He doesn't think he has heard the Captain right.

The man has asked him to lead Aramis, Pierre and Henri to collect a prisoner and deliver him to His Eminence's court. Athos understands the assignment, even understands the need to have Musketeers doing what is the Red Guards' duty. The Cardinal's men don't want to go collect the criminal who is rumoured to be descended from giants. None of that bothers Athos.

"Lead?" he asks.

"Yes,"

Athos glances aside to Aramis, hoping the man would interject. But no objection is forthcoming and the silence in the Captain's office stretches. Shifting his weight from one foot to another he looks back to the Captain, nervous like he had rarely been as a small boy.

"Aramis should lead," he says, "he is far more experienced than me."

"I defer to the wisdom of your age," there's a mischievous spark in the brown eyes that turn to him but Athos doesn't miss the depth of grief it hides.

In the sporadic observations during their two months of acquaintance Athos has seen flashes of a deep seated sorrow in the man who is never too far to offer him silent company. Aramis is always ready with a smile and a quip but it is in the moments of quiet that Athos feels the presence of another hurting soul. And he would not admit it even to himself but he wishes to ease the pain of this man whose presence he is becoming dangerously used to. He has tried not to get used to him but Athos actually misses him during the bouts of his self-imposed isolation when he flatly refuses Aramis' company and the man then goes off to jump in the bed of one mistress or another.

"It is not my place to lead," Aramis says.

And Athos wishes he could fill that place if only to wipe away that tremor in the man beside him. To assure him that it's alright, that he doesn't need to lead, that he can stand down and Athos will carry him forward where he cannot cross on his own. That he would do for Aramis what he had done for him.

Because he knows what it feels like to have a chasm opened before your feet and that he knows what it means to have someone reach out with a steadying hand. Athos is rubbing the back of his neck without even noticing the action; imagines that he can feel the curve of the letters on his skin even through the folds of the scarf. He is not born to lead, he is not born to rule, he is To serve.

Unbidden that helpless anger that had frozen his childish sniffles into an aloof mask rises again. This time it threatens to burn away the armour Athos had built on hard learned acceptance.

"Is there a problem Athos?" the Captain asks.

"It is not my place to lead either," he says.

Turns on his heels and marches out of the office without waiting to be dismissed. He is out on the balcony, down the stairs and across the yard when he realizes that he is being followed. Still Athos does not stop until he has reached his room, his fists clenched tight by his sides as he refrains from punching the wall and throwing the only chair in his room in a fit of rage.

To serve, writes along the edges of his mind in the curved letters he had witnessed in the mirror all those years ago.

He stands still; rigid to the point that the muscles in his neck twitch under the strain and his back feels pulled taut to its limit. There is little room left for his chest to expand in order for him to take a proper breath. It is shallow and hitching, just shy of panting.

The door behind him closes with a gentle snick.

"I would be honoured to serve under your command," Aramis says, "every man whom you lead would serve under your decisions. It is an easy thing to serve one command, one man, one crown. The weight of responsibility is lighter in that service."

Fear propels Athos to swing around and stare at the man.

He glares at him, fuming at the audacity of this man for flaunting the knowledge he holds over him. The knowledge Aramis has no right to. Rage bubbles out of the humiliation in his gut and Athos grabs the man by the front and slams him back into the wall.

Leather creaks where he grabs his coat and Aramis' hat topples off his head upon impact.

The cool blade of Athos' dagger rests against Aramis' throat.

But the brown eyes holding his gaze do not flinch.

"You saw," it's barely above a whisper.

Aramis nods.

A thousand thoughts rise in Athos' mind; a thousand scenarios and a thousand outcomes. None of which is remotely like the reality in which the man before him raises his arms and settles his hand on Athos' shoulders.

"It takes only someone with the strength bestowed by sheer luck to serve every man who follows his orders, to take responsibility of actions not his own, of lives in his care. To serve like that is what makes one a king, makes one the captain of his men." Aramis does not look away as he speaks, as his nimble fingers adjust the scarf Athos haven't even realized that he had disturbed in his agitation, "Luck has marked you mon frère, it is a spinning coin by turns a curse and a blessing. But the question is what you do with."

Aramis drops his hands back to his sides, not protesting when Athos gives him a shake before he lets him go. The dagger hitting the floor rings out like the gong of a bell over Paris. There is a trembling in his heart that Athos doesn't wish to share, a shivering hope that he is worthy of what he had always assumed out of reach. He turns away from the man by the wall but his steps falter as he pushes for distance.

Yet it is what he craves and somehow Aramis understands that.

"Stop hiding who you could be brother," Aramis pauses on the threshold on his way out, "your touch of luck is what makes you who you are; but it doesn't have to have the final say."

Athos doesn't move even after the door closes. He cannot move. But he sways, locks his knees and refuses to slump to the ground, forces his legs to take his weight even if they feel like half empty water-skins. But the words on the back of his neck are the fear that pins him in place, it is the shackle around his neck that always jerks his head down and dips his gaze.

He breathes.

There is a sharp line of sunlight an inch from the toes of his boots; spilling in bright, in a clear box marked by the edges of the window. He stares at it mesmerized. The weight of his luck presses his feet onto the ground, too heavy for him to move.

His eyes water.

A shaky hand reaches up to his throat.

Trembling fingers clasp the worn scarf and pull.

He closes his eyes and sees To serve burned on the back of his eyelids.

The air is cool around his neck, sprouting gooseflesh down his spine. Athos shivers and shuffles forwards. It takes him a minute to sense the warmth of the sunlight and hesitantly he tilts up his face. Watches the darkness behind his closed eyes melt into red and gold, feels the heat of the sun on his skin and the scarf drops from his limp fingers.

He is To serve.

He is not to hide.


TBC

THANK YOU everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. And the guest reviewers whom I cannot thank personally; A reader, Doubtful Guest, Jmp and Clara your reviews made my day, thank you!