Warnings: This is not Season 3 canon compliant as regards Aramis' familial history. This story has been hanging out on my hard drive since last Mother's Day and I did not go back and change it after seeing S3:E4, mostly because much of it was already written, but also because I wasn't thrilled with the backstory they gave him. Additionally, this is the first story in this fandom that's not been complete before it started posting. I got sidetracked by War Heroes after watching the first couple of episodes of Season 3. I will make every effort to get this finished before I return to the War Heroes series, but I did not want to hold it for another year. And yes, I understand there are parts of Europe that have already celebrated Mother's Day, here in the US, though, we fete our mom's today.
FYI: In my TM 'verse, this story falls between A Good Son and A Different Perspective, so there are some references to things that happened to them in A Good Son.
A Mother's Heart
"Not much further, now!" Aramis, in the lead, turned in his saddle to call over the noise of the rain pouring from the heavens as if God was in the process of turning the entirety of the province into an enormous lake.
"Aramis, we need to find cover until this lets up!" Athos, in the rear, shouted forward.
"Please!" d'Artagnan seconded through chattering teeth.
"Yeah," Porthos agreed, slogging alongside the youth. He reached inside his useless oilskin and pulled out a soaked kerchief, holding it out to d'Artagnan. "Yer bleeding," he said, touching his own cheek by way of explanation.
It had begun to hail small pellets of ice sporting jagged edges. It said something about how cold the Gascon was that he hadn't even noticed he was bleeding.
d'Artagnan had to snake an icy hand from beneath his father's cloak to explore the cut, the rain washing the blood from his fingers almost before his eyes could focus on the hand he held up in front of his face.
"We're only a league from home!" Aramis yelled back.
"We can't ride on in this hail!" Porthos bellowed, snatching off his own wide-brimmed hat to toss it with perfect accuracy onto d'Artagnan's head. "No need for you to be lookin' like a court jester too." The Musketeer's trademark grin flashed like lightening in the evening gloaming as d'Artagnan struggled to make his hands return the hat.
He managed to get it off, but his frozen fingers would not pinch enough to keep hold of the brim. He lost it and the hat hovered for an instant on a fortuitous air current between them before Porthos caught it and plunked it back on d'Artagnan's head. "Leave it there," he growled.
"Now both of us will just end up bloody," d'Artagnan ground out, unclenching his jaw long enough to turn his head and spit out the blood from catching his tongue between his chattering teeth.
"Nah," Porthos barked a laugh, "been out in the elements long enough this ole hide's 'bout the consistency o'leather. ARAMIS!" he shouted again.
"We've got two choices!" Aramis yelled back, "keep riding and get home as fast as we can, or stop and huddle together! This is the edge of property, it's all fields from here to the house! Not even trees to shelter under!"
The horses were clop clopping up a muddy, gently sloping lane, every plodding hoof beat splashing up a slushy mix of frozen mud and ice pebbles. They were surrounded on all sides by equally muddy, empty fields plowed into furrows awaiting the spring sunshine to plant the rows and rows of seeds.
"Then keep moving," Athos directed, hat angled to ward off the worst of the pinging pellets.
They were soaked from hats to boots, having ridden for nearly forty-eight hours with only brief rests for the horses, leaving them exhausted as well as wet and frozen. The weather had turned foul as they'd left Gascony and after a couple of hours the first night, they'd given up any thought of camping, re-saddled the horses and plodded on through the cold rain.
Their errand of mercy in Lillie had required little more than dropping off the purse the Musketeers had raised to help defray the expenses of replacing the barn roof, since it had already been re-thatched by the time they'd arrived. But the innkeeper had been grateful. And the weather had cooperated so amicably, their ride, as they'd headed diagonally down through the middle of France to Lupiac, had been swift and uneventful.
Aramis, poking around in what had been left of the kitchen pantry in the d'Artagnan farm house, after the lengthy and emotional service for Alexandre, had suggested they make a wide northerly swing to Bayonne and visit his home since they had so much extra time. They were not on the duty roster again until the beginning of April. Why waste it sitting around twiddling their thumbs in Paris.
Porthos, who had long since been adopted by Aramis' family, had been instantly in agreement. A subdued d'Artagnan, with a questioning glance at Athos, had shrugged his accord.
Melancholy had settled like a cloak around the youth during the priest's droning invocations and seemingly endless sermonizing. Athos had had to separate the man bodily from the young Gascon as the priest had trailed d'Artagnan to Alexandre's fresh grave, buzzing incessantly about the youth's familial duty to his farm tenants and his obligations to his retainers, not to mention the parish at large. d'Artagnan had been listless and quiet since, taking no part any of their discussions unless directly questioned.
It was not that Athos begrudged the extra travel, or even Aramis' desire to make this unexpected visit home; however, family reunions did not rate high on his list of fun things to do. Not that he had a list of fun things to do, but he was dreading this stopover more than visit to the tooth drawer. He would have headed back to Paris on his own if d'Artagnan hadn't roused long enough to insist on accompanying him. With the youth in this frame of mind, where d'Artagnan went, the other two would follow. And, last but not least, from Aramis' chatter about his mother, Athos thought perhaps a little mothering might do d'Artagnan a world of good.
The foul weather was merely a reflection of his own mood, Athos thought wearily, the tiniest bit irritated that he'd let the Gascon get under his skin enough to make this kind of sacrifice. He had not been aware the Inseparables had had a hole that needed filling, yet d'Artagnan had been with them for barely a month and already he fit as seamlessly as if he'd been an integral part from their inception.
Athos had fallen behind, lost in his silent contemplation's. His horse pricked its ears as the trio ahead picked up the pace, sensing - or perhaps smelling - habitation and the promise of warm, dry stalls and a good mash for dinner. At least one of Aramis' brother's bred horses, as Athos recalled. They would know how to please a horse here - which left himself as the only hold out. He could at least be as grateful as the horses for a warm, dry place to sleep, and food in his empty belly.
On that thought, Athos rummaged through his arsenal of coping skills and arranged his face to reflect gratitude.
TBC