Summary: He prayed for forgiveness. For all he had done and all he had failed to do.
Missing scenes from "The Good Traitor".
Author's Notes:
Rhesa, who always leaves such lovely and appreciated reviews, but as a guest so that I may never thank her properly, asked for some missing comfort scenes to S2E3, "The Good Traitor". I tried. But my need to lecture Aramis is stronger than my need for comfort, apparently.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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Rain fell softly from the sky, as though it wept.
Aramis carefully tied off the bandage of the man seated before him.
"What happened?" Athos' voice was soft.
Aramis didn't answer. He had no reason good enough, nothing he could admit to. "Aramis?"
"Tariq was in my line of fire." He took off his hat and rubbed at his brow, anything to avoid meeting Athos' gaze. "There was nothing I could do."
Athos didn't say anything.
But Aramis could read it in his wintry eyes.
Liar.
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Aramis didn't dare study Porthos too closely, but to see the man on his feet and holding rank beside him loosened the knot that had been choking him since he'd watched the Spanish drag him away.
"Get the girl to safety."
Porthos stumbled and Aramis wrapped an arm around his waist. He peered at Porthos, desperate to say so many things.
"I've got you."
He helped Porthos down the stairs and out into the yard. Aramis sat him carefully on the ground, against a fountain.
Porthos' breaths came in growled pants, too fast and too shallow, eyes squeezed shut.
Aramis pulled off a glove and pressed his palm to Porthos' cheek. His brown skin was slick and hot to the touch.
Porthos opened his eyes, they were wide and wild.
"Shhhh, shhhh," he soothed, moving until Porthos' gaze found him. "Porthos."
"'M alright," grunted Porthos after a moment, his breathing easier.
"You're not," countered Aramis, moving his focus to the seeping bandage on Porthos' leg.
"No," Porthos let out a weak laugh. "But I'm better after seein' you lot."
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Athos watched silently from the shadowed corner of the room.
Porthos sat in the bed with a bottle of brandy firmly in hand.
Aramis carefully peeled the sodden cloth away from Porthos' leg and then cut away the trousers.
Athos didn't need to be any closer to see the wound. It was swollen and red, the edges ragged. Aramis was careful as he touched, but Athos could hear Porthos' breathing change.
"There's nothing here to stitch," said Aramis. "It should close on its own. However, it does need to be cleaned."
No one in the room needed to hear Aramis diagnose a fever. It was there in the sweat rolling down Porthos' face, the brightness of his eyes.
"Get on with it then," slurred Porthos. Aramis glanced up at Athos.
Athos picked up one of Pothos' belts and traded it for the bottle. Porthos slid the leather between his teeth and gripped the edges of the bed. Athos passed the brandy to Aramis and held Porthos' shoulders. The muscles bunched and tightened under his hands as Aramis poured the alcohol into the hole in Porthos' leg.
The muffled screaming didn't start until Aramis worked at debriding the wound. Athos held onto Porthos, even after Aramis had smoothed an ointment over the inflamed flesh and bound it with a clean bandage. The big man was exhausted in his arms and offered no resistance when Athos laid him down.
"Sleep," murmured Aramis softly, wiping the sweat from Porthos' face. "I will be here."
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The words echoed dimly in his memory when Athos returned the next morning and Aramis was no where in sight.
Porthos was sitting against the headboard, staring out the window.
"Porthos, how are you?" He shrugged.
"Alright." Athos frowned and sat on the edge of the bed. Porthos seemed more alert, but there was still a shine of fever in his eyes.
"Where's Aramis?"
"Wonderin' that myself." Athos was startled to stillness.
There was water and bandages laid to the side. The remains of the brandy. But Porthos had woken up alone.
"Things ain't right with him," muttered Porthos.
"He has been absent," agreed Athos carefully.
"Been disappearin' and showing up late. But that's not it. Even when he's here, he's...not. Always distracted." Porthos fixed him with a fierce frown. "What happened at the market? What went wrong?"
"Perhaps you should ask Aramis."
"Would he tell me the truth, supposin' I did?"
In that instant, Athos would have given anything to erase the defeated look on Porthos' face. The sadness and the weight of the knowledge that Porthos' best friend was keeping things from him. Lying to him. And inattentive to the point it nearly cost Porthos his life.
But he couldn't. Athos couldn't tell all he suspected, let alone all he knew.
"He said Tariq was in his line of fire." Porthos snorted bitterly.
"An' you believed that rubbish? Aramis should have taken the shot 'fore Balthazar was so close."
"I agree."
He couldn't tell Aramis' secrets.
But he could tell his truths.
"He worried for you. He blames himself."
"That's not what I want. I just wish..." Porthos trailed off and looked at the stool Aramis had left empty.
"I know," said Athos calmly. "He's being especially stupid these days. But he still has great love for you, Porthos, do not doubt that."
Porthos stared at him, thoughtful.
Athos reached out to grip Porthos' arm. The big Musketeer leaned into the gesture and looked so very tired.
It sparked something in Athos. Something angry and ugly.
Athos didn't like to meddle. He had shadows of his own.
But he had held his tongue long enough.
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Aramis didn't hear Athos approach. That should have been his first warning.
"Going somewhere?"
Aramis turned to see Athos leaning casually against the door of the stables, arms crossed.
"To church."
"You don't need a horse for that."
"Athos..."
He blinked and Athos had closed the distance and Aramis could feel the emotion rolling toward him like a wave.
"You had a role to play and you didn't. Porthos trusted you and he was shot, beaten down in the street, and dragged away to suffer for hours." Athos' face shook with anger. "For hours, Aramis! And now he is fevered and alone, and God help him, he wants you by his side, though he would never ask for it." Aramis took a stunned step back, but Athos kept coming.
"You can do nothing for the Queen. Nothing for the Dauphin. In fact, they are safer the further away you stay. But we are here, Aramis. We still need you. To be a soldier and to be a friend."
"I can't just stop. Athos, he is my son!" Athos lifted a hand and Aramis believed that he would be struck. Instead, the fist curled around his collar and pulled him even closer.
Cool, green eyes searched his and when Athos spoke, it was with beseeching gentleness.
"Don't you care about Porthos?"
A punch would have hurt less.
A dozen punches.
Is that they thought? That he no longer cared for them?
Aramis gasped as Athos let go and stepped away.
"Go to church, if you must. Pray for all the dead these days wrought. And then?" Athos pulled his hat low and left the stables. "Come. Home."
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Aramis walked to a nearby chapel he favored.
He prayed for peace for the dead.
In thanksgiving for the living.
And for forgiveness.
For all he had done and all he had failed to do.