Porthos bent over his horse's neck, urging her to move faster despite the uneven footing. The men that had taken D'Artagnan had a considerable lead over him, and he was determined to make up as much ground as possible. The trail had become narrow and was once again edged by thick woods which made travel difficult, but Porthos was counting on the fact that one man would move far faster than a large group.
His heart thumped with anger as he rode. The vast majority of his rage was directed at Aramis, and if Porthos was honest with himself, it was an extension of the resentment that had been simmering for quite some time. The first time they went to Douai, Porthos had been so certain that Aramis would rejoin them that they'd brought Bijou along for the journey. After all, they were preparing to go to war.
"I can't, mes amis." They'd danced around the subject long enough, and it had ended with Aramis' resistance.
"What do you mean, you can't? All you need to do is get out of that tablecloth you're wearing and get on your horse." Porthos had been confused. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that his brother would refuse. If anyone truly understood the need for trustworthy comrades in battle, it would be Aramis, who was the most seasoned of them all.
A pained look had crossed Aramis' face as he bowed his head, hands on planted on his hips. The four of them stood in the monastery courtyard; three men in armor and one in a monk's robe. Porthos had thought Aramis looked uncomfortable and very odd. Like a wolf pretending to be a sheep. "Porthos, I can't leave with you," he said gently. "I made a promise to God, and I must see it through. What sort of man would I be if I broke my vows so easily?"
"We don't ask this of you lightly," Athos interjected. "You could return here, after the war is over."
Aramis shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not possible. I can't uphold my word only when it is convenient to do so."
Porthos snorted. "You think living on the front lines will be convenient?"
"No. But it would become an excuse for evading my vows. If I don't do this now, I never will."
The disbelief had begun to morph into indignation in the face of Aramis' steadfast rejection. "An excuse? You do understand that we're not asking you to join us on a message delivery? We're going into battle. If you don't come, this may be the last time you ever see us. Is that alright with you?"
"Of course not!" The words had exploded out of Aramis, agonized and pleading. "But this is the price I agreed to pay. Penance requires sacrifice, Porthos, and I have chosen to sacrifice my life as a Musketeer."
"Sacrificed the lives your brothers, you mean," Porthos sneered.
"No, not that. Never that," Aramis murmured. He looked up at his three brothers, drinking them in, and Porthos could plainly see misery and regret swimming in his eyes. "You will keep each other safe. I know it. I will pray for it."
"We don't need your prayers. We need you, Aramis. We need you at our backs." D'Artagnan's argument had been quiet and straightforward, but perhaps the most effective. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a familiar gesture, one that suggested Aramis was close to the end of his rope. He had turned his back on them, and when he spoke his voice was clogged with unshed tears.
"I'm sorry. You are asking me for something that is no longer mine to give." He had asked them to leave, then. Athos and D'Artagnan had said their goodbyes, embracing their wayward brother firmly and promising to return one day. Porthos had simply walked out of the monastery gates.
The anger that had burst into flames that day had sustained him through the darkest of days, had fueled him through moments when everything had seemed bleak and hopeless. He supposed that in a strange way, Aramis had helped to keep him alive after all, but it wasn't enough. It had taken Porthos four years to bury the hurt of that rejection in the back of his mind, and the sight of Aramis in the monastery cellar had brought it all rushing back. He was incensed that a short scrap with the Spanish and the smuggler's men was all it had taken to convince Aramis to abandon his vow.
Aside from his tightly held grudge, he'd known Aramis wasn't ready. Porthos should have pushed back harder, should have argued louder. Aramis had no business riding out on missions with them yet, certainly not on ones that practically promised danger. He didn't deny that the marksman had once been a fine soldier, one of the very best to serve France. But four years was a long time. Aramis had obviously retained his thirst for excitement, but it was clear from their few sparring sessions that he had not maintained the sharpness of his skills. He supposed that Aramis was currently no worse than an average soldier, but Musketeers were not average soldiers. And Aramis had not been an average Musketeer.
The trail that Porthos had been following suddenly split and he pulled up sharply. Darkness had fallen rapidly under the canopy of trees, and he couldn't afford to fall behind or go the wrong way. He dismounted and walked along the fork on foot, carefully scanning the ground for signs of human passage. The season had been very dry, and the hard, packed trail offered very little information. Sighing, Porthos rubbed a hand over his eyes. There was too much at stake to make a hasty decision, but he was also keenly aware of each second that was slipping by.
Making his way back to his patient horse, Porthos' sharp ears picked up the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Crouching in the brush and wishing he had time to hide his mount, Porthos quietly pulled his pistol. In the half-shadows of twilight, it was difficult to distinguish any details, but it was clear that a lone figure was bearing down on his position. Exhaling silently, Porthos raised his gun and pointed the barrel straight at the rider's chest as he slowed.
"Porthos? Are you there?"
Surprise loosened his finger on the trigger. He lowered his pistol as he sagged forward. How on earth had he failed to recognize Aramis' silhouette? Or that damn hat?
"What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to follow me," Porthos hissed as he clambered back to his feet.
Aramis brought his faithful horse to a stop. Unlike her favorite rider, Bijou had been pressed into service during the war, but had fortunately survived the experience. The reunion between the marksman and his horse had been considerably warmer than the one with Porthos.
"You did," Aramis agreed quietly. "But you need support, and I'm the only one available to give it to you."
"You left Athos by himself?" The accusation in the big man's voice was clear as he considered Aramis, his arms crossed. The other man lifted his chin in defiance.
"I left him in good hands. There was on old herbalist in the village that knows her trade well." Aramis had been subjected to the sharp end of the woman's tongue when he'd questioned her knowledge. He sighed as he looked down, pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes. "I understand you don't want me here, but I will not sit idly by while you put yourself in danger because of my mistakes. We both know this situation is my fault."
There was a stubborn note in Aramis' voice that was unfortunately very familiar to Porthos. The big man huffed with annoyance as he remounted but didn't refute Aramis' words. You seemed willing enough to do just that four years ago. And now I have to worry about watching your back as well as my own, he thought sourly at the marksman. As there wasn't much he could do about Aramis' presence at the moment other than to endure it, he set aside his irritation and surveyed the two paths before him.
Aramis pulled up alongside him and studied the fork in the trail. "Shall we split up?"
"No," Porthos said reflexively. He might have considered it if his companion had been Athos or D'Artagnan.
"Why not?"
Because I don't trust you to keep yourself out of trouble. Porthos squinted, his focus shifting to forest around him. He could see stones that appeared to have been displaced and a couple of broken branches along the side of the trail that headed northwest. They were the best signs he could find. "We'll go that way," he said as he nudged his horse forward. Porthos didn't bother to check whether Aramis followed, but he could hear a second set of hoofbeats pounding the dirt behind him.
They rode on wordlessly through growing darkness, pressing on despite the increasingly hazardous footing below. The edges of the trail began to slope steeply as the landscape became hillier and rockier. The path itself was rough and uneven, pocked by large divots and stones that slipped loose with each step. Eventually, Porthos was forced to slow for the sake of his horse. They crested a small cliff that looked down into a shallow, heavily wooded valley, and finally, Porthos saw what he was looking for. He breathed a sigh of relief; too much further and they would have been on the wrong side of the border.
"Do you think that's them?" Aramis pulled up alongside him, eyes fixed on the tiny glowing dots of fire in a modest clearing, near what appeared to be a crumbling old building. The camp was larger than Porthos had expected.
"Don't know who else it would be," Porthos said brusquely.
"How do you want to approach this?" Bijou stepped nervously under Aramis, as if displaying the anxiety that her rider refused to show.
"You stay here. I'm going to go get D'Artagnan."
Aramis exhaled softly. "I'm not going to let you go in alone."
"Let me? I'm not asking for your permission." The anger that always seemed so close to the surface bubbled up and spilled over.
"I know you're not. But I'm here, and I can help. Please, Porthos. Give me a chance to set things right." Remorse colored Aramis' voice, but Porthos could hear the determination beneath it. It was so familiar, and Porthos would have given anything to have Aramis' fortitude bolstering him during the war. Now, the stubbornness just riled his temper.
"This mission was your chance," Porthos seethed. "And what have you done with it? You allowed D'Artagnan to be captured and then you abandoned Athos when he was hurt and needed you." The words bubbled up like poison, fed by his fear for D'Artagnan and years of suppressed bitterness. Even as they spilled from his lips, Porthos instantly regretted their unnecessary cruelty, but it was too late to stop them. They hurled towards Aramis like sharpened daggers, and even though the marksman didn't physically react, Porthos knew that they still found their target.
"I'm sorry." Silence reigned as tension hung heavy in the air between them. "Perhaps this was a mistake," Aramis murmured resignedly. Porthos didn't know exactly what the marksman was referring to, but somehow it didn't matter much. The sudden surrender made him more livid than anything else.
"Perhaps it was," Porthos snapped. "Stay. Here."
Porthos kicked at his mount and thundered recklessly down the sloping path, leaving Aramis behind. Underneath the aggravation, something else was percolating, and it felt a bit like disappointment. Porthos was aware that he'd changed in Aramis' absence, and he wasn't certain that it was for the better.
Hi all! Thanks so much for the comments and interest, it is very much appreciated.
I just wanted to clarify a point that seems to have caused a bit of confusion - I do realize that Aramis has missed shots before the moment I mentioned in the previous chapter, which...of course! No one has a 100% success rate, not even our amazing marksman. :) And I also realize that he made other shots just fine in the episode. To me, the most important part of that particular scene was the fact that he turns his head away from the target and closes his eyes while firing, which seemed like a big no-no, the sort of mistake a rookie would make (but who knows, I've never fired a gun). So yes, while this particular story hinges on another missed shot, it will hopefully focus more on how difficult it must have been to return to a physically demanding, high stakes, life-or-death job after a four year absence, and where Aramis now fits within this new group dynamic. IMHO, the relationships between the four men in S3 never recaptured the vibe of the first two seasons, especially where Aramis was concerned. This is my way of coping and trying to figure out why. :) Hope that helps! (Sorry this A/N is practically longer than the chapter itself.)
Thank you for reading!