this fic is set in a 'verse that I haven't written yet, but have been been pretty actively planning. it should stand on its own just fine, but if all goes well, it will eventually be integrated into a much larger thing. no idea if that will actually happen or not, but i needed to get this one out.
. . .
D'Artagnan has been awake since long before the winter sun appeared, but waits until its pale light creeps through the slats in his shutters to pull himself out of bed, dress, and make his way down the garrison courtyard.
He'd been hoping to beat the others, but Aramis is already there, seated in their customary spot at the frost-limned table, and watches without really looking as d'Artagnan stiffly descends the stairs.
"It's a cold one today," Aramis says brightly, clapping his gloved hands together and rubbing them briskly. D'Artagnan just hums his agreement; he'd known it was coming, after all, known since yesterday afternoon that today would dawn colder and damper than many of the days before it. He can't quite keep in a sigh as he seats himself on the bench next to Aramis, and the breath escapes in a long puff of white.
He's aware that he's not being as subtle as he could be, but it's no use trying to hide, not anymore, and he's too tired for any pretense that isn't absolutely necessary. His thigh twinges, but his hands stay resolutely on the table top as he breathes through it.
"D'Artagnan." Aramis' hand covers one of his own, which, although not digging into the spasming muscle as it would like to be, has curled into a fist. "D'Artagnan, did you sleep last night?"
D'Artagnan shrugs. "Enough." He'd been too aware, too often, to have truly slept the whole night, but he'd been far enough from wakefulness that moments felt like hours and hours felt like moments, so he hadn't really been awake, either. Caught in that in-between place that should be enough but somehow never is. But he's had worse, and he's learned to make do.
Aramis sighs. "You should have taken something. Are you out?"
"No." The little glass bottle, a tincture of poppy and ginger, has only been opened a handful of times in the weeks since Aramis had refilled it for him. "It wasn't so bad that I needed it."
Aramis' hand squeezes his. "We've talked about this," he says softly. "It's not a weakness to want relief."
There's so much he can say to that, but none of it would be wise, so he just shakes his head. "If it's bad again tonight I'll take it, but I can manage a rough night every now and then."
"I know you can," Aramis says, and d'Artagnan knows that if he looks over at him, Aramis' eyes will be calm and gentle and entirely without judgement. He doesn't look. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
They sit in silence after that, until Athos and Porthos arrive a few minutes later, and when they speak again they speak of other things.
Porthos won't spar with him.
"Not yet," he says when d'Artagnan asks him. "Let's work up to that, warm up a bit first. Lemme see your stances."
D'Artagnan rolls his eyes, but arguing with Porthos requires a mental energy he simply doesn't have right now. Porthos has him cycle through the stances, first just holding each and examining it for imperfections, then stepping into and out of them, then moving through them in a series of increasingly complicated combinations. His right leg has started to shake, shot through with fine tremors as he fights to keep it in position and move it cleanly from one stance to the next, and before long the tremors turn to pain, which he ignores until he can't. A lunge sends him past his range, and an instant later he's on the ground, right leg buckled beneath him and frozen mud melting against his knees.
Porthos follows a moment later, kneeling in front of d'Artagnan and taking him by the shoulders. "You all right?"
"Overextended," d'Artagnan manages, caught off guard by the suddenness of the fall and the fading flare of pain in his hip. "Just stiff."
"It's this damn cold," Porthos agrees. "Hard to work up a proper sweat. You want help getting up?"
D'Artagnan nods before he can think better of it, and reaches up to clasp Porthos' wrists before extricating his leg from underneath him and forcing himself to his feet. Porthos hauls him up the rest of the way, then helps him limp back over to the table and lower himself onto the bench. Once he's there, he can't help but grip his thigh, pressing his thumbs into the muscle to try to relieve the tension there.
"How's it feel?" Porthos asks quietly, dropping down next to him.
"Not great," d'Artagnan admits, trying for a wry smile but probably landing on a grimace.
"You need Aramis?"
He dismisses the question with a shake of his head.
"Do you want Aramis?" Porthos presses.
"Nothing he can do."
"Lad…"
"Don't, Porthos, just." He pulls in a breath, lets it out. "It hurts. It always will. The sooner I accept that, the sooner I can move on."
"It's only been a year," Porthos reminds him.
He snorts. "Only."
"Healing takes time, d'Artagnan. For some people, for some injuries, a year is more than enough. Others, they need more than that. There's no shame in it."
"Talk to me about shame when you're being shown up by cadets," d'Artagnan snaps. "Talk to me about time when you've gone three months without walking. Talk to me about healing when you're hardly better than a cripple."
Porthos is on his feet so quickly, looming over him so completely, that for a second d'Artagnan thinks he's going to hit him. For a second, he wants him to. But of course he doesn't, because Porthos will only ever raise a hand in defense of a friend.
"I know more about shame than you ever will," he says lowly, "and I reckon I know more about time and healing than you do, as well. And I know you're in pain, and I know you're angry, but don't talk like you've seen the whole world on account of a single hurt. A year is nothing, and you're damn lucky you even got this far. You almost didn't." With that, he rolls his shoulders to resettle his leather doublet, and stalks off.
D'Artagnan rests his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands.
Athos finds him later in Treville's office, 'helping' him with paperwork but not really absorbing any of the information he's meant to be.
Treville had called him up not long after the incident with Porthos, no doubt having seen him collapse during stances, and set him to work reviewing the garrison's inventories, trying valiantly trying to engage him in a discussion about what needed to be restocked and when. He'd given up eventually, as everyone ultimately does in the face of d'Artagnan's problem, but didn't send him back to the courtyard to humiliate himself some more.
When Athos comes in, d'Artagnan's back is to him, but he recognises his knock at the door, recognises the way a room feels when he's entered it.
"Can I borrow d'Artagnan?" Athos asks. D'Artagnan ruthlessly suppresses a sigh, and glances up at Treville in time to see him nod.
"Come back after, if you like," Treville says. It's a generous offer – a graceful excuse from anything that might be too taxing, too painful – but d'Artagnan's in no mood for charity. He nods tersely and pushes himself to his feet, chair scraping back across the floor as he stands.
Athos acknowledges him with the barest of nods, then turns on his heel and strides out, leaving d'Artagnan no choice but to follow.
He waits for d'Artagnan at the bottom of the stairs but doesn't watch him descend, doesn't give any indication that he can hear his uneven gait or tight, hissing breaths. He's tightened up, sitting in Treville's office, and the joint is now reluctant to straighten, displeasure at the demand reaching down through his knee and up into his back. Damn this cold, anyway.
No one stops to stare at him anymore. Even the newer cadets had learned quickly, guided by Porthos' liberal cuffs to the head, Athos' stoney glare, and Aramis' sharp whispered words. There are probably still looks, though. On a better day, he'd meet them all defiantly; today, he has to keep all his concentration on staying on his feet.
Athos sets off across the courtyard once d'Artagnan's made it down, and after a few steps their horses come into view, saddled and tacked and ready to ride. Athos is already mounted by the time d'Artagnan reaches them, and only glances over as d'Artagnan pulls himself into the saddle. It's a struggle, what with the stiffness in his hip, but he's had practice, and between his three good limbs he manages without incident.
Athos gives him another minuscule nod once he's settled, and nudges his horse to a walk, d'Artagnan close behind. This, at least, he can still do.
They keep their silence as they leave the garrison and weave through the streets of Paris. It's easier than it normally would be, with the cold keeping most people inside, but they keep the horses single file out of habit. It's not until they've left the city entirely that d'Artagnan pulls level with Athos, and their silence becomes more companionable.
"There's a hat in there, if you like," Athos says abruptly, tipping his head to indicate d'Artagnan's saddle bags. "And another cloak."
D'Artagnan shoots him a grateful look, and coaxes his horse to a standstill to lean over and reach them. Once he would have had no trouble with the maneuver while moving, but it's hard to keep his balance with a leg that doesn't want to work, and he has no desire to go pitching to the ground a second time today. Athos waits as he puts on the hat – smaller than those favoured by the musketeers, but sturdy enough to keep his head warm – and wraps the second cloak around himself. It's heavy, heavy and warm, and a little of the tension slips from his body.
"Where are we going?" he asks once he's done, and both horses have been brought back to a walk.
"Nowhere in particular," Athos says mildly, confirming his suspicions. "Just exercising the horses a bit, keeping them limber in the cold."
D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow, but Athos' expression is as imperturbable as ever. D'Artagnan sighs, loudly, and spurs his horse through a brisk trot and into a canter. Athos does the same, and soon they're flying side by side, and d'Artagnan forgets that he's anything but whole.
Getting down is hell, of course, and his right leg nearly gives out the moment his foot touches the ground. It's worth it, though, for that short bit of freedom.
Athos stands beside him, waiting wordlessly as he leans against his horse, clutching the saddle for support and breathing through the pain. "How bad?" Athos asks quietly once d'Artagnan is able to stand on his own.
"Bad," d'Artagnan admits. No point pretending otherwise. They've dismounted as close to the stairs as they can, but he's still dreading the walk required to get back to his room – and his room is where he needs to go, unless he wants to go straight to the infirmary, which he does not.
"Let me help," Athos says, and d'Artagnan's too defeated to refuse. He puts an arm over Athos' shoulders, and Athos wraps an arm around his waist, and they pick their way up the stairs, Athos taking the weight that d'Artagnan's bad leg can't bear.
"Your room?" Athos asks once they're at the top.
"Please." When he'd first been commissioned, he'd been assigned to the general barracks shared by several other men, mostly common like him, who didn't have lodgings elsewhere in the city but weren't high enough in the ranks to merit their own room. After his injury, though, Treville had given him a small room around to the back of the garrison block. It was supposed to be temporary, and d'Artagnan had half expected to be kicked back down to the barracks the moment he could more or less walk on his own again, but no one had ever brought it up and he was content – relieved – to be able to maintain some semblance of privacy.
Athos deposits him on the narrow bed when they arrive, and leaves him to get settled as he gets a fire going in the grate. D'Artagnan pulls off his boots and swings his legs up onto the bed, taking a moment to relish the relief of the position before setting his stiff fingers to the ache in his even stiffer leg. After only a few moments, though, a hand on his shoulder stops him.
"Let Aramis do that," Athos says, and d'Artagnan leans back against the wall with a thump to look up at him.
"I can do it just as well as he can," he points out. He's certainly had the practice.
But Athos shakes his head. "No matter how strong you are, the mind hesitates to inflict pain on the body. Aramis can do a better job." Unfortunately, that is true. It'll be excruciating, though. He says as much, and Athos' expression turns solemn. "I know," he says, "but it will help."
The fire in the grate is still in its infancy, but is already chasing some of the chill from the room, and with it, a good part of his resolve. He's just so tired.
The hand on his shoulder tightens infinitesimally. "Rest a bit," Athos tells him. "Aramis will be here before long." D'Artagnan nods, and lets his eyes fall closed.
What seems like seconds later, he's being gently shaken awake. When he opens his eyes, Aramis is sitting on the edge of the bed, and d'Artagnan has been covered with a blanket. The fire is higher, and the room is pleasantly warm. Athos is nowhere to be seen.
"I see I've been handed off," he says, voice raspy with sleep.
Aramis smiles. "And I see you've finally gotten some sleep. Shall we?"
D'Artagnan pushes back the blanket and sets to unlacing his trousers and smalls while Aramis goes to the small table on the other side of the room to retrieve one of the several jars and bottles sitting there. Once he's stripped down to nothing but his long woolen shirt, he pulls the blanket back up, folding the top edge down and over just enough to leave his right hip free while still preserving his modesty (although really, at this point, he has to snort at the idea: everyone's already seen everything he has to offer), and shimmies down the bed to lie on his back.
He doesn't exactly avoid looking at the scars, but he doesn't search them out, either. He knows what they look like, could probably draw a picture of them if someone asked him to. The knotted mass that marks the entry of the musket ball that had ruined his hip, the long, thin lines running through it where Aramis had had to reopen the wound again and again to drain the infection and pull out splinters of bone. The lines have faded to smooth silver by now, but the knot is raised and puckered and dark. It might fade a bit more over the course of his life, but not by much. He will be marked by it forever, even should the limp fall away and the pain finally release him. But none of that is likely to happen, so he'd best make peace with it all.
"Cold," Aramis warns him, then his hands are on his thigh, coated with a balm that smells headily of lavender. For a while he simple rests them there, letting the balm and his fingers warm up, but then he starts to press, kneading and digging with fingertips and knuckles, and d'Artagnan's only job is to lie there and take it. He breathes as deeply and as evenly as he can, tries to relax into it and not flinch or jerk away, but it's hard. Aramis finds a particularly sensitive spot, just to the side of the worst of the scarring, and d'Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe as Aramis tortures it into softness. He loses time that way, carried away on the ebb and flow of sharp, bright pain.
He doesn't realise that Aramis has stopped until a hand pats his cheek, and he opens his eyes.
"Time for the other side," Aramis says, apology in his voice.
D'Artagnan rolls over onto his front with a groan, and rests his head on his folded arms, resolutely staring at the wall. It had been awkward the first few times, but somehow Aramis – Aramis, of all people – manages to keep it impersonal as he repeats the torturous motions on d'Artagnan's lower back, buttock, and hamstrings. The pain is duller on this side, not flaring so much as rolling, but there are still a couple of spots that have him hissing and gritting his teeth as Aramis seems to lean against them with his entire body weight. When one such spot reaches new heights of unbearable, d'Artagnan risks a glance over his shoulder to see Aramis pressing into it with his elbow, a look of determination on his face. "Almost there," he says, catching d'Artagnan's eye.
D'Artagnan drops his head back down with a groan, but a handful of seconds later, something releases and a ripple of euphoric relief runs through him. He groans again, but this time in pleasure. Aramis' hands are gentle after that, working the balm into the skin and easing away the last of the tension.
When he's done, he pulls the blanket up to d'Artagnan's shoulders and rests a hand on the back of his head. "All right?" he asks. D'Artagnan mumbles something that's more sound than words, and Aramis huffs a quiet laugh. "Sleep a bit more," he says, "and we'll wake you when it's time to eat."
D'Artagnan makes another vague noise of assent into the pillow and drifts off again, awash in the scent of lavender and the absence of pain.
He wakes again with the setting of the sun, the chill of darkness settling more in his soul than on his skin and bringing him back to consciousness with a shiver. He rolls onto his back, waits for something low in his spine to clunk into a more comfortable spot, then pushes himself up to lean against the wall and stare into the fire.
This cold snap marks the start of their descent into winter, and as the coldest day of the season so far, it's natural that it should bring not only pain, but memories as well. Much of the last winter is little more than a blur in his mind, December and January lost almost entirely to one fever or another, but he can remember the pain. The pain of the shot, the pain of infection, the pain of bone and muscle struggling to knit together, the pain of relearning to stand, relearning to walk.
His brothers had stood by him in every possible way, carrying him when he needed it and guiding him when he was adrift, but the pain was only ever his to bear, and no matter how deeply they can understand one another with nothing but looks and touches and a single spoken word, they will never know exactly what it is like to suffer this rebuilding. They will ask when they don't understand and listen to what he tells them, but there are things he cannot convey, fears he refuses to voice, doubts that stir restlessly under his skin. He doesn't entirely understand them himself.
Perhaps it had been foolish of him to assume that healing would be linear, that each day would be better than the last until he was entirely well again, but that had always been his experience before. This fickle, unpredictable progress is maddening. To have come so far and yet be rendered lame once more by something as simple as a change in the weather… In many ways, an unsustainable victory feels worse than a failure.
The sooner I accept that, the sooner I can move on.
Not entirely untrue, but peace is far easier said than made. Maybe one day he won't resent the pain so much, but he'll likely never embrace it, and isn't that what acceptance would mean? If one day all that remains is the occasional twinge, he could deal with that, but if he is to wake every morning for the rest of his life not knowing if he'll be able to walk that day, let alone run or fight or ride, how is he supposed to live?
"There is always a way," Aramis had said once at the worst of it. "Life always finds a way, and you, d'Artagnan, are more full of life than anyone else I've ever known." The words had comforted him at the time, but not so much now. Now, he doesn't feel full of life at all. He is a worn and weary version of himself, and cannot seem to grasp the vibrancy that drove him then. He has aged several years in the span of one, and although he is scarcely into his twenties, he knows that he has left his youth behind. Perhaps it's better that way – perhaps a youthful spirit trapped in a failing vessel would suffer even more.
He doesn't know how long he sits and gazes into the flames, thoughts circling ever downward and ever darker, but at last his reverie is broken by a knock on the door that barely reaches his ears before the door itself is swinging open to admit his three friends, each bearing some combination of bowls and cups, and Athos bringing up the rear with a bottle of wine.
"Awake at last!" Porthos grins, all earlier disgruntlement long gone. "Looked in on you a few times, and you were sleeping like the dead. I was all for going through your pockets," he adds with a wink, and d'Artagnan gives in and smiles.
"You'd find little enough," he counters. "A suspicious amount of my coin seems to end up in yours."
"A challenge!" Aramis says, flaring his eyebrows. "Porthos, how do you respond to this accusation?"
"I say we settle it like gentlemen, o' course. With a nice, fair game of cards."
"I'm not entirely sure you know how to play such a game," Athos says drily, and sets the bottle down on the table.
Porthos shrugs easily, and hands one of the bowls he's carrying to d'Artagnan. It's beef stew, salty and savory and steaming enticingly; his stomach rumbles cavernously at the smell.
"Well said," says Aramis, and starts passing around the cups, his own bowl still carefully in hand. Athos follows him, pouring the wine, and they all find a spot on the floor near to the fire to settle down and dig in. All but d'Artagnan, who stays in bed, unwilling to lose even a drop of warmth. But that too is habit by now, albeit one suspended in kinder seasons, and no one finds it worthy of remark.
The stew is delicious, hot and hearty, and the wine is bold and smooth and just a bit sweet. Far from blocking the warmth of the fire, his friends seem to add to it, their voices and movements filling the small room until the chill of the night is far from mind and the pain in his leg an easily ignored irritation. He finishes his stew first, and then his wine, and allows Aramis to pour him a second cup. By the time that one's done, he's loose and sated as he hasn't been in days. He doesn't drink much anymore, not after his disastrous attempt at following Athos' example of seeking solace at the bottom of too many bottles, but on days like today a little can go a long way.
The next hours pass lazily in an easy hum of conversation and camaraderie, and before long d'Artagnan finds himself once more entranced by the movement of flames along the logs and through the air. His empty cup tips down into his lap, and his chin has almost reached his shoulder when a hand alights on his cheek and brings him back to himself.
Athos is crouched before him, Aramis' tincture in his hand and a question in his eyes. D'Artagnan thinks about it, then nods. He feels all right now, but that will wear off with the wine. The poppy, at least, will ensure that he sleeps through the night. Athos pours some out into a spoon and d'Artagnan doesn't even bother trying to take it from him, just opens his mouth and lets Athos slip it in. The effect isn't instant, but it doesn't feel like long before he's slithering bonelessly down under the covers, shrugging them up around his shoulders and letting the world tip sideways as he lays his head on the pillow, eyes still fixed on the flickering, dancing flames.
Remember this, he thinks to himself. When tomorrow comes, look back on tonight and remember that you were at peace.
As his eyes close, gentle fingers stroke his hair back from his face, and a voice drifts like snow down to his ears.
"Be well, d'Artagnan. We'll see you in the morning."
And he sleeps.
. . .
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.
— The Hobbit
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