Stay
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: As Aramis resolves to save a life; d'Artagnan makes a solemn promise that traverse's through time and space – one that leaves Athos grateful. This is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires January challenge, with the theme of "Resolution".
"Hold him still", Aramis urged, his voice raspy and raw as he bent low over his brother's open wound. Pebbles and clumps of rock dug uncomfortably into his knees – an irritant that sorely bruised his skin; but he nonetheless dismissed such discomfort as insignificant. Clenching his jaw tight; he was determined to stay focused and not let such a small thing distract him.
Hours spent hunched over with his shoulders rounded, had his back aching; and his arms trembling with strain. Exhaustion pulled on his already depleted reserves; but he thanked God that his hands were steady and true.
Blood permeated his fingers; fit like gloves; and embedded slickly beneath his nails. Rivulets traveled upwards toward his wrists as he steadily stitched together open, twitching skin. Breathing through his mouth circumvented the smell of copper and the reflex to gag and cough up what little he had eaten.
An abrupt flashback of musket fire; clanging swords – a flurry of violence; the quickly dispatched enemy…..digging through flesh down to bone; the anguished screaming and his own racing heart, had him pause subtly over his charge.
Sweat trickled down the sides of his face into his eyes; dripped from his chin, mixed then with gushing stark red thickness… but he daren't stop. So instead took a breath and rapidly blinked back false tears to clear his vision of the salty, stinging sensation.
Intent on the job at hand, he blocked out the images of those who would do them harm, moaning and cursing – restrained; gagged and hogtied.
Darkness encroached slowly over his shoulder, with stealth and caution – leaving long shadows that made it difficult to see. Overhead, Porthos held the lantern steady with a fixed, unwavering hand. It's radiating heat not only giving much needed light but added a suffocating air to his already stifling sense of urgency.
The tenseness beneath his hands let him know that his brother could feel every pinch then pull of the needle and thread, even though he was unconscious. The man's groans and sluggish attempts to shy away from the pain, evidence to the incredibly painful ordeal he suffered under his hand.
Softly, under his breath – he apologized; then bit his lip with force; regretting that he had not thought ahead; been prepared for such an emergency and had nothing to give, in order to help take the edge off….not even wine.
Porthos reached down and wiped his brow.
Sighing, he leaned into the damp cloth and gave his friend a brief smile of thanks – then continued on. With God's help he was resolved to fix this – come away no worse for wear.
Removing the musket ball, cleaning the wound – now sewing skin back together was taking hours and a terrible toll on them all. After each tiny stitch he prayed that this freak, unexpected misadventure with bandits would remain just that – an unfortunate mishap that would not end in senseless tragedy – and destroy a piece of them all.
Sensing more movement beneath his hands, he stilled for a beat and counseled once more, "Talk to him"; and as he began again, heard his brother whisper with pressing care all he sustained in his heart to the oblivious man in his arms.
This all looked so familiar.
And as recognition became clear, knew where he found himself. Rising before him, miraculously whole, stood the impressive estate – sturdy; large – luminous in the early morning light….pristinely intact.
Open windows showed hints of lace curtains, fluttering in the breeze. Horses brayed in the nearby stables and the bustle of household staff in and around the building could be heard moving about, engaged with daily routines.
Birds called to one another overhead, and he looked up just in time to watch with some curiosity as they flew swiftly away – following the leader in a tight; close angled formation. The backdrop of azure blue and bright sun caused him to squint and shield his eyes from the glare.
How strange, he thought. This was not at all the way he remembered this place.
What he remembered had him wincing with remorse – dredging up the recollection of a dark sky, painted orange with flames. These very windows, now open to the crisp clean air, were in his memory shattered from oppressive heat; the stone walls toppled – marred with soot.
A shell, he recalled; no longer a home – gutted beyond inhabitance. So…how was this to be?
That night, not so long ago, filled with dread; and dangerous events – conjured up even now, the smell of ash; apprehension; and vengeful retribution. All of which sat heavily on his heart – for Athos was yet to recover from the spiteful, destructive revelations exposed that day.
A sharp pain spiraled from his hip down to his right leg and touching there his hand came away crimson. Frowning, he wondered how he could have come to be here in the fields of Pinon with no horse and no weapons. Surely with this injury, he could not have walked so far as this.
The clang of a smithy's hammer pounding on iron roused him from such an oddity and brought his attention to the small village nestled in the valley. Her residents scurried about between homes; the market; church and at its center, the tavern. They all seemed preoccupied with life; work and the day – which in a few hours, he could tell by the height of the sun, would reach mid-day soon.
Tall wispy grass swayed about his knees, much like a gentle tide, and had him reaching down with bloodied hand and splayed fingers to touch the tips. He was surprised to feel its softness lightly tickle his palms, thinking that all this must be a dream.
Sounds of laughter could be heard at his back and when he turned to locate the source of such joy, found himself face to face with the tree of death. Only, this tree was green; leafy and profuse with life; much younger than he recalled. And from its limbs hung not the specter of a noose; but a wooden swing, held secure by twine – that shifted gently back and forth.
As he limped closer, there on its trunk; imprinted neatly was carved the names – Thomas, Olivier, and Remy – bold and raw; burgeoning with youthful strokes of adolescents.
Caressing the rough bark - he traced his fingers within the indentations and smiled. He had done much the same back home in Lupiac with his favorite climbing tree – etching his name in hopes to mark his presence; to be always remembered and not forgotten by those who would come after him.
Splashing water, giggles and whoops of excitement wafted toward him, just beyond a crop of trees. Following with some effort the trail of those happy voices, he came eventually upon a small stream. And there two boys pushed waves of water between them and screamed brashly over each other's vociferous claims of superior diving prowess.
On the shore a smaller, slight, dark haired boy stood and watched them with wide, brown eyes.
Weary and intrigued by these three, d'Artagnan sat heavily, just within the tree line and leaned his back against a downed tree; its roots pulled up from the earth.
"Come in Thom", a green eyed boy of twelve called out from the middle of the stream, with arms outstretched. "I'm right here waiting, and will not let anything happen to you."
"Do you promise Olivier? You won't let me drown?", the boy entreated, hopping from side to side on bare feet; fear of the unknown taking precedence as he anxiously caught his bottom lip between his teeth.
"I promise!"
And without further thought – as if having only to hear such resolutions, Thomas raced to the shore's edge; lifted his feet beneath him and bounded into the stream. Water cascaded upward as spindly arms securely engulfed him in an all-encompassing embrace.
Remy screeched with encouragement and splashed copious amounts of water in their direction.
"See?" Olivier yelled over their twin laughter as Thomas sighed with relief. "You did it!"
Wrapping small arms about Olivier's neck, the boy kissed his brother's cheek and held on tight; breathless with his daring accomplishment.
"Who loves you most Tommy?" Oliver murmured in his ear.
"You do brother." The boy countered loudly and let go, eager to swim back to shore to make another leap of faith.
d'Artagnan smiled through a haze of pain; and thought how wonderful it must be to have such a brother – who would catch you; without hesitation, no matter the circumstance.
Closing his eyes but for a moment, he felt the pain of his injury and ground out a wretched groan. When he opened them again, there sitting boldly before him was the green eyed boy; straw colored hair, wet and plastered to the sides of his face.
With water dripping from the tip of his nose, the boy asked sincerely, "Will you stay here with me?" his lips a thin line of serious intent.
d'Artagnan blinked and wondered at such a question. He shifted where he sat and felt his hip flare with a fire that traveled through his body and could not answer as a wave of agony pierced his side and constricted his throat.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed hard to stave off nausea and the dizzying tilt of the earth that spun around him in rolling waves.
When he regained his composure, and opened his eyes to answer – the boy was gone; sounds of youthful raucous horseplay drifting away among the trees.
d'Artagnan woke with a start; his clothes wet with sweat sticking uncomfortably to his body. Mid-day, had long since given way to early evening and a diminished sun. The temperature drop had him shivering as goosebumps dotted his damp skin.
Confused, he bit down on his hand to stifle a cry of pain as his heart raced wildly in in his chest. Looking about, he realized he still lay in the same spot against the downed trunk of a tree; the small stream just ahead, water lapping serenely against the shore.
Laying his head back, he considered this peculiar situation he found himself in – and wondered how he would get himself back home.
Taking him by surprise, Olivier crashed through the trees, stumbling blindly – rushing toward him; his face clouded with grief and anger. Now a tall, thin young man, he could tell that some time had passed; and suddenly recognized his Athos beneath the round, smooth face – green eyes hard with outrage.
As he reached him by the fallen tree; and fell to his knees at his side, he noticed with dismay blood on the boy's upper lip – horrendously split open- tears of fury tracking down his face.
d'Artagnan attempted to sit up straighter, but the pain of his hip abated his efforts and he gasped with pain and worry.
What's happened – he wondered; but couldn't speak; and when he reached for the boy could not fathom the drastic change from the joyous outing he witnessed at twelve to this angry, frightened young man.
"He threatens to grind me beneath his boot heel; and bend me to his will", he explained in a shaking voice. Clenching his fists, he punched the ground with considerable strength. "He has sent my teacher away; banned me from Remy's side and pits my Thomas against me."
Scanning the sky, he swiped tears from his face; and nodded with determination. "I will leave this place – you'll see. I'll cast off this title – this burden", and spat on the ground; his rage a living all-consuming thing.
All too clearly, d'Artagnan recognized himself here – emotional; reactive and unrestrained. He had not believed such a comparison between them before, but saw it now; and remembered Athos' words to him that they were much alike.
"Father can give it to him for all I care. Thomas can have this life if he wants it! I'll make my own way!"
d'Artagnan nodded back, listening carefully to the anguish of such resolve. How oppressive life must have been for Athos here among the de la Fere's.
Out through the trees, horse's hooves could be heard disturbing the foliage, breaking fallen limbs; and pounding the earth. Olivier laughed sarcastically and sighed with resignation. "He comes here to my only place of sanctuary to drag me back into his house.", and stood stiffly to his feet, staring down at d'Artagnan – his face pleading; but set also with a single-minded purpose.
"Will you stay with me?" he asked once more, licking the blood from his lip.
d'Artagnan blinked and whispered hoarsely, "yes", but when he looked to give promise to such a resolution; Olivier – his Athos was gone. The sound of hooves receding on rough terrain – echoed in the distance.
The full moon sat high; and lit the sky as its silver, shimmering aura bounced from the stream, giving a sense of ethereal beauty to the surrounding area.
d'Artagnan pulled himself up easily to sit atop the trunk and felt only a throbbing at his injury and knew he was somewhat on the mend. He could go; he guessed; find some way to get back home, but something held him back and made him wait.
And just as he presumed, there coming through the trees was Olivier – a man now, pulling behind him….her. Laugh lines creased around his eyes, his mouth; and he could hardly recognize him – having never seen him so at ease with love.
She laughed beside him; her own eyes alive with adoration he supposed – shining as she pulled him close to her and placed a brief kiss on his lips. Together they descended in a tumble of arms and legs to the sandy shore, removing their stockings, shoes; and then dipped bare feet into the cool water.
In sync they lay back and studied the moon. The clouds practically glowed beneath its radiance as iridescent; wisps of white traveling overhead. Hand in hand they whispered nonsense words of endearment and passion, causing his own cheeks to blush red at their open display of affection.
He realized now that this was the past he witnessed; the past where his brother loved this woman with every fiber of his being. For he wore it plain to see on his face; in his body language that leaned in close and caressed her shoulder – held the nape of her neck and traced reverently the soft lines of her mouth.
Knowing what the future held had him seething with indignation.
She would betray this moment; hurt him badly; lead him to make damming decisions that would damage his soul and bring him dangerously close to the edge of ruination. He detested her for the abhorrent; brutal way she stole joy, gladness; delight – any semblance of happiness from his life.
Clenching his teeth so hard his head hurt; d'Artagnan promised himself to protect him; to not let her hurt him again. He would do whatever it took.
Looking at them now, it would be hard to believe the years, Athos would spend…..years tethered to her murderous deeds; and his own missteps – never free from heartache, grief or guilt. This alone would drive him to keep this resolution. He would do this for Athos.
Without preamble – Anne stood; picked up her shoes and skipped away into the trees, her lilting, soft laughter bouncing off the trees. Olivier sat up; stared after her forlornly, then turned to seek him out; looked to him and asked a third time; staring straight into his soul, "Then will you stay?"
d'Artagnan stared back and yelled across the stream, in a bold; steady determined voice, "Yes, I promise".
When he roused from his deep sleep, d'Artagnan felt the scratchy wool of his cloak; pebbles digging into his back; and a slight twinge at his hip. A small fire burned brightly and across the pit slept Aramis and Porthos – their snores an abiding comfort, cutting through the crackle of flames.
Athos sat next to him, feeding the fire with small sticks as sizzling embers ascended to meet the full moon. Under nearby trees sat several men bound and gagged, squirming or laying still in the dirt.
Concentrating hard, he remembered little of the whys and how's of his injury; how they came to be here in the woods; but recalled everything, in vivid detail – of what Athos shared with him in whispered confidence while Aramis worked tirelessly to save his life.
It must have taken much for a man who gave little by way of personal details about himself to share with him the profound love he felt for his brother; the crushing burden of his title; and how much he truly loved Milady – and still did.
A hand wrapped firmly around his forearm and squeezed, as Athos moved to sit hip to hip alongside him. Looking up into those eyes he saw relief and knew Athos must have worried for him and suspected things must have gotten pretty dire. Gripping the hand on his arm, he squeezed back and coughing to clear his throat smiled as an attempt to assuage his distress.
"I'm okay", he reassured, sensing an underlying wave of fear beneath the man's cool demeanor.
"Yes – Aramis was quite tenacious in his efforts to keep you alive; and you were just stubborn enough, despite the odds to survive. And I am grateful." - Athos deadpanned lightly and quirked a deft, almost indiscernible smile.
d'Artagnan thought on this and considered his friend carefully, remembering his resolution. "I promised didn't I?"
And with the strength born of a crucial decision made; held onto Athos' hand with a new marked, unwavering determination to stay by his side…if possible, defy death at every turn to remain so, and be as true a brother as if they were born of the same flesh and blood.
He would do this.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this! Please review and let me know what you think. This piece is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires January challenge, with the theme of "Resolution". If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.