Deana requested an Aramis H/C fic, but I found I couldn't simply do H/C without a hint of a plot, so if you squint, you'll hopefully find one. This will be in four parts. Thanks as always to my wonderful beta Sharlot. What can I say, you rock!
L'esprit de Mousquetaire
He really should've been paying closer attention.
The day was warm, the sun shining in the azure sky, a few fluffy white clouds lazily drifting with the gentle breeze. It was an idyllic day for a ride, and Aramis lost himself in the splendor of nature as well as the promise of what awaited him back in Paris. Though the lovely Adele was a distraction of the highest caliber, he knew better than to lower his guard, making himself vulnerable to those who would prey on innocents traveling alone.
He chuckled at the idea of himself being considered anywhere near innocent. Still, he was traveling unaccompanied, and these roads – and the immoral men who prowled them – should never be taken lightly. Tasked with delivering tax notices to towns southwest of Paris, he was returning from his last stop in Mortagne, eager to meet up with his friends in St. Germain for supper before heading back to the familiar walls of Paris. The last to arrive would be charged with paying for the evening meal, and Aramis had little desire to waste his money on something so inconsequential; what little coin he had jingling inside his purse meant for something far more entertaining than a few bowls of congealed stew and a bottle of watered down wine.
"We must make haste, Esprit," he remarked cordially to his mare. He leaned forward and patted a hand on the big Friesian's muscular neck. "If we are late, Porthos will be much too hungry and Athos much too thirsty for our scant funds. Besides, you know as well as I these livres are destined for the small broach that will soon adorn the collar of our beautiful Adele."
The horse tossed its head, whinnying at the mention of the woman's name, almost as if it were jealous of the unbridled affection in the Musketeer's voice.
"Oh come now, my love," Aramis laughed. "You know my feelings for you rival that of any woman." His tone was light, joyful, easing the mare's distress, causing her to dance with excitement.
Aramis loved this horse. Her spirit had been such a wonder to behold. The first time he rode her, she made it clear she was not to be mastered. Most of the other Musketeers had shied away from the lively mare, opting for the more highly trained, responsive mounts, but Aramis had fallen for the big black beauty the moment he'd climbed into the saddle. She'd tossed her head, eyeing her new rider, dancing around as she tested his resolve. After a while, she'd accepted him, but he'd not made the mistake of believing himself superior. He believed he'd found in her a kindred spirit, restless, reckless and a bit unpredictable. They'd been together ever since.
But even a restless spirit can become complacent. Their journey had been a long one and throughout it, images of Adele's beautiful face and sinewy body had occupied his attention, swallowing his thoughts with the promise of what was to come. It wasn't just her beauty and touch that lit up his nerves like a fuse, it was the danger, the forbidden aspect of their affair that made Adele so much more alluring than the average woman. Bedding the mistress of the great Cardinal Richelieu was a thrill in itself. Finding said mistress to be a passionate lover and remarkable person was an unexpected bonus.
He could almost hear Athos' clipped voice chiding him for his recklessness, both his affair and lack of attention to his mission fodder for the swordsman's probable reprimand. At the moment, Aramis would be hard put to disagree.
Despite his uniform and myriad of weapons on display, he was surprised to find himself targeted, his distraction lending weight to the bandits' sudden appearance, his mind adrift with the promise of perfume and warm, milky white skin instead of on his surroundings as it should have been. The five men came up from behind, his inattention allowing them to get close enough to overcome him, forcing him to stop along the edge of the road. The man in front reached for Esprit's bridal, pulling the Musketeer to a standstill.
He narrowed his eyes at the bandit, aware of the others spreading out behind and beside him. "If it's money you're looking for, I'm afraid I have little to give."
The man smiled, his tongue pressing through the large gaps between his rotting teeth. "I'm sure we can work somethin' out." He leaned forward on the worn pommel of his saddle, the reigns held loosely in his filthy grip.
Aramis spread his hands in an attempt to look as agreeable and non-threatening as possible. "I'm sure we will be able to strike an accord. I am Aramis. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
The man frowned, obviously stymied by the Musketeer's poetic introduction.
Aramis looked around, noting the others watching him closely yet saying nothing, allowing the first man to handle the confrontation.
"If I could offer some advice? Perhaps the lot of you could ride on." The Musketeer sighed, slowly lowering his right hand toward his belt. "I'm afraid I am in a bit of a hurry as I am running quite late. My friends will soon come to look for me if I do not arrive in St. Germain within the hour." He hoped the threat of other Musketeers nearby would give the bandits pause, allow them a chance to realize their prey was not as helpless as they'd hoped before the situation escalated to violence.
"I'm afraid your friends are goin' to be a bit disappointed," the bandit responded. He leveled a pistol he'd been hiding beneath his dusty and frayed woolen cloak. "How about you get down and hand over the horse so we can be on our way?"
It was more of an order than a suggestion. Unfortunately for the bandit, Aramis had never been all that good at taking orders – especially from ilk like this. Besides, he'd become quite attached to this horse.
His smile was a touch predatory as his body tensed. "I believe I must respectfully decline."
Before the man could respond, Aramis drew his own pistol from his belt and fired, catching the bandit right between the eyes. A cry went up from one of the men on his left and the Musketeer turned, pulling his dagger from its sheath with his free hand and throwing it across the distance with deadly accuracy. The polished blade caught the second man's arm as he reached for his own weapon, piercing it just above the wrist. The man's eyes went wide before a howl of pain rose from his throat, causing his horse to rear, throwing him to the ground.
A second shot rang out and Aramis felt his world explode. His vision burst into a white fire, pain racing along the side of his head, his senses reeling. He didn't remember falling but he found himself on the ground, flat on his back in the tall grass, his eyes unable to focus, his hearing muddled as if under water. He shook his head, immediately realizing his mistake as the dull thud escalated into blazing agony.
Forcing himself to his knees, he reached for his sword, using the sturdy sheath to aid in his balance. Blinking away the gray dots coalescing in his vision, he stumbled to his feet, pulling his sword, holding it in front of him. He wasn't sure if it was him swaying or the ground, but he was fairly certain the three men approaching should not be wavering like they were. He stepped back, his boot slipping on the grass, his already questionable balance suddenly disserting him altogether.
As he fell back onto his ass, he managed to keep a grip on his sword, forcing it out in front of him, hoping it would keep them back long enough for him to regain his senses. Trying frantically to calm his breathing, Aramis scuttled back as one of the men crouched down directly in front of him.
"That was very impressive, Musketeer. Outnumbered and at a disadvantage, you still managed to take out two of my men. I'd heard the King's elite guards were formidable. For once, the rumors appear to be true."
Aramis swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut against the mounting pain in his head.
"Happy to… be of ass… assistance."
The bandit chuckled at his bravado. "I have no desire to kill you. I simply need your horse. I'm sure the regiment will provide you with another animal of fine quality."
Aramis tried to respond, but the agony in his head was becoming overwhelming and he couldn't force the words from his mouth.
"We can't leave him alive, LaMere. He's seen our faces." The voice came from beyond Aramis' limited field of vision, and the Musketeer didn't have the fortitude to attempt to track it.
The bandit leaned closer, his eyes narrowing, studying the wounded soldier. After a moment he shook his head, sighing. "You're probably right. It's a shame. He fought well. Though I am only being paid for the horse, the Musketeers are Gaudet's problem." He returned his attention to Aramis, who's attention was beginning to drift. "I am sorry, Musketeer."
Aramis barely registered the butt of the pistol coming toward him, and was at a loss to do anything about it.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
LaMere stood, his eyes still on the Musketeer lying in the grass at his feet. He hadn't been lying about his admiration for the man's skills, his uncanny accuracy with the pistol and dagger nothing short of amazing. He had always harbored a furtive desire to become one of the elite soldiers, but being the son of a thief hardly carried the influence to allow such an opportunity. Blanchet was right – there was a chance the Musketeer would've retained enough of his wits about him to identify them. Despite his reluctance to kill such an honorable opponent, he couldn't take the chance.
The Musketeer had fought valiantly against overwhelming odds, obviously believing he could emerge victorious; and he quite possibly could have if they had fought with swords rather than cutting the fight short with a pistol shot to the head. The ball had carved a deep groove in the Musketeer's temple, blood flowing from the wound, staining the man's hair and beard. The second blow had rendered him unconscious and from the look of him, LaMere doubted he'd ever wake up at all.
The youngest of his men stomped over, coming to a halt near the Musketeer's head. "Is he dead?"
LaMere waved his pistol toward the insensate man before tucking it back into his belt. "Find out. If he's not, take care of it." As he turned to make his way back toward the road to check on the others, Thibault nudged the Musketeer with his boot. The man showed no reaction.
Thibault crouched down, turning the bloody head to study the wound. "Pretty bad," he announced loudly. "I saw a man with a wound like this once. He never woke up." He released the Musketeer's head and reached past him for something lying in the grass. His face lit up as he stood, holding a shiny brass plated pistol up for the others to see. "This is a fine weapon," Thibault remarked enthusiastically, petting the shiny metal as if it were a cat. "I could do a lot with somethin' like this."
"You can sell it," LaMere told him. "A weapon such as that is lost on the likes of you."
Thibault frowned at the insult, but continued to rub the gun with his grimy palm. As LaMere stepped back onto the road, the younger man thrust the weapon into the back of his belt, quickly pulling his faded vest over the grip.
LaMere crossed the road, stopping in front of his other two men. Hands on his hips, he watched as Blanchet pulled the Musketeer's dagger from Rousseau's arm, shaking his head at the scream the tore from the wounded man's throat.
"You sound like a woman in childbirth," he chided, kicking the man's outstretched leg. He turned his attention to his second. "How bad?"
"He'll live," Blanchet responded without taking his attention from the bandage he was wrapping around the bleeding arm. He tilted his head back toward the road. "More'n I can say for Volclain. The Musketeer had good aim."
LaMere grunted his agreement. It would be inconvenient to replace Voclain, but he didn't feel much remorse for the man's death. "Get Voclain's body on his horse than help Rousseau mount up. We still need to find two more mounts before we meet up with Gaudet and his men." He pulled himself up on his own horse, reaching forward to grab the reins of the Musketeer's fine mount. He glanced at the solider, still lying unconscious in the grass. "Adieu, Aramis of the King's Musketeers."
With a tip of his hat to the fallen soldier, he turned the horses and led the others back down the road.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Aramis twitched, raising a hand to swat at the pesky fly buzzing around his ear. The fly buzzed louder, and the Musketeer turned his head, scrunching his eyes as his brain sloshed against the inside of his skull. His stomach clenched, gorge rising into his throat, and he barely managed to roll over before heaving bitter bile into the tall grass. The pounding in his head kept time with his rapid heart as he purged himself of whatever was left of his last meal.
Sweating and panting for breath, he let himself fall back onto the ground, groaning at the unpleasant sensations rolling up and down his body. The damn fly still buzzed in his ear, and he swat at it again, his hand making contact with a sticky wetness on the side of his face. Stopping to fully assess his situation, Aramis slowly realized he was lying on the ground, outside, the tall grass tickling his cheek as it fluttered in the breeze.
He pressed his hand against his temple, identifying the sticky substance as blood.
Well, that explained the headache – and the nausea.
Taking a deep breath, he grimaced at the foul taste in his mouth and forced his eyes open, only to be met with the blinding light of the sun. Swallowing hard to keep the bile from rising once again, Aramis placed a hand over his eyes, keeping himself still until he had some semblance of control over his body once again. Keeping his hand up to shade his eyes from the glare, he cracked them open again, waiting as the swirling colors coalesced into the more recognizable pattern of trees, grass and sky.
He dropped his hand to his side, suddenly exhausted. The buzzing was still loud in his ear, and Aramis began to turn his head from the annoyance before thinking better of it and taking another swat at the determined insect. After a few moments, he came to the conclusion the buzzing was coming from inside his head rather than outside, a deduction that did not bode well for his overall condition.
The medic in him knew he was most likely concussed, the soldier in him realizing he was alone and ultimately vulnerable.
His horse!
The memory of what had happened came rushing back, almost making him lose the tentative control over his stomach again. Swallowing thickly, he pressed his hands against the soft soil and pushed himself up, letting his head fall forward as he slumped into a sitting position. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the tacky blood already matting the dark curls. Pressing lightly against his temple where the sharpest of the pain resided, he felt a long gash running from his brow past his hairline.
He couldn't tell if it was still bleeding, but the tight, itchy skin on his face and neck indicated it had bled quite a bit while he lay there, the buzzing in his ears and the lightheadedness he was now experiencing indicative of heavy loss. He needed to find help.
His eyes drifted slowly around, noting the trampled grass leading back up to the road. The sun was beginning its decent, the sky starting to take on a darker hue. Despite what he'd told the bandits, Aramis knew he could not wait for rescue. Athos and Porthos would not begin to worry for him until after sunset, believing him held up by business in one of the towns on his route. He had little desire to spend the night outside with no provisions and unarmed –
His hand went around his waist, relieved to find his main gauche still nestled in the scabbard behind his back. His pistol was nowhere in sight, but a quick look to his right showed a glint of metal and he leaned carefully, sighing as his fingers touched the metal of his sword, cooled by the shade of the grass. He pulled the weapon back toward him, sending a quiet prayer of thanks that his circumstances were not as dire as first suspected.
He took a deep breath, pleased that the ache in his head had somewhat dulled. It was still pounding, the incessant buzzing continuing to annoy him, but he didn't feel as if his head would roll completely off his shoulders if he moved it. Believing that to be as good a sign as he was likely to get, Aramis shifted to his side and onto his knees and pushed himself to his feet, using his sword as a cane until the ground leveled out and he could regain his precarious equilibrium.
Once the gray cloud disappeared from the edges of his vision, Aramis glanced at the road, noting the tracks in the soft dirt. Easily recognizing Esprit's hoof prints from the chink in her shoe he'd been meaning to have taken care of, Aramis squinted down the road, his eyes following the trail the bandits had taken his horse.
He really had no idea which way he'd been heading, his mind still reeling, his sense of direction muddled by the pain still pounding away inside his skull. He trudged back onto the road and began to follow the tracks, not knowing if it would lead him to the bandits or his friends, trouble or salvation.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Porthos guided his mount to the post just outside the Tavern doors. It had been a long, miserable ride and he was looking forward to sitting down on something that wasn't moving as much as the wine and food the tavern promised. Looking around as he dismounted, he recognized Roger, Athos' big black gelding, hitched to the post closer to the stables. Another glance around told him Aramis had yet to arrive and he grinned, looking forward to the marksman paying for dinner.
Their mission had not been pleasant, nobody taking the news of the King's tax increases well. It wasn't unexpected for the people of the towns to protest to the bearer of such bad news, though there was little the Musketeers could do besides sympathize with their plight. Porthos agreed it wasn't fair for the Crown to take so much of what the people worked long and hard for, but it wasn't his place to do anything but deliver the bad news and perhaps, allow them to vent their frustrations. As long as they made no outward threat to the King, Porthos was inclined to ignore their harsh words, knowing it was not him they were angry with but the situation neither of them could do anything about.
Which was why it felt so good to have this entire mission behind them; the chance to sit down and commiserate with his friends was something Porthos had been looking forward to the entire journey back. And now, knowing it wouldn't be his coin they were spending, his satisfaction had doubled.
Pushing his way through the group of men huddled near the bar, Porthos immediately spotted Athos sitting at a table in the far corner. The swordsman already had a bottle of wine open before him, three cups spread across the worn wooden top. Porthos ambled toward his friend, dropping into a chair and reaching for a cup as Athos finished pouring.
"Looks like it'll be Aramis paying for our supper," Athos remarked dryly as Porthos downed the wine in one gulp.
The big man grinned. "He probably got held up by some pretty face. His weakness for women will be the death of him."
"Especially if he continues to court the ones belonging to powerful men."
Porthos hummed his agreement. "He ain't courtin' 'her, he's sleepin' with 'er. But I think he's pretty taken with this Adele. He's not actin' like he usually does once he's gotten a woman into bed."
Athos took a sip of his wine, his brow raised in curiosity. "Oh? How so?"
Porthos shrugged, not sure if he wanted to spill all of Aramis' secrets. "He just has a way of smiling when he's truly in love."
"Aramis is always in love." Athos scoffed.
"True, but most of the time it's just a passing fancy. This one is more than that. I think it caught him by surprise."
Athos snorted a laugh. "Well the Cardinal will give him a surprise if he catches them together. Aramis enjoys the danger a little too much in my opinion."
Porthos chuckled in agreement, reaching for the bottle and pouring a generous amount into his cup. "Well he wouldn't be Aramis if he didn't."
Unable to contest the statement, Athos raised his arm, motioning for the barmaid to bring them another bottle. Porthos settled back into the chair, content to relax with his friend until their errant marksman arrived. They were well into their second bottle when a young man sauntered into the tavern and cozied up to the bar near the door. The lad wore a dusty tunic covered by a worn leather vest, his light hair stringy and windblown. There was little about the lad that would catch anyone's eye – except the polished brass pistol stuck in the back of his belt. Even from across the room, the intricate etchings on the brass plates of the barrel were as familiar to Porthos as his own hand.
"What is it?" Athos reacted to the bigger man's sudden stillness, frowning as his gaze passed over the room, searching for whatever had alarmed his friend. "Porthos?"
Without a word, Porthos gently placed his cup back on the table and pushed himself from the chair. His gate was slow, predatory as he made his way across the room, and the few patrons who found themselves in his way hastily moved once they got a look at the expression on his face.
The big Musketeer squeezed in next to the new arrival at the bar, his pauldron carefully angled away from the young man's view.
"That's a nice pistol you have there," he said conversationally, his face carefully blank of expression. "Had it long?"
The lad, either too excited or too naive to pick up on the immediate threat, grinned at the bigger man, pulling the pistol from his belt and holding it up so that the etchings caught the light. "It's something I just picked up," he crowed. "Thinking of selling it. You interested, Monsieur?"
Porthos returned the grin, his eyes narrowing. "I am." He ticked his head toward the door. "Maybe we should discuss terms outside?"
The lad frowned then shrugged nonplussed. "If you prefer." He took a gulp from the mug before him on the bar, and started for the door, pistol held tightly in his grip.
It wasn't until he had stepped outside and moved a few paces from the tavern that he turned around and caught sight of the pauldron strapped to Porthos' shoulder. His eyes went wide and he turned to run, only to come face to face with Athos' icy stare.
"I believe you have something that belongs to a friend of ours," the swordsman said evenly.
The lad swallowed and looked down at the pistol in his hand. It only took a moment for him to surrender it to the Musketeers.
As soon as Aramis' pistol was safely tucked into Athos' belt, he stepped back allowing Porthos to grab the young man and shove him into the wall of the tavern. "Where did you get the pistol?" he demanded, his eyes dark and menacing, his voice a low growl. "Where is he?" He pressed his forearm against the lad's neck, effectively cutting off his air and rendering him speechless.
The boy audibly gulped, his mouth open as he attempted to draw breath. His hands gripped Porthos' arms, trying unsuccessfully to move the bigger man from his stance.
"Porthos," Athos cautioned. "He cannot confess if he cannot speak."
Porthos grunted once, but immediately let up on the pressure and stepped back.
"I'm not goin' to ask again. Where's Aramis?"
The young man dragged in a long breath, rubbing his throat with one hand while extending the other to the road leading out of town to the west.
"About an hour's ride that way," he choked out.
"Is he alive?"
The lad nodded, his eyes shifting to Athos at the inquiry. "He was when we left 'im."
Porthos growled low in his throat. "He would've never let you leave with that pistol if he could help it."
"He's alive," the lad assured quickly. "I swear it. LaMere wanted me to finish him, but I didn't. He wasn't moving, but he was still alive."
The two Musketeers exchanged a glance as their prisoner looked away, quilt covering him like a cloak. If this fool had been able to get away with Aramis' prized pistol, it did not bode well for the marksman.
"And just why would this LaMere have the audacity to attack a Musketeer?"
Another growl from Porthos got them their answer.
"The horse! He wanted the horse."
"There have been reports of some thefts from stables west of here," Athos confirmed. "But I've not heard of anyone being attacked on the road recently."
"LaMere said it was too good a thing to pass up," the lad said, eager to be of help now that the immediate threat seemed to be past. "The horse was exactly what he'd been looking for."
"Aramis was riding Esprit," Porthos sighed. "He's not goin' to be happy about losing her." He spoke to Athos but kept his eyes on the prisoner. "That is if he's in any shape to be unhappy about anythin'."
"He was alive, I swear." The young man held his hands in front of him, palms out in oath. "He wasn't looking too good, but I didn't kill him. Just told LaMere he was done for."
"You better not be lying to us."
The boy shrank from Porthos' intimidating bulk. "I'm not. If you hurry, you could still save him."
"Find some rope," Athos ordered. "We will turn him over to the local magistrate –" He watched as Porthos stepped forward and leveled a quick punch at the man's face, knocking him unconscious immediately. "Or we could do that."
Porthos leaned forward as the man fell across his shoulders, hefting him up like a sack of grain. "Let's get him delivered. Aramis doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Since they knew Aramis' route would've taken him to Montagne and Blois, they opted to follow the road to the former, assuming their friend would've gone south to the furthest point of his assigned course and looped around back toward Paris. Their young bandit had been little help after Porthos had 'secured' him in the cellar of the tavern, instructing the keeper to alert the magistrate and threatening violence if the prisoner wasn't there for them when they returned. Athos had toyed with the idea of bringing him along in order to glean information from him, but his unconscious state made it more work than necessary; their concern for Aramis and their need for haste making leaving him behind a calculated risk they were more than willing to take. Besides, the lad was nothing more than a hired thug as far as they could tell, quite willing to say whatever they wanted to hear to save his own skin. They would get more out of him about the thefts if he was kept prisoner, awaiting their return, his memory of Porthos' rage and his own imagination doing most of the intimidation for them.
They were a little more than an hour out form St. Germaine when they came upon what could only be the scene where their friend was attacked. There were three separate areas where blood stained the ground, two on the road and one just off the side in the tall grass that grew there. The grass was matted down in a long, narrow track, ominously the exact body length of a fully-grown man. Porthos was off his horse, kneeling down by the bloodstain on the road within moments of their arrival.
"Not much here," he observed. "But it's pooled in one spot. Whoever this is from didn't move until he was dragged away, probably dead." His eyes followed some drag marks in the road that ended abruptly a few steps away.
Athos grunted in agreement, his eyes raking across the blood soaking the ground at the other two spots. The one on the road was spread out, as if the victim had moved about, but there were no drag marks indicating whoever it was had been able to progress under his own steam. "This one looks as if the wounded man moved of his own accord." Something glinted in the sun and Athos dismounted. He crouched down and retrieved a very familiar dagger from the weeds just beside the road near the bloodstain. He held it up to Porthos.
"That's Aramis' dagger," the big man acknowledged.
Athos nodded. "Apparently he was able to wound two of them," he surmised. He squinted toward the tall grass on the opposite side of the road, a flicker of bright blue filtering through the waving green. "What's that?"
Porthos followed his outstretched finger and waded into the grass. As Athos stood, Porthos bent down, reaching for something, his expression grim. When he turned, Athos understood why.
Porthos held Aramis' hat in his hands, the blue and green peacock feather bent and broken, hanging limply down the side.
"He never goes anywhere without this damn hat," Porthos mumbled, disheartened by the discovery. "At least not if he's in his right mind."
Athos swallowed hard, not liking the scenario that was forming in his head. There were boot prints leading down the road, but they were scuffed as if someone had shuffled their feet, too weary – or disoriented – to step with purpose. The bloodstain in the grass was larger than Athos was comfortable with, but it was near the far end near the spot the hat had fallen, leading him to believe their friend had suffered a head injury. How serious an injury still remained to be seen, but knowing head wounds tended to bleed quite a bit, coupled with the fact Aramis had obviously managed to make it back to his feet, lent hope that they would find him still alive.
"There's a blood trail," Porthos pointed out.
Sure enough, a few paces from the shuffle of prints in the road, a couple large splatters of blood were barely discernable on the dusty ground. Athos let his gaze drift further, finding more drops leading down the road.
"He's going the wrong way," the swordsman observed.
"He's going after the horse," Porthos stated.
Athos huffed in agreement. "Most probably. I suppose we should go after him before he gets himself killed."
Porthos sighed, slapping the hat on his thigh. "When we find 'im, I'm just might kill him myself."
TBC