This is a companion fic to "Time goes by", but you don't have to read one to understand the other. Some people wanted to know what happened after René was taken home by his dad. Well, here it is. As always, a big thank to my fantastic beta, Pika_la_Cynique.
I'm considering writing a long multi-chaptered fic about Aramis' adventures before he becomes a Musketeer, but that's quite challenging for me since I'm very slow when I write in English. Would any of you guys be interested in such a story?
xxxx
He's thirteen.
He stands in the distillery, a glass of brandy in his hand, and he misses his mother.
It's been four months since his father took him into his house (his manor would be more correct; it appears that René is nobility, besides being a whore's son). It's his birthday, today, but nobody seems to care.
Nobody seems to know, to be fair. Why would they? They were all born after he left, and just a year prior, none of them had even known about his existence.
Phébus hates his guts. Now he's here, the boy is not the eldest anymore, so he seems to take his presence as a personal affront. René understands the feeling, but finds it stupid all the same. It's not as if bastards inherited anything.
Marie loathes him too, but in a less personal way. His arrival just reminds her too much of her mother's death. Madame d'Herblay was a wonderful woman. Or so they keep saying. She was the one who insisted René and his mother had to be cast out. He is not prone to hold grudges, but that still makes it quite difficult for him to pay her all the posthumous credit she apparently deserves.
Charles, as far as René can establish, is nice enough. He's six. That puts any deliberately calculated malice rather beyond his scope. But René is genuinely fond of the child. He's curious and careless, not as smart as their father wishes, maybe – it's a bit early to tell – but a good judge of character already. And he likes his brand new older brother, who plays with him, and teaches him to read and, sometimes, to ride, on their small pony.
René has all the time in the world to take care of the child. At first, he believed that his father would send him to a remote school, or assign him with some duties he would have to perform in exchange for shelter and accommodation. But the old man just gave him a tour of the estate, introduced him to their three servants, showed him his room (so big! with a large bed and a cabinet just for him!) and let him be. When he became aware that passing time in helping the cook or the hostler was out of the question (the D'Herblay are not wealthy, hence the distillery, but they are still chevaliers), he resolved to spend most of his days walking in the woods, fishing or reading. That was fun, at the beginning. In the house – in the brothel, as Phébus keeps taunting, because, somehow, he managed to find out – the only books were, funnily enough, holy books in Latin or bawdy poetry, and he had to rely on his mother's clients to read other things. So, he was delighted to be introduced to a proper library.
However, after a month, the lack of action was driving him crazy, and spending more time with Charles made the boredom easier to bear.
Now, he's alone in the distillery, about to drink the very first drop of alcohol in his life, and he feels all the sadness, the fear, the rage and the resulting frustration boiling into him. He would very much like to cry but he's too old for that. Besides, there's no way he'll let anyone in this house witness his misery.
He takes a sip, and the alcohol burns his throat, but it's good. The beverage tastes like the manor smells: spicy and fruity. It tastes like his early childhood, when he lived here with both his parents. The smell is all that he recalls, but it's not the first time it helps him to keep in mind that he once had a real family.
His mother has not written to him. His father has sworn that she was fine. He sees no reason not to believe him, yet this silence can only mean that she's been enjoined not to contact him. He can't help but resent her for not rebelling against the injunction.
He still holds the glass in his hand when he hears the footsteps. His father has forbidden him to come here unaccompanied and, while he's never said anything about not partaking of his production, it's pretty obvious that he's not going to be terribly pleased to find his teenage son, drinking alone in the dark. René doesn't care. He can take a beating.
Yet, when the old man speaks, there is no animosity in his tone. There's nothing much there at all, actually, and, for a moment, René wonders how he could have expected otherwise. His father doesn't get angry. He doesn't feel.
"Do you like it?"asks the deep voice at his back.
He shrugs: "Sort of. It burns."
"You get used to it."
Only when he hears a sharp noise does René turn to face the once handsome, now dour and stern man. There is a long package placed between them on the table they use to bottle the alcohol. His father acknowledges his inquiring looks and says: "Open it."
He does. The soft wrapping creases under his fingers. René notices that it is a finer paper that the one they used to write on, back in the house, but he doesn't have time to regret the waste.
"Happy birthday, son," his father says, dispassionately.
It's a sword.
"Your lessons start tomorrow. At dawn."
xxxx
He's fourteen.
Lisette is seventeen, but she doesn't mind. She has deflowered many boys before him. She keeps telling him that he's one of the most talented ones – the most talented one, she amends with a laugh after he raises an eyebrow in mocked outrage. He's not so full of himself as to believe her for even a second, but her ability to fool him is not why he has favored her.
Nor her skills in bed, actually, although she has many. But plenty of more, shall we say elegant, girls would have been happy to be his first. Apparently, he is both handsome and charming. More so since he's started to grow a beard, and is lucky enough that the meager result doesn't come out patchy. The reason why he made such a low-key choice as Lisette is because she speaks Spanish.
If anyone had told him, two years ago, that he would miss his mother's language, he would probably not have believed them. He has never felt anything but French, and, even if he's glad to be fluent in two languages, there was a time when he would have happily given up his Spanish just to be left in peace. It was annoying enough to be bullied because of his mother's profession without, on top of that, having to deal with being called a foreigner. But, now, he's five hundred miles from the border and his father doesn't allow Spanish in his house. The one time he had tried to teach a few words to Charles had allowed him had been the one time he'd succeeded in provoking the old man to some show of emotion, but not the one he'd expected. Monsieur d'Herblay had not yelled, though, let alone beat him, to Phébus' obvious disappointment. Just choked down his fury and voiced his disapproval in such a glacial tone that René has been terrified enough to comply.
So, when he heard Lisette's broken Spanish for the first time, a week ago, at the market, where she was trying to help two merchants from Pamplona find their way to the nearest inn, he felt his heart clenched and got an idea of what love might look like.
Now, as she is showing him the right moves, caresses and rhythms, he doesn't care how many lovers she has had before or will go back to come the next day. He likes her, respects her, and thanks her for what she's so wholeheartedly offering him. When it is over, and she tells him that he's different from the other boys, he catches something in her eye and, this time, believes her.
Overall, this second year at Herblay is not so bad. He's become a decent swordsman and an already excellent shooter. He gets along great with Charles, and a bit better with Marie, as her grief fades away. Phébus still hates him, but is too scared of him to openly attempt any wrongdoing. Nonetheless, he has the older boy to thank for the only beating his father has given – and will ever give – him. It had been eight months ago, when, desperately trying to make friends, he started to allow some of the other lads to sneak into the distillery. One night, they all got pretty tipsy and loud, and Phébus overheard the disturbance. They all learned the hard way that you didn't steal from the Chevalier d'Herblay; a rule so well taught that, in René's book, a hangover feels like a slap in the face, followed by a series of wooden ruler strikes on the fingertips.
Apart from this incident, and to René's secret dismay, his father is not that bad. He wishes he could hate the old man. He's unpleasant, selfish and boring. He abandoned them and is to blame for his mother's hardships. Still, he's never cruel. And he seems to want the best for his son. René feels a bit ashamed to not be resolute enough to decline the gifts, but it is just dazed and delighted at how many new things he's allowed to experiment. Besides, it is obvious that Monsieur d'Herblay is trying to bond with him. He obligingly shares his knowledge of weapons, and sometimes asks a question about the books his son reads, even if it is quite visible that he doesn't care in the least about the answer. Also, although he doesn't seem much of a believer himself, he takes René to church every Sunday, and sometimes simply when the boy feels the need to pray. One day, he tells him that he would make a good priest.
"What?" René is stunned.
"You would be a good priest. You're smart and compassionate. You know the Scriptures and you obviously love your God."
René is not sure if it is the somehow still unnerving absence of emotion in the voice or the "your God" that make him flinch, but, noticing the unspoken "What?" in his father's eyes, he answers as dryly as he can:
"Mamá said the same thing."
He's pleased to see the hurt he's managed to briefly pass over the man's face, but Monsieur d'Herblay is as stoic as usual when he finally answers:
"Well. We had to agree on some aspects, obviously."
xxxx
He's fifteen.
He's shared several women's beds – along with some comfy stretches of grass and bales of straw, but this is not the sole cause of conflict with his father. There is open strife between them, and not a single day passes without a fight. Supposedly, René is a reckless devil, an insolent brat, and a fool who deserves (quote:) a few good kicks to his backside. Well, challenge accepted!
Twice, he has managed to make the even-tempered Monsieur d'Herblay raise his voice at him, the only thing that could have satisfied him any better would be to success in provoking the old man into striking him.
Show me. Show them all. Show us who you really are! he wants to scream but, instead, he keeps defying any command that doesn't suit him. Fishing his own food is unworthy of a chevalier's elder? Sure! Depending on other people is so much more appropriate! He's not a chevalier, anyway. Never will be. He's a bastard and a whore's son. Has anyone got anything to say about that? No? He didn't think so! Calling the Baron de Domont's daughter a dim-witted bore – to her face! requires a proper apology? Right! Yeah, you can count on that happening. Mischief begets consequences? It sure does, my fine fellow! Because, from where I'm standing, the consequences – the current consequences – are folks liking me, and despising you. People are not stupid, as you seem so inclined to believe. They know who they can trust. They know who will fight for them and who will exploit them. Who will accept them for who they are and who will sneer behind their backs! He is a bad influence on his brothers and sister? How? Charles spends his weeks at school in Pontoise, Marie hardly ever talks to him, and if he could influence Phébus, maybe that would make him a respected heir instead of the hopeless asshole he's turning into!
His father continues to accompany him to church, though, and still wants him to be a priest, but it now seems to have less to do with his fitting temperament than with the need to tame his disobedience. He keeps refusing, and doesn't take the threat to be cut off seriously. He's pretty sure the old man feels so guilty for having abandoned him as a babe that he will support him to his grave. And if he does not, well… René has not become so gentrified that he's incapable of taking care of himself.
Truth is, he's waiting for something like that. He hates his father for staying by his side regardless of how irresponsibly he acts, and hates himself for not being resolute enough to run away. He keeps hoping that, one day, he'll find his purpose in life but, right now, he doesn't even know where to search.
He is not completely miserable. He has his friends, he has his lovers, and he has his faith.
He is at church when he meets her. He had taken the horse his father gave him for his last birthday and ridden away, not telling anyone where he was going. To end up praying throughout the afternoon is probably not the most rebellious thing to do, but you can't spend your whole life trying to prove yourself to people you're supposed to despise.
He's been there almost an hour, deep in prayer, asking for patience and wisdom. Despite what his father believes, he is very aware of his own flaws.
He is startled when he notices the girl. She is sitting on the front bench of the other row, ten feet from him, and he had not even heard her arriving. She is pale, with fair blond hair, a bit too thin, maybe, but she seems strong. When she opens her blue eyes and turns to face him, she smiles, and he immediately understands that there is a fierce and bright woman behind this discreet demeanor.
He has seen her before, at mass. His father is a baker, if he recalls correctly. He's never talked to her. He smiles back, introduces himself, and she simply answers:
"I'm Isabelle."
xxxx
He's sixteen.
He's in love.
In the beginning, Isabelle and he just spent the odd afternoon discussing the Bible, openly confronting their interpretations, challenging their faith and reinforcing it. It feels, now, that his love for God is more thought-through. He has given up the blind faith and strict observance of the dogmas his mother taught him, and learned to welcome God in his everyday life. He is not afraid to question some aspects of the Scriptures, and that makes him more confident when he expresses the ones that shape his beliefs.
One discussion would rapidly lead to another and, before he realized it, he had confided in her more than he ever had to anybody.
He knows she has, too.
She's his best friend. At some point, he understands that he wants more, yet doesn't express his desires, for fear of losing her. But she is the one who makes the first move. She has noticed the way he looks at her, now, and how he's stopped seeing other girls (a blind person couldn't have missed it; every lad and lass in the village has been commenting this change of attitude for months). When she kisses him, he starts to understand what true happiness feels like.
Amazingly, his father likes Isabelle. She has no title, but her family is wealthy enough. She is smart, funny, a little bit impish, sometimes, in spite of her prudish demeanor, but always in a kindhearted way. She is also a great cook and a terrific horse rider. Occasionally, she helps the old man in the distillery, and René is not sure, but it looks like the secretive chevalier is considering giving her his recipe!
Isabelle's father, who was more than a little worried when he heard that his daughter was seeing the village's most notorious hedonist, is now quite fond of him. He's still wary, obviously, and has very explicitly told René to keep it in his pants, but he respects the boy's mix of erudition and humility.
Everything is close to perfect until a messenger arrives at Herblay.
René's mother is dead.
He sits on his bed, the letter in his hands, too stunned to even cry. His father has been understanding enough to leave him alone. Some minutes ago, Phébus passed in front of the door he had not thought to close. Their glances crossed, and the brat probably caught the vulnerability in his eyes, but also something else because the nasty comment he was close to spitting out died on his lips and he left with a snort. Now, it's Marie's turn to come in. She sits on the bed, besides him, and starts to talk about her own feelings when she lost her mom. That's as awkward as it can get, and René mentally shuts her out.
I swore I would come back to you, he thinks.
I swore I would see you again, and take care of you. I would never have left otherwise.
Why didn't you write to me? Why had nobody told me you were ill? I could have been there! I could have held your hand and stayed by your side till the end.
Maybe you would not have fallen ill in the first place!
Was it my fault?
Everything you did, you did it for me. I hoped that me leaving would give you more time to take care of yourself. But you didn't, did you? Could you even remember how to put your own welfare first?
I was the only thing that kept you fighting and I left.
Is it possible to die of a broken heart?
He feels Marie's hand on his and realizes he is crying, after all. He angrily brushes the tears away, and she moves to hold him by the shoulders. He wants to chase her away but only whispers:
"I should have been there."
God! He hates how weak. his voice sounds!
Marie tightens her embrace, and they remain silent until she says:
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, right!"
He's never been belligerent to Marie before. They're not friends, but she's not a bad person. They just have nothing in common. She doesn't take the rebuff personally. Instead, she shakes her head and, with all the firmness a twelve-year-old girl can muster, corrects:
"No. I mean about my mother. She had no right to cast you out."
xxxx
He's seventeen.
He's grieving.
Isabelle has lost the baby.
She's lost the baby and he wasn't even there.
He was at the fair with his father, where they sold enough brandy to get an entire battalion drunk. He had not wanted to go, precisely because Isabelle had not been feeling too well these past days, but he had given his word, and he'd figured that being true to it was the best way to make the old man accept that his son would marry the girl he'd gotten pregnant. Monsieur d'Herblay did try to object but, for the first time, René didn't yell or sulk. He just gritted his teeth, raised his hand, silently silencing the man, and said: "Don't. Don't even try. You taught me all the things I needed to behave like a nobleman and, believe me, for all that I've shown you otherwise, I've learned. But there is one lesson I will never take from you and that is how to treat a woman."
Monsieur d'Herblay didn't answer and for a moment it seemed that, for the first time, he was proud of his son.
But René doesn't give a rat's ass.
He doesn't want to marry Isabelle to make his father proud. He wants to because he loves her. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her, and maybe they hadn't planned for things to happen that fast, maybe they both hoped to enjoy their freedom a bit longer, but to the devil with all that! They were having a baby and they were ready.
He was, at any rate.
Isabelle had expressed some doubts and he believes her concerns have mostly been about him. He doesn't know if he's grateful that she puts his welfare first when she has so much more to lose than him in raising a child on her own, or horrified that, after all he's confided to her about his past, she might believe him so selfish.
Well, it doesn't matter anymore. The baby is gone and it hurts so much he would not even be able to think if Isabelle's father had not given him a purpose.
He has taken her away.
That can't be.
They only have each other, now, and they won't be separated.
She has doubts? He will show her!
He loves her with all his heart and, whatever it takes, he will find her.
"I will," he manages to say to the silent baker. "I can't force you to tell me where you're holding her imprisoned, but you can't stop me."
xxxx
He's eighteen.
It's been ten months since he left.
He hasn't found her.
He's not even sure he is searching anymore.
As much as he wants to remember, the memories fade. The pain does, too.
The loneliness remains.
He has no wife, no baby… no family.
He wonders if he ever had one.
He wonders if he will.
FIN
X
Notes:
- The names I chose for Aramis' brothers and sister are actually those of the father (Charles) uncle (Phébus) and aunt (Marie) of Henri d'Aramitz, the real musketeer who inspired Dumas to create the character of Aramis.
- Herblay is a small town, northwest of Paris. Aramitz (now spelled Aramits) is a village, not far from the Spanish border.
- To be honest, I don't believe the writers of the show had planned Aramis to be nobility but, given that they never mentioned his real name, and since everyone in the fandom use the one Dumas gave him, which I think is a good idea, I gladly went with the flow. In French, if you are a "De" or a "D'" something, you are nobility. I chose to make the D'Herblays relatively poor, though.
- My cover image is apparently a portrait of Henri d'Aramitz. Author unknown (by me, at any rate).