The formation they rode in was unfamiliar, and Aramis was acutely aware of the difference. Before, they'd almost always ridden two by two, if the width of the trail allowed it. Athos would be alongside D'Artagnan, and Porthos by Aramis. Or perhaps Aramis would ride with D'Artagnan, while Athos and Porthos entertained each other. It had never mattered much to Aramis, as he had equally enjoyed the company of all his brothers. Now, it was a triangle of Athos, D'Artagnan and Porthos, followed by Aramis in the back. Aramis wasn't quite sure if it was deliberate, or whether he was simply an afterthought. Perhaps they'd forgotten that he was there with them altogether.
There was a clear divide in his life now. There was the Before, and there was the After. Aramis didn't know exactly when the After had started. At first, he hadn't been certain whether there even was an After. Porthos had been understandably upset when they'd first reunited, but Aramis had thought that it would pass quickly. They'd enjoyed a moment in the woods after the skirmish with the arms smugglers, relishing the thrill of a righteous fight and laughing at the audacity of what they had pulled off. It had all felt so right to Aramis, in that moment. He had been content with his peaceful life at the monastery, and he loved the orphans under his care, but none of it had settled into his bones the way a good battle did, not even after four years.
Aramis supposed that it was easiest to say the After had originated in Paris, upon his very recent return to the city. It had certainly made itself very obvious, then. But perhaps that was too late. Perhaps the After had actually begun at some point during his four year absence, or when he had decided to leave for Douai. Maybe the After had begun when he'd made his vow, alone and desperate in a prison cell.
No, Aramis thought. That felt wrong. Was it when Rochefort had entered their lives? Or was the After even older? Was it possible that the seeds of the After had been sown at a beautiful, ancient convent, where one old love had died and a new one had been born?
"Aramis? Aramis!" Fingers snapped sharply in front of his face. "Are you with me?"
"Pardon?" The marksman shook himself out of his thoughts and found D'Artagnan riding next to him, a concerned frown turning down his mouth. Aramis flushed hot with embarrassment. Absentminded contemplation was acceptable when weeding a garden wearing a monk's robes. It was absolutely unacceptable when riding into an unstable situation wearing a Musketeer's pauldron.
"Is something the matter?" D'Artagnan asked quietly. Aramis was grateful for the Gascon's discretion. He glanced at the backs of Athos and Porthos, both of whom were still riding ahead, seemingly unknowing or unconcerned by Aramis' lapse in concentration.
"No, everything is fine," he said, straightening his spine and pasting on what he hoped looked like a genuine smile.
"We're approaching the village," D'Artagnan informed him. "Stay sharp; we don't know if the deserters have hit this area yet."
Aramis tipped his hat in acknowledgement and tilted his head down to hide fact that his face had warmed again at D'Artagnan's instructions. It was a bit disconcerting to be treated like a green cadet by a Musketeer that he'd helped train, but he knew that D'Artagnan was simply doing his duty. Considering that Aramis' attention had been wandering, it was more disturbing that he'd needed the warning at all.
D'Artagnan rode on ahead and rejoined Athos and Porthos as they continued on. The dense forest that they were traveling through began to thin out and soon gave way to rolling hills that were blanketed by grapevines. In the distance, one of the small outlying villages north of Reims was visible. They were close to the border here, but still far enough that Aramis did not see any signs of recent battle or the passing of an army.
The four men paused on the trail as they surveyed the area. From here, the village looked peaceful and quiet. The setting sun reflected off the pale stone and plaster buildings, while lazy smoke drifted up from chimneys perched upon low, slanted roofs. It looked just like many of the towns and villages they'd visited over the course of their years together while serving the King.
"It appears we've arrived before trouble has," Athos said, peering through his spyglass. He handed it off to Porthos, who also made a visual sweep of the land.
"I hope that means they still have food," Porthos said. "I'm getting hungry."
"You're always hungry," Aramis murmured fondly. He was expecting to be ignored but was pleasantly surprised when his friend shrugged.
"Big man, big appetite," Porthos said shortly.
"You're going to develop a big belly to go with it," D'Artagnan teased. "We're not on the front any more, you know."
"Watch it," Porthos growled. "Big belly or not, I can still crush you."
"How so? By sitting on me? You'd have to catch me first," the Gascon shot back.
"Four years at war and they still bicker like children," Athos said to Aramis, shaking his head as he shared a knowing look with the former monk. Aramis smiled in response, pleased by Athos' easy manner. This felt good. It had been missing from his life for what seemed like an eternity.
As the Musketeers rode in to the village, they were greeted by glances of uncertainty or fear, and in some cases, outright hostility. The conflict with Spain was taking its toll, not only in the loss of soldiers' lives, but in the loss of trust by the populace. Villages such as this one had been repeatedly forced to give up their men and their resources to support the war effort, and it was clear that these people had reached their limit. Aramis couldn't blame the villagers. He himself was a creature of war, a man that had been placed on earth to fight, but he realized that every campaign was built on the backs of the average citizen. He'd had plenty of time to reflect upon those sacrifices at Douai, where the monks had done their best to supplement the nearby villages with their humble offerings when the Crown had taken more than the people could bear.
They housed their mounts at the local stable and headed towards the tavern. As Porthos and D'Artagnan sat themselves at a small wooden table in the corner, Aramis and Athos approached the innkeeper who was stacking mugs behind the bar. The small establishment was only about half-full. Athos introduced himself to the old man, who looked distinctly unimpressed.
"What do you want?" he asked gruffly. "We already paid our taxes. Twice, I might add. We've nothing more to give."
Athos raised an eyebrow. "We are the King's Musketeers, not his tax collectors," he said dryly. "We're looking for information on a band of Spanish deserters. They've been raiding villages near here."
The man shrugged. "Haven't heard anything. We haven't had much contact with our neighbors."
"Are you sure? Should the pattern of their attacks continue, your village would be next."
The innkeeper snorted. "And what would they be raiding for? We have already been stripped to the bone by the King for this useless war." He spat out the last bit angrily and Athos' eyes narrowed dangerously.
"You are walking a fine line between honest grievance and treason," he warned. "Take care not to cross it in my presence."
The innkeeper opened his mouth to respond when Aramis stepped in. "I understand times have been difficult for you, as they have been for all of us," he said placatingly even as he hefted his arquebus onto his shoulder. "His Majesty appreciates your contributions."
"He can show is appreciation by leaving us alone. We don't want you here."
Athos and Aramis glanced at each other. "Be that as it may, this is a matter of security," Athos said coolly. "And should these deserters descend upon your village, I can promise that they will do more than take your coin. They have left nothing but devastation in their wake."
"Then while you're here, I suppose you can make yourselves useful. You're supposed to be fighting the Spanish, aren't you?" the man replied with something that bordered on a sneer.
When it became abundantly clear that the old innkeeper had nothing useful he was going to share, they walked away from the bar. They joined Porthos and D'Artagnan, who had made better use of their time by tucking into hot bowls of thin soup served alongside heels of fresh bread. An open bottle of wine beckoned. Porthos looked up as they sat.
"Anything?"
"No," Athos said as he helped himself to the wine. "Although he wasn't shy about sharing his distaste for the King's collections. Or for us."
Porthos shrugged. "There's a war going on. At least he's not the one out there fighting it."
"These people are fighting it in their own way," Aramis pointed out. "You don't need to swing a sword to feel its effects."
Porthos' face darkened. The spoon he dropped landed in his meal with a small splash. "You think I don't know that? You think that we didn't see what the war did to people while we were on the march?"
"I don't doubt that you did." Aramis backpedaled quickly and then swallowed the rest of his words with a small sigh. Trying to hold a simple conversation with Porthos had very recently become a delicate and exhausting exercise in restraint. He would unexpectedly find himself on the back foot, never certain when his words would offend his old friend. It was startling to discover that his once easy-going brother had developed such a prickly side.
Aramis pushed himself back from the table and slouched in his seat, crossing his arms and allowing the rest of the conversation to wash over him. Porthos had not wanted Aramis to come on this mission, while Athos had been lukewarm on the idea. Rather, it had been D'Artagnan that had thrown the weight of his enthusiastic support behind Aramis, arguing for his inclusion.
"He will have to join our missions at some point," D'Artagnan had said. "Why not now?"
"He's not ready, that's why," Porthos snapped back. "It'll be too dangerous."
D'Artagnan snorted. "You allowed me to join an attack on a renegade Red Guard camp before I was even a cadet. Aramis was - is - a full Musketeer, and has been one for longer than any of us. Why is there a question as to whether he is ready?"
"Because he's spent the last four years growing soft in a monastery, that's why. He's going to get himself killed. Or he's going to get one of us killed," the big man replied angrily.
D'Artagnan shook his head. "Isn't that what we, his brothers, are here for then?" he'd asked softly. "I'm willing to watch his back to ensure that doesn't happen. Aren't you?"
Porthos had responded by walking away, throwing his arms up into the air in disgust. Aramis had been inside the armory, cleaning and testing weapons when the loud argument had unfolded in the courtyard. His heart had ached a bit upon hearing Porthos proclaim his misgivings so resoundingly, but it hadn't been anything new or shocking to Aramis. If he was honest with himself, the same uncertainty had been plaguing him since he'd returned, insidiously smearing his confidence with a black smudge of doubt.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud scream outside. The four men leapt to their feet, grabbed their weapons and raced out the door to find chaos bearing down on them. Reports of Spanish deserters attacking towns near the border had trickled into the city a few months ago, but they had been infrequent and unreliable. More recently, the number of incursions had increased, and an ambush of one of the royal tax collectors had finally caught the King's ear. He'd exasperatedly sent the Musketeers out to deal with the matter, unhappy about having his attention taken away from the Dauphin.
Some messages had suggested a band of five men, others had reported up to ten. Aramis estimated at least fifteen men galloping towards the village, armed and armored far better than any common bandits would have been. They rode like soldiers, disciplined and deadly.
"Aramis! Find a vantage point and provide cover," Athos shouted at him. D'Artagnan tossed his musket to the marksman before he sped off to engage the attackers. Aramis hesitated for a second before nodding and racing back into the inn. High ground was where Aramis often found himself, as it made the best use of his formidable skills, but he also understood that Athos was trying to shield him from direct contact with the enemy for as long possible. Determined to be useful and to keep his brothers safe once more, Aramis ran past the startled innkeeper, up the stairs and barged into one of the rooms facing the street. It had two windows that were just large enough so he could wedge his body into them. The windows receded into the stone walls and were set above a sloped overhang, providing him a small measure of protection as he leaned out over the ledge, arquebus up and ready.
Sixteen against three on the ground and one marksman up above were very poor odds, even for them. Aramis continuously fired and reloaded the two muskets, trying to lose himself in the soothing weight and recoil of his favorite weapons. It soon became clear to him, however, that he and his guns did not have the same unspoken understanding that they once had. From his perch, he could see that his brothers were slowly losing the fight, too spread out and overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Out of ammunition and frustrated by his lack of success, Aramis lay the long firearms on the floor and slid out the window. Bullets riddled the roof as he skidded down the loose shingles in a semi-controlled slide, and he threw up an arm to protect his eyes as splinters exploded around him. Aramis pulled out one pistol and fired blindly in the direction of the volley as he went over the edge of the roof. The marksman somehow managed to land on his feet, grimacing as his joints protested the jarring impact.
Almost before he could straighten up, two men converged on him. Aramis drew his sword in a wide sweeping motion, forcing the attackers away as he moved back, leaving as little space as he could between himself and the wall of the inn without becoming trapped. A nervous thrill rushed through him as he blocked the simultaneous attacks. His fight in the forest against the arms dealers had been sloppy and desperate, fueled by his need to protect the children and helped by the fact that those mercenaries had been poorly trained and that he knew the lay of the land far better than they did. Here, on even footing with men that had presumably been military-trained, Aramis found that there was no advantage to be had.
His days at the monastery had been occupied by more than just prayer. The abbé had frequently seen fit to engage Aramis in hard labor, having him plow and plant and repair and build everything that the older brothers could not manage as easily. Despite the physical activity, it was not the same as training and sparring. His muscles still remembered the forms and movements, but they were slower and stiffer than they used to be. Before long, Aramis found himself staggering before his opponents' advances, slowly overwhelmed by their onslaught.
"Aramis!" Athos' voice suddenly cut through the din and caught his ear. Grabbing the end of his blade with his gloved hand, Aramis shoved his two enemies backwards, buying himself a tiny bit of space and time. Looking around frantically, Aramis spied Athos grappling with three men. "D'Artagnan! Get to him!" There was a desperate note to the captain's voice that Aramis rarely heard.
The moment of distraction proved to be costly as one man swung at Aramis' neck while the other hacked at his legs. Aramis instinctively turned and lifted his right arm, allowing the pauldron on his shoulder to deflect the strike to his throat. The blow to his legs went through his low sweeping parry and sliced through his leather boot, biting sharply into the muscle of his calf. Growling with pain and fury, Aramis lashed out wildly with his sword and then burst away from his attackers. He needed to find D'Artagnan.
It didn't take very long. The youngest of their group, who'd always had an immense amount of talent as a swordsman, had forged his potential into true craft in the crucible of war. Aramis could easily measure the improvement in D'Artagnan's skill since the last time they'd sparred, and he was very impressed. However, holding off four men at once was a difficult feat, even for one with the Gascon's prowess. Two bodies lay limp on the ground, with two enemy soldiers still on their feet. The remaining attackers had D'Artagnan pressed against a wall, and they harried him, coordinating their attacks to effectively keep him off balance. Even from a distance, Aramis could see a large, dark patch staining the leg of the Gascon's leather breeches.
Aramis rushed towards D'Artagnan's position, pulling out his remaining pistol as he went. He had one shot left, and he lifted his firearm and took aim even as he sprinted forward. As one Spanish soldier lifted his arm and readied to strike, Aramis realized with a sinking heart that it would be impossible to reach his friend in time. In the back of his mind, he could hear someone screaming at him to shoot. He didn't know if it was Athos, Porthos, or his own conscience, but he obeyed and pulled the trigger. It was a shot he had made countless times before. It was something that he depended on, and perhaps took for granted.
The lead ball struck the stone wall next to his target.
He missed the shot.
He missed.
Aramis' eyes widened with helpless horror and disbelief as the enemy soldier slammed the pommel of his sword against D'Artagnan's head. The Gascon's knees folded beneath him and the man that struck him caught D'Artagnan under his arms before he could hit the ground. The two soldiers began to drag the unconscious young man towards their waiting horses, and Aramis darted towards them, furiously and uselessly shouting at the men to stop.
From one stride to the next, his injured leg unexpectedly collapsed beneath him and Aramis tumbled gracelessly to his knees. Even as he scrambled back to his feet, he knew it was too late. Aramis watched powerlessly as the deserters tossed his friend on one of the horses and galloped away from the village. The rest of the soldiers, upon seeing two of their comrades retreat, pulled out from their own battles and followed suit, carrying food and supplies and anything else they had managed to steal. Aramis stood stock still for one brief moment as he watched the exodus, chest heaving as he tried to decide what to do.
D'Artagnan needs help, Aramis thought desperately, his mind swimming with sickening guilt and dread. I need to help him. I need to get him back. I am going to get him back.
Limping hastily towards the stables, Aramis didn't notice Porthos chasing after him and calling his name until the big man grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him backwards.
"Where do you think you're going? Where's D'Artagnan?" Porthos demanded fiercely, spinning the marksman around to face him. His grip on Aramis' arm was painfully tight.
Aramis had trouble meeting his friend's gaze. Instead, his eyes roved over Porthos from the neck down, unconsciously searching for wounds and other hurts. He spotted a slice in the leather doublet over Porthos' left arm, but no blood. "They took him," he murmured. "I...it's my fault. I shouldn't have missed, but I did."
"You're not making any sense," Porthos rumbled. "What did you miss?"
"My shot. I missed the soldier. If I hadn't..." Aramis trailed off as Porthos growled loudly. His expression was dark as he began to walk, pulling the marksman along with him.
"I don't understand what you're saying, but Athos needs your help."
"What is it you don't understand?" Aramis protested. He wrenched his arm out of Porthos' strong grip. "They took D'Artagnan. I need to go after him." He turned and took two steps before his progress was interrupted by a large, angry Musketeer.
"No," Porthos spat back. "What you need to do is help Athos. He's hurt."
At Porthos' words, Aramis' determined resistance died. "Where is he?"
The big man silently led Aramis over to where Athos was sitting, leaning heavily against a trough. A nasty bruise decorated his forehead, and a small cut in the center of the purple blemish was the source of the blood that sheeted down the side of his pale face. Aramis crouched in front of the dazed swordsman.
"Athos? Are you with me?"
"D'Artagnan?" Confusion clouded the swordsman's eyes before being blinked away.
"No, Athos. It's Aramis." He shoved back the hurt that unexpectedly flared up. Once upon a time, his name was the first on his brother's lips when they suffered an illness or injury.
"What? Oh. Aramis," Athos breathed. "What happened?"
"I don't know, but whatever it was has left an impressive bump on your head," Aramis said, his hands gently probing the gash. "Is there anything else I need to know about?"
Athos vaguely gestured towards his side, and Aramis ran his hands lightly down Athos' torso. He recoiled when his fingers hit a wet patch. "Damn black leather," he muttered. It was impossible to see blood on the material unless one knew to look for it.
Hurriedly undoing the front of Athos' doublet, Aramis found a long wound sliced into the skin above his friend's hip. It wasn't terribly deep, but still seeped sluggishly. The side of Athos' shirt was almost entirely dyed red, suggesting that it had been bleeding for a while.
"This requires needlework," Aramis murmured to himself. He took a deep breath and looked up at Porthos. Dark, unreadable eyes stared back at him. "Can you help me get him inside?"
Porthos nodded wordlessly and between the two of them, they hefted a dizzy Athos to his feet. Aramis and Porthos mostly dragged the Musketeer captain back towards the inn, as Athos' feet were too uncoordinated to be truly helpful. Aramis hid a grimace as they struggled up the narrow staircase, each step pulling painfully at the wound on his leg. They carefully lay Athos down on the narrow, hard bed in one of the rooms, and the swordsman squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing heavily to keep from throwing up. Porthos leaned against the wall and stared down at Aramis, who was inspecting the gash anxiously.
"Is it bad?"
"I don't think so. If it remains clean it should heal well. The bigger concerns are the head wound and blood loss." Aramis lit a candle and requested that Athos hand over the small flask of wine Aramis knew the swordsman still carried, preferring to save his own spirits for emergencies. Aramis prayed that he had not also lost his skill in doctoring wounds. Stitching flesh was something that had been rarely required of him at the abbey; the items that had most frequently met his needle had been robe seams and worn socks.
Porthos sighed as he watched Aramis began his preparations to treat Athos, the motions as familiar to him as they were to the marksman. "Explain to me again exactly what happened."
The marksman felt his face heat up but he kept his focus trained on the task at hand. He's going to get one of us killed. Porthos' previous words came back to taunt him. Aramis poured wine over the weeping gash and rubbed a soothing hand over his brother's arm when he felt Athos tense under his touch. Aramis held one of his needles to the candle flame until it became red hot, and once cooled pulled a length of clean silk thread through the eye. Taking a deep breath, he began to work, and to his infinite relief, his fingers still remembered how to sew up skin. "There isn't much to explain. I tried to eliminate one of D'Artagnan's attackers and I failed. He's in their hands now because of it," he said with a steadiness he did not feel.
There was a long moment of silence and the marksman could feel both his friends' eyes on him. "If these men are indeed Spanish deserters, my best guess is that they will be riding for the border," Athos finally croaked, his words slightly slurred. "It is possible that they will try and use D'Artagnan as leverage to gain clemency. They will have recognized that he is a Musketeer."
"Damn it, Aramis," Porthos swore. He ran a hand down his face with a sigh. "I'm going after D'Artagnan."
"You can't go by yourself," Athos objected. "Too dangerous."
Aramis' hands briefly stilled. "I'll join you after I take care of Athos," he said quietly to Porthos.
"No, you won't. You'll stay right here and look after him," Porthos countered fiercely. "Do not follow me, Aramis. I'll handle this myself." The big man rushed out of the room, ignoring Athos' call to wait.
Tamping down on his guilt and frustration, Aramis quickly tied off the thread and moved to the clotted gash on Athos' forehead. If Porthos couldn't catch up to D'Artagnan and the deserters before they reached Spain, then he would be riding into enemy territory alone and without support. Chances of a successful rescue would fade. The possibility that Porthos and D'Artagnan would never return would be high. Even if Porthos did catch up with them, it would be one man against an unknown number. A sick, heavy feeling settled into his chest.
"I need to go after them," Aramis said, helping Athos to sit up against the wall once he was finished. The marksman firmly tied a clean bandage around Athos to protect the sewn wound on his side. It was a decision that tore at his heart, but Athos would be safe here as long as he had someone to look after him. The deserters had no reason to come back. "Porthos will need help."
"We will both go," Athos replied as he clumsily attempted to swing his feet around to the floor.
"No, absolutely not. Riding will aggravate that wound, and I'm not entirely certain you'd be able to stay on a horse. Speed is of the essence." He finally lifted his head and met his friend's disoriented gaze. "I can do this, Athos. I will ensure their safe return, you have my word."
Athos stared back for a beat or two, his eyes narrowed as if weighing Aramis' worthiness for such an important task. The marksman forced himself to hold firm under Athos' scrutiny rather than wilting with shame. After a few more unbearable moments, Athos finally sighed. "Go."
Aramis brushed his fingers against the captain's arm in gratitude and apology and then he straightened. "I'm sorry to leave you here, mon ami. I will have the innkeeper look in on you and find out if there is a local healer."
Athos snorted humorlessly. "Considering the man's disposition, I might be better off left alone." As Aramis walked out the door, he called out again. "And take care of your leg. I can see you limping."
The marksman gave a small nod. "I will bring them back," he promised.
There is a very short scene towards the end of S3E1 in which Aramis fires his arquebus at the enemy during the fight in the woods. He closes his eyes as he pulls the trigger and misses his shot. And lo, a fic was born!
I know I've already written about this particular time point in the series, but I guess I'm not done with the topic just yet. This will likely not be very long, just a short little adventure. Hope you enjoy, thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Don't own, no money being made, just for fun.