guards, their red capes flowing as they raced to their comrades' aid.
Aramis was lost in the violence of the moment, throwing his fists in every direction, kicking, biting, scratching, completely unaware as to what damage he was causing and disregarding any done to him.
In the midst of it all, the sound of a pistol cocking managed to cut through all the other noise, a thunderous sound that rose above all the grunting and cursing.
"Enough!"
Aramis glanced in the direction of the shout, one arm around the neck of a guard while the other pushed against the leg of a second. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked, focusing on Rochefort, who was pointing a pistol at him.
"I would rather see you executed," the blond hissed, his aim steady at Aramis' head. "But we can speed matters along, if you wish."
To his disgrace, Aramis found himself actually pondering the offer. For a fleeting second, he wondered about the benefits of ending it all in that moment, of sparing his friends from endangering themselves in some deranged plan to rescue him, to spare himself from the torments that Rochefort was certainly planning.
It was but a moment, a glimpse of what might have been. Aramis surrendered, for the second time in less than an hour. For Porthos. Because he couldn't ignore the fact that his friend had ridden into mortal danger willingly, in the faint hope that returning with Vargas would ensure Aramis' safety. How could he give up now and risk rendering Porthos' selfless deed pointless?
He lowered his arms, releasing the guard he held and pushing the other away. His fisted hands, hanging by his sides, slowly relaxed as his shoulders sagged under the weight of defeat.
Brought to his knees, with his arms pulled tightly behind his back, Aramis held his head high as Rochefort advanced. He was a Musketeer, an elite soldier handpicked by the King himself. He would not cower in front of a spineless, corrupt man.
Rochefort must have seen the defiance in his eyes, because the man's mouth actually twisted in a sly smile as he got nearer. His gloved hand grasped Aramis' chin, the gesture oddly tender, as he pushed the Musketeer's head further back, to expose the long line of his neck. Leaving him defenseless.
Aramis closed his eyes, waiting for the end, embracing it now that the decision was out of his hands. He could almost foretell the cold touch of the blade, turning warm with blood as Rochefort slit his throat.
Instead of the kiss of a blade, Aramis felt the hand curling around the chain that hung from his neck, followed by a hard tug. He opened his eyes, angered and unbalanced to find himself still alive and the Queen's gift, the golden crucifix, dangling from Rochefort's fist.
"This does not belong to you," Rochefort snarled, before flipping the pistol in his hand and bringing the butt down hard against Aramis' temple. "Nor does she."
The world coiled, blurring darkness swirling around as Aramis fell gracelessly to the ground.
"Take him to the cells and make him feel at home," he heard Rochefort's voice from a distance. "Be quick about it!"
And then all sound and light ceased to exist.
They had taken his jacket, breeches and his boots, leaving him only his shirt and small-clothes. Aramis knew that, even before opening his eyes, because the cold had taken hold of him so deeply that he was shaking hard enough to rattle his bones. His knees, pressed against the harsh stone, were nothing but blocks of ice, numb to all feeling.
Aramis pushed slowly to his feet, the contrite position he had found himself in upon awakening having placed too much strain on his up-stretched arms.
Someone was calling out for D'Artagnan and, for a second, fear struck deeper than the cold and drowsiness, as Aramis believed that his friends had been imprisoned with him. When the same person called out again, declaring her love for the young Musketeer in the sad tones of a goodbye, Aramis found himself smiling despite everything. Constance.
The smile faded quickly away as he remembered Rochefort's words. Doctor Lemay had lost his head already and Constance was doomed to the same fate the following morning. And there he was, the fool, smiling because they loved and were free to express their feelings.
Brave Constance, who had stayed behind to protect the Dauphin...to protect his son. If, by some miracle, she lived past the following morning, Aramis would forever be in her debt. Short as forever would be for him.
She was sobbing now and the cries clawed at his heart. He pulled at his chains, trying to get closer to the door, see where she was, to give her whatever comfort she allowed him to.
But the guards had left him with little to no room to move about. The length of chain attached to his wrists wasn't even enough for him to bring his arms fully down, standing as he was and the only way he would ever be able to sit was if he raised them high above his head.
Even the irons binding his ankles, stretched but a few inches from the wall. Aramis hissed in frustration, pulling at the accursed bounds, ignoring the bite of iron on his bruised wrists when he yanked too hard. "Constance!" he called out, hoping that at least his voice could travel the distance that his body could not. "Constance!"
The sobs changed to gentle sniffling and there was the faint sound of shoes on stone. "A…Aramis? What are you doing here?"
Aramis turned his head, barely catching a glimpse of Constance's dress in the far cell across from his. It was only the whiteness of the fabric, such a stark contrast with the surrounding bleakness, that made him guess that was her. "Constance...have they hurt you?" he asked, pulling again at the chains so that he could see for himself. It was pointless.
"I...I am well enough," her voice echoed back, sounding faint and tired. "The Queen? The Dauphin? Are they safe?"
Aramis swallowed the churning apprehension that tightened his throat. He could hear the naked concern in Constance's voice, and hated himself for lacking the words to soothe her. "The Queen is confined to her rooms," he offered, the words sounding so much more innocent than the danger they truly represented. "And the Dauphin, I-" his voice cracked, air pushing like daggers against the back of his throat. "I know not of his fate."
Rochefort would not dare to harm the child unless it was proven that the boy was a bastard. And to prove that, he would need Aramis' admission that he had slept with the Queen. As long as Aramis kept his silence, the boy would be safe.
He hoped.
"The King will not allow any harm to come to the child," Constance said, the certainty in her voice lending strength to Aramis' heart.
Good Lord above! He had sought to alleviate her suffering and yet here he was, taking comfort in her words instead. The laugh was past his lips before he could stop it. It was such an odd sound to hear echoing from those dark and dank walls. "I can see why D'Artagnan loves you," he felt the need to explain, not wanting Constance to think that he had lost his senses.
She grew quiet in her cell, the occasional sniff the only tell that she had resumed crying. Aramis banged his head against the wall, for the fool that he was. Here she was, giving him hope when he had all but lost it, and he did nothing in return but cause her tears. "They will come for you, Constance," he whispered, not knowing who might be eavesdropping. "D'Artagnan will die before allowing any harm to come to you."
They did come for her.
It was the only source of joy Aramis managed to find after a long, sleepless night where he talked about everything and anything to keep Constance's mind away from what was to come.
He shared memories from his childhood, of all that he had learned at the hands of the priests from the monastery near his home, he talked about D'Artagnan's training at their hands and what a great Musketeer he was shaping up to be, he talked about Porthos tomfoolery at the various taverns of Paris and the numerous times they had conspired to coerce a hearty laugh out of Athos.
His voice was raw by the time the guards arrived to fetch her, but when she defiantly ignored them and called out for Aramis to not lose hope, he couldn't have been more proud of her. He prayed to God that she would be spared and be given the chance to live happily with D'Artagnan. They both more than deserved it.
As the sound of the explosions faded away in the distance, Aramis found himself trapped in silence. He had barely realized that he and Constance were the only ones in those cells and now, with her gone, he had nothing but his treacherous mind to keep him company.
He had no illusions about the others coming for him while he was trapped inside that place. The levels beneath the palace were too well-guarded, even more so, now that Constance had been rescued, and it would be nothing short of suicide to attempt such a thing.
In a sense, Aramis found solace in that knowledge. He carried enough guilt already, without adding the lives of his brothers to his numerous sins. They would do well to stay away.
He had expected Rochefort to pay him a visit at some point, maybe even try to extract some sort of revenge for Constance's escape from his skin, but he never came. No one came.
For hours, Aramis was left alone, with nothing but a faint beam of light from a slit on the wall that could barely be called a window, slowly dimming and waning as the day went by. That, and the sounds of rats, going about their business in the dark corners, free to move about as they wished. Aramis found himself envying them.
His legs were shaking, the shortness of both chains holding him conspiring against finding any sort of relief for his aching limbs.
Despite his anxiety, pain and worry, sleep still called and Aramis found himself sagging against the wall, barely making it to his knees before the first set of chains pulled painfully at his wrists.
He couldn't even remember the last time he had rested his head upon a pillow. First there had been the daring rescue of the Queen, escorting her out of the palace in the dead of the night. Then, at the convent, the respite of the moment gave free rein for his mind to wander and the meaning of the place wherein they had found refuge, had made sure that he would not be able to close his eyes for even a moment and find solace in dreams.
Resting now was near impossible, but he could at least give some relief to his tired legs until the strain on his arms became too much to bear. To his surprise, despite the discomfort, he felt his head tipping against his extended arms and his eyes slowly drooping clos-
"Oi! Scum!"
The grave voice echoed in the empty chambers, jerking Aramis back to awareness. There were two Red Guards outside his cell, one with a pistol pointed at him and the other carrying a bowl of water and a piece of dark bread.
"Dinner is served!"
Aramis pushed to his feet, smiling. He truly couldn't help himself. It was too entertaining that they feared him enough to bring an armed weapon to keep him subdued, regardless of the fact that, chained as he was, he had no chance of even taking a step forward, much less attacking either of them.
"What you smilin' for, mongrel?"
"Red Guards," Aramis pointed out, as if the name alone was enough to explain the hilarity of the situation. "Always so frightened of Musketeers."
The men outside his cell growled and for a second, Aramis was sure the one holding the pistol would actually fire. "You filth! Son of a Spanish whore!"
They spat in the water bowl, swirling the liquid around before throwing it into his face. The bread hit the ground with a soft thud just inside the bars, a futile differentiation. It could have landed on the Moon, for all that Aramis could reach it.
"Bon appétit," one snarled, before both laughed derisively and left.
Aramis licked his lips. He would never admit such weakness in front of the men, but he was parched. Even the soiled water, dripping from his beard, was a relief to his dry mouth and throat. Still, it wasn't nearly enough to appease his thirst.
No one came for two days after that.
Not Rochefort.
Not the Red Guards.
Not his friends.
Aramis' mind wandered in a dazed state in between awareness and sleep, his wrists and hands raw and bleeding from the number of times he had lost his fight with consciousness and simply fallen asleep. After a while, not even the pain of the chains biting into his hands or the threat of his shoulders being pulled out of place, were enough to rouse him.
He was sure that Rochefort had simply left him there to die.
Alone. Abandoned. Forgotten.
He shifted ever-so-slightly to ease some of the pain in his feet, the soles as raw and blistering as his wrists and ankles. He found himself dreaming of lying down, pathetic as such a sentiment was.
No one had returned to give him food or water and every now and then, his stomach would rumble deeply. He had learned to welcome the sound, as it offered some distraction from the oppressive silence. And whenever Aramis began to doubt if he was still alive at all, his talkative stomach served as proof that he was still amongst the living.
He had tried talking out loud for the first day, reciting long passages from the Bible that he could easily recall. The words offered comfort, but talking made him feel more acutely the lack of any water and eventually he was forced into silence.
Aramis had slowly learned to hate silence.
Silence that was filled with insistent voices, whispering out loud all of his fears and shortcomings.
The Queen is going to die, her elegant neck severed by the executioner's blade. She is already dead, for all that you know, her body cold and left to rot right where it fell, on the gallows.
"No, she still lives!"
The Dauphin breathes no more, smothered in his cradle by Rochefort's hand. An unmarked grave awaits him, if they even bothered to bury him at all, left alone without a mother or a father to mourn him.
"He's but a baby...why would anyone would want to harm an innocent child?"
Your friends...your friends have finally realized that you are nothing but poison, draining the life from them. They left you here, choosing to be finally free of your accursed presence. They will be happier now, safe.
"No, they are my brothers. Who could stand to love me but them?"
You are poison.
"No."
A curse.
"No."
Everything you touch withers and dies.
"Please..."
Your jailers have left you.
Your friends have turned their backs on you.
"Forgive me..."
God has abandoned you.
Even Death refuses to take you in her arms.
"Still alive, I see."
Aramis blinked, not sure if what he was hearing belonged to the voices in his head or a real person. His eyes were blurry and sore; they felt like there was dirt trapped underneath his eyelids. Still, he could recognize the shape of the man standing inside his cell. Rochefort.
"Are you going to torture me?" he asked bluntly, ashamed of the eagerness that slipped into his voice. He had been left in solitude for so long that his mind seemed to be craving any form of human contact, even if it was one borne of pain.
Rochefort's eyes upon him almost made Aramis recoil because he knew the answer all-too-well. He was fully aware of how he looked: filthy, covered in blood and grime. He knew how naked the despair was in his eyes.
Rochefort had no need to torture him. Aramis had been torturing himself for the past three days.
"I am not going to lie to you, Aramis," the other man finally said, uttering his name like it tasted foul in his mouth. "Your life cannot be saved...but there is still hope for the Queen."
Aramis startled at this, refusing to allow the other man to see how the words brought him hope. Anne still lived, she had not been harmed!
"In exchange for a full confession from you, the King will divorce her Majesty, disown the Dauphin and allow both to live in exile," Rochefort went on, pacing around him like a pig farmer, pondering which animal to slaughter for dinner. "You can save her, Aramis. Just. Speak. The. Truth."
Aramis would've laughed if he wasn't so sure that his throat would tear itself apart if he tried. Speaking was already hard enough. Instead, he stood his ground, locking his knees in a failed attempt to stop his legs from shaking, and glared at the man circling him.
Rochefort must have truly believed him to be a fool, if he expected Aramis to believe a single word coming from his treacherous mouth. The second the Musketeer admitted his affair with the Queen, her life, his and their son's, would be forfeit.
"Very well," Rochefort said, retreating outside the cell, where two guards waited. "See that he is clean and presentable for the judges," he ordered as he left.
Aramis sagged against the wall, his energy spent from keeping up a front in the other man's presence. His torment had just begun.
The endless buckets of water that the Red Guards upended over his head and body were freezing cold. Aramis shivered and curled in upon himself, helpless to stop the assault. And to think that he had longed for water for so long...
The Red Guards took particular delight in tormenting him. There had never been any love lost between the Musketeers and the Cardinal's personal men, but the only outlets usually allowed were the occasional insult and the more-than-occasional duels conducted in secret.
To have a disgraced Musketeer at their mercy and free to do with as they pleased, was a rare and precious gift that these men seemed to relinquish.
Aramis was more than eager to repay the favor, but his body didn't seemed able to do much more than shake and hurt at the moment.
"Dress yerself, mutt," one of the men said, tossing his doublet and a pair of breeches on the wet floor. "Or we'll take ya to the judge looking like a drowned dog!"
The others laughed as it was the most amusing thing that they had ever heard, snorting more insults under their cackling voices as Aramis failed to move.
He blinked the excess water running from his drenched hair into his eyes, pushing the limp curls away with the back of his arm. How could they expect him to do anything about his clothes with his limbs shackled?
"I need these removed," he finally said, too tired to wait for the guards to reach that conclusion by themselves.
Their cruelty, however, surpassed their intelligence. "Yer a very dangerous criminal," one said, coming close enough to step on his fallen coat. "Ya could do all sorts of unGodly things if we release yer hands! Now dress!"
Aramis snapped, straining against the chains to get at the fool. To his delight, the guard actually took a step back. "How am I supposed to achieve that without using my hands or feet?" he hissed.
Two others, older-looking, came near, cornering him against the wall. "Ya could beg, Spanish mutt," one said. "Beg, and we'll allow you to have any clothes on at all when you face the court."
Aramis saw red. He spat in the man's fat face, his sense of victory lasting all of two seconds before their fists found his stomach.
He tried curling up, to ease the pain, but cruel hands gripping his hair stopped him. They pushed back until his head collided with the solid wall. "From what I hear, naked and on yer back is how you spend most of your time, anyway...might as well give the judge a taste, innit?"
Aramis breathed though his nose, trying and failing to calm himself. He was shaking worse than before, from much more than the cold this time around. He was cornered, in so many more ways than physically.
It was hardly a matter of honor and dignity to make himself look presentable in front of the judge and King, even though that weighed heavily on his mind. But if there was to be any hope of them believing what he had to say, he had to look the part of a respectful Musketeer, a man of honor and status, and not some debauched libertine with his flesh on display.
"Ah...he's finally seen the light, ain't he?" one of the guards said, his face too close for comfort as he stared into Aramis' eyes. He was close enough to see the defeat in them. "Ready to beg, are we?"
Aramis closed his eyes, allowing himself at least that much protection. "P...please, will you help me dress," he grated out, the words passing like stones through his teeth.
The moments that followed, given a choice, Aramis would rather pretend never happened. The guards were not gentle in their handling of him - that much he anticipated from the start - but the way that they succeeded in making him feel like an animal, less than them, that had come as a surprise.
They had given him no chance of escaping, as four men replaced each chain as they were released, one by one. The hands, pressing down on his wrists and legs without mercy, brought unbidden tears to his eyes, as blisters burst and wounds started seeping anew.
He tried to ignore the guard maneuvering his clothes around his body, but the continuous taunts and vile comments made it an impossible task.
"Can't see what the Queen saw in 'im," the man said, his hands too close to Aramis' privates for comfort. "Prick as tiny as a child's...maybe he had the Devil's help after all," he said, a booming laugh escaping from his mouth.
"Maybe he's half-Spanish, half-Devil," another added. "Or maybe all Devil, if yer to believe what the women whisper about him. The dog and his bitches!"
They all laughed, clearly well-acquainted with the Musketeer's conquests.
"Oh, I don't know," another added, guffawing through his teeth. "If t' Queen's that much of a slut, any ol' dog will do, won't it? Eh! Maybe we should give it a go!"
Aramis couldn't help himself at that. He baulked and thrashed against the men, snarling and spitting. There was no rational thought behind it, just anger and a deep desire to cause pain to those saying such vile things about Anne. When one of them was foolish enough to move his hand closer to Aramis' mouth, he used the only weapon he had at hand and bit as hard as he could. The taste of blood in his mouth almost made him gag, but still he refused to release his prey.
"Arrrhhg! Stop that ya damn dog!" the guard said, the blade in his hand only noticed when it was inches from Aramis' face. "Keep that up and we'll muzzle ya like a beast!"
He did, only because the taste was starting to become too much for him to bear. Aramis spat the blood pooled in his mouth on the man's face, satisfied to hit his mark.
"I'll make ya pay for that!" the man said, swiping the mess from his cheek before drawing his hand back into a fist.
"Wait!" another warned, grabbing his arm. "Remember what Rochefort said, no marks."
The Red Guard growled, his arm trembling as he fought to control himself. "Turn him around!"
Aramis fumed and snarled, but there wasn't much that he could do, the men too strong for him to struggle against. His mind raced with possibilities, each darker than the next. He knew he had pressed his luck too far, pushing the already-angry man into mindless violence.
Apparently Rochefort wanted to keep up appearances in front of the court, but there was still too much damage that could be done without it being noticeable.
They hastily slipped his arms through the openings of his doublet and released him. Aramis barely had time to realize that his limbs were free before his suspicions were proven right and the first kick landed on his legs. The next one hit his side, his ribs protesting the abuse.
Aramis curled onto his side, helpless to escape the blows, his arms covering his head. It was unnecessary, he knew, as they were doing their best to avoid striking his face, but it was an instinct that he could not repress. And instinct, at that moment, was all he had left.
Aramis hadn't been able to walk on his own to the courtroom where the judges awaited. The Red Guards, despite their words and actions, ended up being forced to help him there, otherwise the Musketeer would have fallen on his face more than once.
As they neared the closed doors, Aramis stood his ground and pushed them away in a show of defiance. He wasn't entirely sure that his legs would hold him, but he would be damned if he wasn't going to walk under his own power, straight and with his head held high, as he faced Rochefort's accusations. He owed the Queen and his friends that much.
When he was returned to his cell, afterwards, Aramis' mind was still trying to make sense of what had happened.
His eyes stung with unshed tears as he thought of the Royal governess. Poor Marguerite, so wickedly used by everyone. First by Aramis, who saw her as a pleasant means to an end, and then by Rochefort, as an agent of destruction to bring about the downfall of her Queen.
To hear her call to him, still so desperately in love in spite of every vile thing he had done to her...it had hurt more than all of his bruises put together. He did not deserve her love, only her hatred, but she seemed unwilling to give him that.
Aramis pulled at the chains, grateful that, at least, the guards had been too distracted with his impending execution to rob him of his clothes and boots this time.
His mind wandered back to Anne and their son. Despite his resolution of saying nothing to compromise their safety, his actions had betrayed him and their safety was shattered. How could he have been so careless?
What would become of them now?
What would the King do in his anger, once he learned that his wife had slept with another and the child he called son was a bastard?
Tears gathered in his eyes, but Aramis refused to shed them. They would be nothing but self-pity, and he was not worthy of such sentiment.
He had brought this on himself, and no matter how fervently he prayed to God and all the Saints and Martyrs in Heaven, there was no hope of avoiding the punishment for his actions. He would suffer, Aramis was sure of that, for Rochefort would never allow him the clemency of a quick execution, but what pained him more was that those he loved, those he had sworn to protect, would suffer along with him.
He closed his eyes, Latin flowing from his lips as easily as French or Spanish. He prayed for Anne, he prayed for their son, but he dared not pray for himself. If God was to grant him but one mercy, it had to be for them, not him.
Aramis lost track of time, his words but a whisper as his voice grew weary and faint, and still he prayed and begged and asked for forgiveness.
The sound of footsteps echoed like drums in the otherwise silent cells, empty tombs waiting to be filled. Aramis knew that they were coming for him. There was no one else there.
With a deep sense of detachment that came from his exhaustion and sorrow, Aramis wondered what cruel method Rochefort had chosen to send him from this world.
Decapitation or a hangman's noose would both be too quick to appease the man's lust for blood and revenge. If he knew anything about him, Aramis would place his money on flaying.. or maybe even the wheel.
He had been witness to an execution by the wheel once, a number of years before, a servant man, who had been too careless and had caused the death of two of the King's prized horses. By the end of it, when there were no more bones to break and everyone had left, the poor man was screaming for his mother, for death, for anything to put him out of his misery.
Without telling a soul, Aramis had returned that same night, easily sneaking past the bored guards who stood waiting for the poor wretch to die. The condemned man had looked on him like he was seeing the Lord Himself, instinctively knowing that Aramis had come to end his suffering, whimpering a 'thank you' even as the Musketeer stabbed him through the heart.
Aramis wondered if there would be anyone left to grant him the same mercy.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways, does He not?"
A woman's voice, particularly Milady's, was the last thing Aramis had expected to hear. Even less had he imagined that hers, of all others, would be the face of his salvation.
"They're hiding in Constance's house," Aramis whispered, even though the street was deserted at this time of the night. The sun was about to rise, but it was still too early for anyone to be about. "That's not very smart."
Milady gave him a sideways glance, her raised brow telling him that she shared the sentiment, even if she didn't care enough to voice it. She silently watched as he struggled to get down from the horse they had stolen, analyzing the death-grip he had on the pommel and figuring, quite accurately, that it was the only thing stopping him from crumpling to the ground. "Will you make it upstairs?" she asked dispassionately.
Aramis knew he should feel offended at the question, but the truth was, he wasn't sure himself. The strange sense of elation that his escape had induced was quickly wearing off and in its place nothing remained but too many days without rest, food or water and all the bruises that the Red Guards had gifted him with. "I'll manage."
Milady stared at him, her head tilting slightly as if judging his common sense, or maybe his sanity. It was a gesture that made Aramis think of Athos, the two oddly alike in their manners and sarcasm. It was, he thought, perhaps a cruel side effect of marriage.
"Don't fall over on me," she warned, walking behind him as they made their way up. "I won't catch you."
Aramis smirked, even as he grabbed on the wooden railing harder. She was being serious, he knew. His strength was deserting him fast, but the knowledge that his friends - his family - was waiting at the top of those stairs made him push harder, drag his feet up and up until he had run out of steps.
Athos greeted them at the door, a pistol in his hand and a smile on his face. It was a rare thing to witness and Aramis almost turned to look behind himself for a reason good enough for his friend to be smiling so openly like that.
It was both humbling and wretchedly painful when Athos wrapped a hand around his neck and gave him a warm kiss on the cheek. He didn't deserve that; he certainly was not worthy of being greeted like a long-lost relative. They were where they were now, behaving like thieves, because of him. His foolish actions had led them to this place.
And yet, the feeling of being welcome was so heartwarming and soothing that Aramis let himself be hugged by all, even the Captain. Everyone was there, safe and smiling, even Constance, whose face still bore the harshness of her imprisonment. "It's good to see you, Aramis," she whispered in his ear, holding him tight.
Of all of them, Aramis cursed his body for betraying him when he was in the arms of the one who wouldn't have the strength to hold him up. His legs folded beneath him as the word lost all color and its edges became blurred.
"Aramis!"
He could feel Constance falling with him, his weight pulling her down, but there was nothing he could do about it. Then again, what was one more humiliation in the long list of things he wished to forget?
At least this time around, he was amongst his brothers and sister.
"Yes...I should mention that he wasn't looking too well when I found him," Milady pitched in, just as two bodies hit the floor. "But I guess that's fairly obvious now, is it not?"
His brothers, his sister...and Milady.
"'m gonna find out who did this, then 'm gonna pull out their teeth, and then 'm gonna make 'em swallow 'em all before I kill 'em!"
Aramis smiled, refusing to open his eyes just yet. There was only one person that voice could belong to. "You have a way with words, any one ever tell you that, my friend?" he whispered, the sound of his own voice surprising him. He sounded like he had a really bad cold.
"Aramis!"
The voice was closer now, close enough that it would be impolite to keep on ignoring its owner. Aramis forced his eyes open, wincing at the flickering light of the candle a few inches from his face.
"Oi! Sorry 'bout that," Porthos said, settling the candle on the floor. "He's awake!" he yelled for the others. The loud sound bounced around inside Aramis' head and he winced. "Sorry 'bout that too," Porthos said again, sheepishly looking all of five years old, his voice falling to a whisper as he noticed the reaction. "How're ya feeling?"
'Like I have spent a week in a dark prison cell, waiting to die', Aramis thought. "Good," he answered, licking his lips when his tongue got stuck on the small word. "Can I have some water?"
"Not too much," Athos' voice warned. He was standing by the door, looking down at Aramis grimly. "You've been too long without it."
Aramis drank thirstily, forcibly pushing the cup away before his need was fully quenched, because he knew Athos was right. Too much and it would all come back up, and that was a all too painful process that he could do without. "How did y-?"
As always, the unspoken leader of their small group seemed to guess what he was inquiring about without needing to hear the whole question. "Guards talk," he explained. "Milady listened."
Aramis felt himself growing red in the face, wondering what else the guards had boasted about. From the grim look on Athos face, everything. "The Queen?"
"Still safe, as far as we can tell," Constance said, pulling away from D'Artagnan to sit by Aramis' side. "Gave us a proper scare, you did," she added with a smile, her hand carding maternally through his curls. "Do you think you can eat something soon? You're thin as a scarecrow..."
Aramis found himself leaning into her warm, soft hand. He had been devoid of human touch for so long...
His face warmed again as he realized what he was doing. "I apologize, Constance," he mumbled hastily, pulling away. "That was hardly appropriate," he added, covertly looking in D'Artagnan's direction to make sure his brother understood that he had no ill intentions.
"Nonsense!" Constance assured, ignoring his withdrawal and returning to her soothing motion over his hair. "D'Artagnan knows where all the pots and pans are," she said, looking back at him. "He can fix you a nice, thin broth, just as good as mine, can't he?"
"Well, maybe not as good..." D'Artagnan said with a smile, walking over to press a kiss on the crown of her head. "Take care of him," the young Musketeer whispered, casting one last look over Aramis, who despite all the movement and talking around him, had fallen right back to sleep.
"My mother used to do this to me when I was sick," Constance said after a while. It was just her and Aramis left in the room, the others having returned to their plans to storm the palace. "Sometimes I'd pretend to not be feeling well, just so she would comb her fingers through my hair."
"She was a wonderful teacher," Aramis whispered, eyes still closed. If only the world would stop revolving and he could stay in this comforting numbness forever. "How are you, Constance?" he asked after a while, pushing his tired eyes open. The whole house seemed eternally plunged in darkness, with no way to tell the passage of time with all the windows closed to avoid detection. The only source of light come from scattered candles, their orange glow flickering against the walls.
The poor light made all shadows look bigger and more frightening, especially those Aramis could see underneath Constance's eyes. They spoke all too loudly of the suffering she had been through.
Constance placed her hands on her lap, her gaze avoiding his. "He made me watch," she confessed. "Rochefort made me watch as they cut off poor Doctor Lemay's head," she added with a barely suppressed sob. "And as we rode to help Porthos, I couldn't help but imagine you losing yours as well, couldn't help but wonder if Milady would betray us and leave you there to die just to spite Athos, and then my poor Queen would die too, I kept seeing her head rolling on the gallows, that huge, awful sword drenched in the blood of my friends a-"
Now that she had opened the door to her pain, Constance seemed unable to staunch the bleeding, until Aramis placed his hand over hers. "I'm sorry, Constance," he whispered, his heart aching from the amount of misery he had brought on such a gentle and kind woman. "I wish there was any way to undo the things you were forced to endure, but as time refuses to run backwards, I can only beg for your forgiveness..."
"You are a complete and utter idiot," she announced, effectively shutting him up. "Do you really think all of what's happened is your fault?"
Aramis looked up at her, confused. "If I say yes, do you promise not to slap me?"
He must've looked thoroughly pathetic lying in that bed, because instead of her usual, violent, response to his cheekiness, Constance's eyes turned gentle once again and her hands remained in her lap, trapped under his.
"No one blames you, Aramis," she explained. "If not through you, Rochefort would've found some other way to hurt the Queen," she said, anger twisting her expression as she mentioned the First Minister. "Her Majesty would never return his vile feelings for her, and Rochefort would always seek to make her suffer."
"I just made it easier for him," Aramis whispered, pulling his hand away, unable to stand the comfort of a another human's touch any longer.
"You made her feel loved," Constance whispered back. "She told me as much."
Aramis' eyes were suspiciously bright as he looked into her face, even as he smiled at her. "She told me she didn't regret what had happened between us. I wanted to believe her, with all my heart, but after all that has come to pass..."
"He has your smile, you know?" Constance confided, her eyes lighting up in mirth. There was no need to mention who she was talking about. She could see that Aramis understood her perfectly well, from the way his face filled with life. "No matter what happens next, that is what you both need to remember, what you need to hold onto and never lose hope, do you hear me?"
Aramis nodded, his throat too clogged with emotion to allow words to pass. He grabbed her hand, instead, pulling it to his lips, pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her fingers.
"Oi! D'Artagnan!" Porthos bellowed from the door. "If I were ya, I'd hurry with tha' broth, 'fore Aramis gives Constance The Stare!" he managed, before breaking up laughing.
Constance scowled at the big man as she got up, switching places with him. "I'll let you spoon feed him, if that's what you're worried about," she offered with a mischievous wink.
"Oi!"
"Never!"
Both men protested at the same time, sending her into a fit of laughter. It was a pleasant sound to hear, a smoothing balm for their weary souls.
"We're bringing Vargas to the King tomorrow, at dawn," Athos announced, joining the group again. "He has agreed to expose Rochefort as an agent of Spain. Hopefully, that will be enough for the King to see reason," he added, unable to mask how much it pained him to mention Louis and reason in the same sentence.
"We should go now," Aramis said, pushing the covers away and sitting up. His ribs protested vehemently at the movement, making him gasp for breath and grab onto the mattress for dear life. "The Queen's life is still in danger... and we've wasted enough time!" he insisted, forcing the words out between gasps of breath.
Athos raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed by the display. "If by wasting time, you're referring to picking you up from the floor and standing watch, waiting to see if you decided to remain in this world or not as Milady graced us with tales of what you'd endured in that prison cell, then yes, by all means, we've been doing nothing but that!"
His outburst silenced the whole room, none of those present accustomed to such an emotional display from the otherwise discreet man.
"I didn't mean it like that," Aramis finally whispered, shyly breaking the silence. "And you are right, of course," he conceded.
"But?" Athos prompted, knowing him far too well.
Aramis smiled softly, before turning earnest eyes on his friend. "But Rochefort is a vindictive man and with Constance's escape and mine - rescue, he reminded himself - he will have no one else to turn his wrath onto but An- the Queen," he amended quickly enough. Even though everyone in that room knew about his connection to the King's wife, there was no need to press his luck, poor as it had been of late. "Athos, I fear what he might do to her," Aramis confessed, his voice but a faint whisper.
Athos nodded. Fear was not a sentiment that any of them confessed to often, but one that they all respected deeply. "We will get Vargas ready," he voiced, taking a seat beside Aramis, on the edge of the bed. "Are you sure that you feel strong enough to do this?"
Aramis silently thanked his friend for not even questioning his need to go with them. He would lose the rest of his failing sanity if they tried to force him to stay in this room while his fate and Anne's was decided.
He pondered Athos' question, knowing that now was not the time to play the fool and delude himself and the others into thinking that he was better or fitter than he truly was.
His arms felt leaden and weak, shaky enough to ensure that he would not hit his mark as perfectly as before; but he didn't needed a perfect mark, he just needed for his pistol's ball to find its target.
And he was sure that a long walk would turn his legs into water and make his lungs burn like fire; but he didn't needed to go far, just far enough to reach Anne and make sure that she was safe.
"I will not slow you down," he promised, his right hand covering his heart. "Let me help."
Athos bit his lip, exchanging a look with Porthos and then with D'Artagnan. Neither seemed to have any doubts about where they stood.
"Very well," the Musketeer declared, getting to his feet and placing a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Let us go break some Red Guards' faces. I do believe we have a score to settle with their kind."
Porthos let out a hearty laugh. "Now...tha's wha' I call a good plan!"
The end