Disclaimer:- The Musketeers do not belong to me and no copyright infringements were intended. The story has been written purely for entertainment purposes and no profit was made from its creation.
Head Versus Heart
King Louis was in a snit. His much loved hunting expeditions to Fontainebleau had been less bountiful of late, due to a notable reduction of wild game on his land. While natural attrition could be responsible in part, the King firmly believed the reason to be more felonious and had ordered his musketeers to search his land for any signs of poachers.
Athos had seen it as a good opportunity to get Aramis away from Paris or, more specifically, away from the Queen and the Dauphin before the younger man chanced his hand once too often and got them all killed.
Aramis had taken to spending his off duty hours at the palace, under the guise of courting the royal governess. It was not unusual for the charismatic musketeer to charm his way into the affections of women of any age or status. While some would question the integrity of a man who engaged in infidelity, to date, any previous dalliance was consensual, discreet and with the woman's desires and her reputation of utmost importance in Aramis' mind.
But this time was different. Athos knew what Marguerite did not – while Aramis cared for the young woman, the relationship was a ruse for him to gain entry to the Royal Nursery, desperate for a glimpse or a moment with his son. It had become a dangerous obsession and Athos seethed inwardly that Aramis would be so reckless with so many lives at stake.
The older Musketeer had tried to raise his concerns with his friend about the foolishness of his actions but Aramis had summarily dismissed Athos' concerns. The tension between them had become palpable and the discord had not gone unnoticed by Porthos and d'Artagnan.
By the third day of their assignment, the serenity of the French countryside had become tedious and the melodious birdsong set their teeth on edge. The weather was threatening rain and they still had quite a distance to travel when they reined in their horses at the top of a knoll and surveyed the vast landscape below.
"It has been three days and we are yet to see any evidence of poachers," d'Artagnan said.
"The fact remains that the number of wild boar, elk, and deer has been seriously depleted," Athos replied. "Poachers would appear the most likely explanation."
"With winter but a few weeks away, many of the animals will have taken shelter until spring," the young Gascon ventured.
"That would make them smarter than us," Aramis remarked, hunching further into his heavy coat to ward off the cold.
"Perhaps you would like to take your grievances up with the King?" Athos replied sharply.
The marksman rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.
"Athos, I was merely saying-"
"Enough!" Porthos interjected, tired of his friends arguing. "We still got quite a lotta land to cover and the rain will soon be upon us."
"Then we had better make haste," Athos responded with a pointed look in Aramis' direction.
"Perhaps we would do better to split up," Aramis suggested, hoping to distance himself from Athos for a few hours.
"That aint a bad idea," Porthos agreed. "We might just beat the rain and make it to the inn for dinner."
"I would welcome the change from Porthos' rabbit stew," d'Artagnan quipped trying to lighten the mood.
"What's wrong with my rabbit stew?" Porthos groused without malice.
"Not a thing, my friend, but three nights in a row is more than my stomach can bear," the young Gascon defended.
"Then we'll split up," Athos agreed. "We shall meet at the inn this afternoon and shelter for the night before returning to Paris in the morning."
Porthos nudged his horse until it sidled with d'Artagnan's mount.
"In that case, I choose to ride with d'Artagnan," Porthos said with an expression that brooked no argument. "We will search the eastern sector while you pair search the west."
Athos raised a quizzical eyebrow at the assigned partnerships while Aramis cursed under his breath.
"That hardly seems fair," Aramis complained. "The western sector is much longer."
"Then that will give you more time to come to your senses, won't it?" Porthos said. "I don't know what's going on with you two lately but whatever it is, fix it! Before something 'appens that you'll both regret."
Without waiting for further objection or reply, Porthos and d'Artagnan nudged their horses into a canter and headed eastward. The larger man fervently hoped that his friends would use the time to settle their differences before he was forced to knock their stubborn heads together.
0—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-0
They had been riding for almost an hour, skirting the edge of the forest; each man waiting for the other to be the first to speak. From under the brim of his hat, Aramis sneaked a quick glance in Athos' direction. The man looked as miserable as Aramis felt.
Porthos was right - they needed to clear the air once and for all. He shook his head at the stupidity of the situation. This was Athos; one of his closest friends. He knew the older man had his best interests at heart but he just couldn't bear the thought of distancing himself from the Queen or from his son. Clearing his throat, the marksman decided to meet the conversation head on.
"Look, Athos," he began. "I know you're-"
The older man held up his hand to silence him.
"Ssh!" Pointing with his chin to a small clearing beyond the verge of the forest Athos whispered. "Poachers."
The conversation forgotten, Aramis was immediately on alert; his trained eyes narrowing and scanning the forest until he saw movement through the trees. He reached for his pistol but Athos grabbed his wrist and shook his head.
"If there are more nearby, a gunshot will alert them."
Nodding in agreement, Aramis dismounted silently, tying his horse next to Athos' and taking cover in the shelter of the nearby trees.
The Musketeers watched in silence as two men tied the carcass of a large elk onto the back of a mule. Grunting under the exertion the men secured the animal quickly, giving every indication that this was a regular occurrence.
Exchanging a glance, Aramis set off quietly to approach the clearing from the opposite side.
The poachers were working quickly – either anxious to leave or in a rush to check on other traps – when Athos drew his sword and stepped into the open.
"Don't move," he called menacingly. "By royal decree you are under arrest for poaching on the King's lands."
One of the poachers, a large balding man with a prominent nose, moved his fingers slowly toward the pistol tucked into his waistband.
"Uh uh," Aramis uttered appearing on the other side of the clearing, his own rapier held firmly in his hand. "I'm afraid, Monsieur, that qualifies as moving."
The smaller man's eyes were wild with guilt and fear.
"What are you going to do with us?" he asked, unable to keep the tremor from his voice.
"You will be taken to Paris where you will be tried and sentenced for your crimes," Athos replied calmly.
"You can't do that! We'll be hanged!"
"That is not for us to decide," Athos said. "You will have the opportunity to plead your case to a magistrate. Now…drop your weapons, slowly."
The two men dropped their pistols and took a cautious step back, eyeing each other warily as if expecting something to happen.
Aramis kicked the pistols out of reach of their owners, when a flash of movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention.
"Athos!" he called too late, as a third man broke from the cover of the trees and struck the unsuspecting Musketeer a sickening blow across the back of the head. Athos was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The all too familiar sound of swords leaving their scabbards drew Aramis' attention quickly back to the two men before him. Now outnumbered three to one, Aramis had no choice but to attempt to even the odds. He drew his pistol and fired in one seamless motion, piercing the larger man's heart and watching as he tumbled over backwards to stare at the sky with lifeless eyes.
Tossing his pistol aside, Aramis brought his sword to bear and easily deflected a half-hearted attack from the smaller man. The musketeer could see the fear in his opponent's eyes and knew from his posture and stilted movements that he lacked skill with a sword. The man yelped and retreated several steps when Aramis lunged forward and sliced his upper arm.
The third man quickly approached yelling at the smaller man to join him and, with a series of attacking blows, they had Aramis retreating slightly. The third man was an accomplished swordsman and the attack was unrelenting. Aramis narrowed his eyes in suspicion; his opponents appeared content to push him back rather than to strike with deadly intent. They advanced again and the clash of swords had the musketeer backing up further until he felt the twang of a tripwire at his feet and a cold dread surged through him.
A guttural scream tore from his throat and stole the air from his lungs as his right side erupted in agony. Chancing a look, he realised with horror that he had triggered a bow lure the poachers had set for an animal. He stared in shock and confusion at the arrow that had impaled him just below his ribs and the dark stain rapidly discolouring his doublet.
Suddenly nauseous, the world spun and he staggered two steps before falling heavily to his knees. His vision distorted sickeningly; images expanding and contracting, swirling and swaying like he was viewing the world through a kaleidoscope. He tried to find his voice but the encroaching darkness was too swift. He lost his tentative grip on consciousness and collapsed silently to the ground.
"Is he dead?" the small man asked, his voice shrill from exertion and fear.
His companion warily poked at Aramis with the toe of his boot.
"If he's not now, he soon will be," he replied. "Especially if you treated the arrowhead."
The smaller man looked away nervously.
"You did treat the arrowhead?" his colleague asked.
"I had just begun when they surprised us," he said. "I was interrupted and cannot be sure how much toxin was on the arrow."
Nudging Aramis firmly in the shoulder, the man seemed satisfied that the Musketeer was no longer a threat.
"This toxin can bring down a bull elk," he said with a laugh. "A full dose will kill 'im for sure but a small dose will incapacitate him for several days."
"He can identify us," the smaller man said.
"He's got to survive first…even then, I doubt he'll remember anything."
"What about that one?" the smaller man said pointing to Athos.
"By the time he wakes up, we'll be long gone."
0-oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-0
Awareness came slowly for Athos. One minute he was drifting, trying to remember where he was and the next he was hit with an intense pain at the back of his head. It wasn't the first time he'd woken in this state, nor did he believe it would be the last. Despite his noble upbringing, his education and his military acumen, Athos was a man who frequently fell victim to bad memories and worse alcohol.
Thunder rumbled threateningly above him and a strong gust of wind ghosted across his body and caused him to shiver violently. It was then he realised he was not in his quarters, as he had expected, but outdoors and lying in the dirt. With a groan he rolled onto his back and gritted his teeth against the sensation that the earth was spinning beneath him. Pain flared in his temples as he struggled to raise his head. His memory was vague and clouded and the more he tried to recall what had happened, the more it exacerbated his headache.
Athos took a few deep breaths and tried to recall what had brought him to this place. He forced himself to relax and snagged a few stray memory fragments as they skimmed through his mind. He'd been riding with his brother musketeers…looking for poachers…angry with Aramis…Aramis!
His memory returned in a rush and he viciously suppressed the feeling of nausea as he looked around wildly. He felt his stomach clench tightly when he saw his friend's still body across the clearing. His hand reached automatically for his weapons and he cursed loudly, realising they had been taken.
"Aramis!" he called, wincing as the sound of his own voice reverberated in his skull.
From his current position, Athos couldn't see the younger man's face but the still form alarmed him greatly. Blinking rapidly to clear his focus, his breath caught when he noticed the arrow shaft protruding from his friend's side and his bloodstained clothing.
"No," he whispered hoarsely.
It took two attempts to get to his feet; the first resulting in a tangle of legs and arms with bile burning the back of his throat. Swaying like a drunkard, he reached his friend and placed his trembling hand on Aramis' chest, desperately searching for a sign of life. Relief washed over him when he felt the rapid beating of the younger man's heart.
Taking Aramis gently by the chin, he turned his face toward him, shocked at the heat radiating from him and the unnatural flushed complexion.
"Aramis," he called, lightly tapping his friend's cheek. "Aramis, open your eyes."
The lack of response was frightening and Athos quickly turned his attention to the man's wounded side. His own stomach roiled at the thought of the arrowhead buried deeply in Aramis' gut. With the sky so overcast, he was unsure of how long they had lain unconscious but Athos knew it was uncommon for infection or fever to set in so quickly…unless…
Touching his fingers the shaft of the arrow, he raised them to his nose and his heart skipped a beat when he recognised the bitter scent of a toxin commonly used by poachers.
"Dammit!"
Another loud crack of thunder overhead provided the prelude to the rain which fell in large droplets, slowly at first, but then with more intent. Looking around for shelter, Athos saw a small area nearby, protected from the elements by a thick canopy of trees. Struggling to his feet, the musketeer closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose until the vertigo passed. Then, taking hold of his friend under the armpits, he slowly dragged him out of the rain.
The distance was only a matter of yards but the exertion caused unbearable throbbing at his temples and he retched miserably as he emptied the contents of his stomach. Squinting, he looked through the trees to where they had left their horses and he cursed again realising that their mounts, their bedrolls and their emergency supplies were gone.
Fighting another wave of nausea, he pressed a tightly fisted hand against his temple and tried to clear the overwhelming emotion from his mind.
"Think!" he said.
He reached for his boot and felt a surge of relief when he found the small dagger he kept hidden there. He would need it later to extract the arrow but, for now, he cut Aramis' doublet away from the wound. It was a well- known fact that Aramis prided himself on his appearance and, despite the gravity of the situation, Athos allowed a small grin. His friend would be mortified that the outrageously priced jacket had been ruined.
"Stay alive until we return home and I will gladly buy you another," Athos told him.
With some considerable effort, he managed to strip Aramis to his shirt and breeches, alarmed that the clothing was already sodden with sweat.
Athos sat back on his heels, his eyes growing dim with recall as the memory of his brother's death returned unbidden. They had argued a few days prior - Thomas had tried to tell him that something was amiss with Anne but Athos refused to hear it. His last words to his brother were spoken in anger and years later, the guilt still ate away at him.
Porthos' words sounded loudly in his mind. "I don't know what's going on with you two lately but whatever it is, fix it! Before something 'appens that you'll both regret."
Athos brushed the damp strands of hair from the injured man's forehead.
"Don't do this, Aramis," he said softly. "Not like this."
Another crash of thunder spurred him into action and he climbed to his feet, a little less dizzy than before. The rain continued to fall steadily and Athos needed to find a way to contain it if they were to have drinking water and water to wash his friend's wound. Looking around he was relieved to find several large curved pieces of bark that would catch the rain and serve as drinking receptacles. He set them out in the rain and continued to gather kindling to start a fire later in the day when the light faded. Shrugging out of his coat and doublet, he removed his shirt and tore it into strips for bandages. The cool breeze turned his skin to goose-flesh and he put his doublet back on, grateful for the warmth it still held.
Gathering as many receptacles as he could, he returned to Aramis' side without spilling too much of the precious rainwater. Taking a deep breath Athos readied himself to remove the poisoned arrow when he noticed Aramis watching with fever bright eyes.
Athos felt his stomach flip. It would have been easier for them both if the younger man had remained unconscious until the arrow had been extracted.
"You're awake?" he said, forcing his voice calm.
Confusion and pain were written in a heavy hand across his Aramis' face. His chest heaved and his breathing stuttered as he fought to control the pain. Athos placed his hand on his friend's chest.
"You must calm your breathing," he said.
It took several long minutes to before Aramis calmed enough to respond.
"What...what happened?" he rasped.
"You had an altercation with a bow lure," Athos replied dryly.
Aramis paled at the sight of the bloodied arrow impaled in his side.
"It would...appear... that I lost," the younger man ground out painfully.
"Not if I can help it," Athos stated.
He helped Aramis to take a small drink, noting with concern that even the smallest movement left the marksman biting his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain. When his composure returned, Aramis scrutinised Athos worriedly.
"You?" he asked, obviously remembering that Athos had suffered a blow to the head.
"A slight headache," Athos understated. "Nothing more."
Aramis was about to challenge the statement but gritted his teeth and hissed as intense pain ebbed and flowed through his body. When the pain had passed, he nodded toward his injury.
"How bad?" he asked, breathlessly.
"Bad enough," Athos answered.
"Poison?"
"I'm not sure."
"You lie... poorly...my friend," Aramis added with a wry smile.
"It has the scent of poison, however, I am unsure of the amount used," Athos added.
"Explains…cramping…nausea...early onset...fever," Aramis gasped.
Athos looked grim.
"The arrow must be removed," he said.
The younger man nodded his assent.
"I have nothing to dull the pain, only water to clean the wound and nothing to stitch it closed," Athos said carding his fingers through his hair in frustration.
Aramis smiled sadly. "It will be…enough," he replied, more for Athos' sake than his own.
Closing his eyes, Aramis lay quietly and tried to control his breathing until Athos signalled that he was ready to begin.
"Wait?" Aramis said, his over-warm fingers grasping the older man's wrist. "Athos, I...you were trying to help…I shouldn't have…"
"It is already forgotten," Athos told him. "We will have time to speak once you have recovered."
Athos placed his friend's hand back by his side and looked him directly in the eyes.
"I'll be as gentle as I can," he said.
"I know," Aramis replied, his expression a mixture and trust and apprehension.
Taking a steadying breath, Athos placed the tip of the dagger into the wound and began to carefully cut the tissue away from the arrowhead. Aramis arched his back off the ground, clenching his jaw to trap the scream that tried to escape. The process was bloody and excruciating and although the injured man, mostly, suffered in silence, every muscle in his body trembled as it reacted to the trauma and shock. Despite his best efforts, several strangled cries tore from the young man's throat and tested Athos' own resolve until, mercifully, Aramis tumbled over the precipice and into oblivion's waiting arms.
Athos sighed with relief and quickly worked the arrowhead free. He used the precious water to wash the wound before applying the dressings as best he could. Emotionally and physically exhausted, Athos collapsed beside his friend; his presence was the only comfort he could offer now and he hoped it would be enough. He looked skyward and estimated it was mid-afternoon. By his reckoning, they wouldn't be missed for another few hours. But despite their desperate situation, Athos was certain of one thing – Porthos and d'Artagnan would leave no stone unturned until they found them. All he had to do was keep the Aramis alive until help arrived.
"Listen to me," he said, though he knew Aramis was beyond hearing anything. "You stay alive…or I'll punch you so hard you'll wish I'd kicked you."
0—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-0
Athos hadn't meant to fall asleep but when he opened his eyes, several hours had passed and the sky had darkened considerably. He rubbed his throbbing temples in a circular motion to ease the pain in his head before rising to start a small fire.
Returning to Aramis' side, he cursed under his breath when he realised the younger man's fever had continued to rise. His breaths were shallow and noisy and Athos wasn't sure what scared him more – the fact that Aramis was burning up or the fact that there was little he could do to help him. Carefully peeling back the bandage Athos inspected the wound. He was no physician but he was pleased the wound looked clean and the bleeding had stopped, for now. Grabbing a makeshift bandage, he soaked it in water and wiped the sweat from the Aramis' face and neck. The younger man became agitated – muttering and weakly batting his hand away.
"C-cold," he whispered, despite the heat rising off him in waves.
Athos sat at his friend's side and placed his cloak over them both hoping to trap their combined body heat. Aramis leaned against him, the trembling easing minutely. He was trapped in a kind of limbo – hurting too much to sleep but in too much pain to stay awake.
His eyes flickered open, allowing a few brief moments of lucidity amongst the avalanche of pain-induced confusion. He knew he was growing weaker and he didn't need to look at the despair on his friend's usually impassive face to know that he wouldn't last much longer without medical treatment.
"Athos?" he whispered some time later.
"Shh..." Athos replied.
"Wasn't a…wasn't a dalliance," he said, his speech punctuated with frequent hitching breaths. "My rela-…relationship with the Queen…never a dalliance."
"I would never have believed otherwise," Athos told him.
"My feelings are…are genuine."
"I know," Athos said, all too familiar with the agony of giving one's heart to an impossible love.
"Should I…should I succumb-" the injured man continued.
"Aramis," Athos growled, not ready to consider the possibility of losing another brother. "You must conserve your strength."
Aramis shook his head stubbornly. "Promise me…you will watch over…my son."
The words struck Athos like a kick in the stomach but he found enough resolve to answer calmly.
"On my honour," he replied earnestly. "Only his father would be a more devoted guardian."
Aramis managed a small smile, knowing his friend was not referring to King Louis.
"Then he will...he will be truly blessed," he whispered before turning contrite eyes to Athos. "I am sorry, my friend. I never intended…to encumber you…with this burden."
"Just sleep," Athos said with growing despair as Aramis' body trembled with pain and exhaustion.
"Should the truth…ever become known…you must deny all knowledge of it."
This time it was Athos who shook his head stubbornly. "I would never."
"Would you rather…they hang you for…for treason?" Aramis asked tersely. "You will be deemed…complicit by your silence. Athos please. Swear to me that…that you will deny any knowledge of my liaison with the Queen."
"I am a Musketeer," Athos told him. "My dedication to the King and to France is without question…only my devotion to my brothers exceeds it. I will never forsake you...no matter what."
A small noise, a hybrid of a laugh and a sob, sounded from the injured man as he reached his hand toward his friend.
"All for one," the marksman whispered.
Athos grasped Aramis' hand without hesitation.
"And one for all," he replied.
The younger man's eyes blinked languidly until they remained closed and his head fell limply against Athos' shoulder as he lost consciousness again. Athos felt the storm of strong emotions coursing through him as he silently urged his friend to hang on until help arrived.
0—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-0
Aramis could hear voices; he could hear his name being called but he was in no great hurry to open his eyes and come away from the dark comfort he'd found himself in. The voice was persistent; gruff but gentle and it drew him to its warmth. His forehead wrinkled into a frown as an expression of equal parts confusion and pain contorted his handsome features.
Curiosity got the better of him and as his heavy eyelids fluttered open, he attempted to sit up. The movement invoked gasps of agony and Aramis screwed his eyes closed against the pain.
"That's not a good idea," the voice he now recognised as Porthos' told him as he placed his large hand on his chest to hold him firmly but gently in place. Another moment passed before Porthos eased the injured man's head up a little and placed a cup of water at his lips. "Just a few sips, you've not had much to drink for a while."
Blinking owlishly as he struggled to focus on his surroundings, Aramis tried to stay as still as possible, aware the fierce pain would be waiting to ambush him again at the first ill-considered movement.
"Where are we?" he whispered.
"The infirmary at the barracks," Porthos replied with a tone that implied that he'd answered that question before.
The door flew open and d'Artagnan stepped forward into Aramis' line of sight. His face lit up with a bright smile when he noticed Aramis looking at him.
"You're awake," the young Gascon said. "Maybe this time you'll stay awake long enough to eat something."
Aramis squinted up at his friends in confusion.
"This time?" he asked, his voice sounding weak and thready to his own ears.
"You woke twice before…just for a few moments."
Still not fully cognizant, confusion overwhelmed him and his bleary eyes darted around the room.
"Athos?"
"Right here," the older man replied, looking pale and drawn as he reclined in a chair by the window.
"Are you well?" Aramis asked worriedly.
"Better than you," Athos replied dryly. "I'll soon be back to full duty."
D'Artagnan huffed a laugh.
"Not until you can sit a horse without swooning," he chirped.
"I did not swoon," Athos said firmly. "I told you, the girth strap on my saddle was faulty."
Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a knowing grin but refrained from further comment on the matter.
"You found us?" Aramis asked Porthos, still trying to put the pieces together.
"When you didn't arrive at the inn, D'Artagnan and I were worried that you really 'ad killed each other," Porthos grinned. "We were gettin' ready to go look for you when two men rode in leading your horses."
"The poachers," Aramis stated.
"It took a little persuasion on our part," Porthos said cracking his large knuckles. "But they eventually told us where to find you. That was three days ago."
"Three days?" Aramis repeated aghast.
"You've been gravely ill," d'Artagnan said sombrely. "Doctor Gillette called it a miracle that you survived the effects of the poison. He had told Treville to prepare for the worst."
"Speaking of Treville," Porthos said conspiratorially. "Next time you see 'im, I'd be ready with an apology if I was you."
Aramis rubbed his temples, obviously struggling to follow the flow of the conversation.
"Apologise for getting injured?" he asked.
D'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged another wordless look before the Gascon explained.
"By the time we got you back here, you were burning with fever and delirium," he said. "It took Porthos, Treville and I to hold you still so the physician could examine you and…well…"
"Let's just say you cast some rather impolite aspersions on the marriage of Treville's parents," Porthos finished.
Aramis watched wide-eyed as his friends struggled to smother their amusement.
"It is impolite to find humour at the expense of the seriously wounded," Aramis lightly scolded his friends.
"We wouldn't joke about somethin' like that," Porthos told him.
"Of course, you would," Aramis replied confidently.
Porthos shrugged.
"Okay, maybe we would...but in this case, we're not joking."
It hardly seemed possible but the injured man's face appeared to pale further.
"I...I didn't," he whispered.
"I'm afraid you did," d'Artagnan replied. "In three languages, no less."
Seeking further confirmation, Aramis turned to Athos with a questioning look. When the older man held up three fingers and nodded, Aramis closed his eyes and groaned loudly.
"I'll be mucking out the stables for a month," he lamented.
"At the very least," Porthos added.
D'Artagnan climbed to his feet.
"We'll be mucking out the stables ourselves if we miss morning muster," he told Porthos as he walked to open the door.
"You should rest," Porthos said fondly. "We're assigned to the palace today but I'll 'ave Serge bring you some breakfast. Make sure you eat somethin'."
The room fell silent and Athos watched as Aramis' eyelids drooped. After each blink, the eyelids opened less and less, until finally, they stayed closed. Just as he believed the younger man had fallen into a healing sleep, Aramis spoke.
"I should apologise," he said.
"You already did," Athos replied.
Aramis' eyes were still closed but his eyebrows drew closer together to form a frown.
"The apology does not count if I barely recall it."
"Nonetheless, it was given and duly accepted."
Aramis yawned widely.
"So…we're good?" he asked wearily.
"We're good," Athos responded. "Now get some rest."
Several more moments passed before Aramis spoke again.
"We are soldiers, Athos," he said, more asleep than awake. "Fighting battles is our way of life. Yet the greatest battle in the world is the one between the head and the heart."
Athos sat in silent support, relieved to see Aramis' pained expression finally ease into that of a deep, restful sleep.
"I know, my friend," he whispered. "I know."
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Thank you, so much, for taking the time to read my story. I hope you enjoyed it.