Summary: "I admit, this will be particularly enjoyable, because this one is special." Rochefort pulled a dagger out of his belt and toyed with it. "But he won't be the last. Everyone you love, every girl you've ever been seen flirting with, every witless Musketeer I can lay my hands on, I will drag them before you and you will watch them die."
Author's Notes: Now, Aramis has not been favorite lately. Or...ever, but that is beside the point. I have not had much patience with him, but a reviewer, Deana, made a comment about how scared Aramis must have been in the dungeon during "Trial and Punishment". And it inspired me a bit.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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"Where's Porthos?" Aramis was glad that his voice wasn't shaking as badly as the rest of him.
"Off to find some breakfast," said d'Artagnan, frowning. "What's wrong?"
Aramis spun around, searching. Musketeers were rising all over the clearing, just off of the road. Men waking and packing and searching out food before another long day of travel.
Traveling to war.
He remembered now.
Leaving the monastery, rejoining the Musketeers, leaving Paris.
Trying to find his balance again.
The nightmare clung to him.
A loud, rumbling chuckle caught his attention and it drew him like a tether. Through campfires and the morning bustle.
A glimpse of dark curls and it took everything he had not to break into a run.
Perhaps it was childish, but he needed to see Porthos. See him alive and breathing.
Porthos was sitting on a fallen log, laughing at something someone had said. He looked up and caught Aramis' eye, his grin softened.
Aramis faltered.
It hurt.
How did he still deserve that smile?
Porthos must have seen something on his face, because he was rising, moving toward him, brow furrowed.
"Aramis?" he asked, low and strong. Not like the dream. Not like the dream. "What's wrong?" Aramis cleared his throat and gave Porthos his best smile.
"Not a thing, just looking for you." The smile must have failed miserably, because Porthos' frown only grew. Aramis reached out and gripped Porthos' shoulder. Solid and real.
"You can tell me," said Porthos. "You always could."
He meant so much more than this morning and this nightmare and this fear.
"A dream," Aramis admitted finally. "Nothing more. It was foolish." Porthos studied him a moment and the frown eased as he slung an arm around Aramis' shoulders.
"Then let's eat," he said. His voice was light, but his grip was stronger than necessary and Aramis was eternally grateful for it.
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The river was fast and rough, due to recent autumn rains. Fifty yards or more across, it danced and sparkled in the noonday sun. The bridge over it was less spectacular.
"Not the finest example of French road and bridge upkeep," said Athos, as he eyed the bridge skeptically.
"Do you think it will hold?" asked d'Artagnan.
"For normal traffic? Probably. It's the weight of a regiment laden for war that worries me."
"Is there another way?"
"To find another route would cost us too much time," answered Athos.
"Well, let's take a look," said Aramis cheerfully and he nudged his horse out onto the bridge. Old stone and wood seemed solid enough as he rode the entire length of the span. "It looks alright to me," he said, returning to the others. "No obvious rot or weakness. We might spread everyone out a bit, just to make sure. Take the wagons over one at a time."
"Let everyone know," commanded Athos. "Slow and easy, no bunching. Wagons last."
Over the next hour, the Musketeers moved over the bridge. Aramis pulled his horse up next to Athos' to watch the last wagon come over.
"We've lost time," said Athos softly. "No time for a break here, we will press on until nightfall."
"Yes, Captain," answered Aramis, loving the way the title made Athos glare. He turned his horse to spread the order when a thunk and a shout drew his attention. He looked back as the remaining wagon came to a stop at the center of the bridge. A last few Musketeers grouped around a wheel, pulling. Porthos, bringing up the rear, swung down from his horse to lend his considerable strength.
As Aramis watched, one of the wooden beams that spanned the stone supports broke, fell, and was quickly swept downriver.
And then another.
The wagon dipped at one corner, then listed to one side.
Another plank of wood fell.
"The boards are giving way," whispered Aramis. "The boards are giving way!" he repeated, shouting. "Off the bridge, quickly!" He leapt to the ground, running for the edge of the bridge. "Porthos! Run!"
Porthos unhitched the horses from the wagon, slapping them to action with a yell. Everyone left on the bridge turned and ran for shore.
They made headway until there was a crack of sound, like thunder.
Aramis watched, breathless, as Porthos stumbled.
The bridge shifted. It lurched to one side and then began to crumble.
Among the noise of crushing stone and splitting wood, men yelled and horses screamed. The Musketeers could only watch in horror as the center of bridge collapsed.
Water splashed and surged as men, horses, and the wagon tumbled into the rushing river.
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Aramis was distantly aware of Athos' voice, shouting order behind him. Everyone has sprung into action, lining the bank of the river, pulling men and supplies out of the rushing waters.
He didn't see Porthos.
Aramis scanned the water, the river's edge. Carefully, he ventured out onto the span of bridge that remained standing. He thought he might have heard Athos shout his name, but he ignored it and kept moving, kept searching, his heart in his throat.
At the edge precarious edge of what was left of the bridge, he looked down at the wreckage and dropped to his knees. Porthos was mostly submerged in the middle of a mass of stone and wood and water, about six feet below.
"Porthos!"
The big man looked up while he scrabbled for a hold on the timber that crisscrossed his body. Aramis flattened out on his stomach and reached down.
"Come on, Porthos! Grab my hand!" Effort contorted his face, but Porthos didn't move any closer. "Come on!"
"Can't." He could barely hear Porthos over the water and the shouts of men in the river and on shore.
"I can't reach you," said Aramis
I can't reach you.
And Aramis was back in the nightmare.
It wasn't blood, it was water.
The water swirled around Porthos, pushing him down, waves coming up and over the newly created stone obstacle, threatening to submerge him. His grip was slipping.
Aramis couldn't get to him.
"Porthos," he yelled, fighting the panic. "You have to try."
His best friend giving up.
Aramis was failing him all over again.
The stone rubble shifted in the current and Porthos slipped further under the water.
He desperately tore at the buckles of his doublet, ripping it off and throwing it aside.
"Aramis! Don't-" Porthos' shout was cut off by a rush of water.
He would get to Porthos.
This time, he'd be there.
It was just a little distance
Porthos shook away the deluge. "Don't! 'M trapped!"
Aramis pulled up short of his planned jump.
The broken timbers.
The jumbled stone.
If he jumped down to the pile of wreckage in and under the water, who knew how it would move. He might fall into the river or send Porthos beneath the surface.
His hands clenched and he pushed the dream away.
"Rope!" bellowed Aramis as loudly as he could. "I need rope here!"
Out of the activity and confusion on the river's bank, d'Artagnan flew, a coil of rope thrown over a shoulder.
"D'Artagnan is coming. You hold on. We'll lift some of that off. It's going to be alright."
Porthos gave him a tight smile that became a grimace.
Aramis barely looked up as d'Artagnan sprinted to his side.
"He caught in the rubble. We need to get it off of him."
"You were going to jump," stated D'Artagnan as he quickly uncoiled the rope.
"I still will, if this doesn't work," retorted Aramis. "We're going to toss the rope down," he shouted, raising his voice over the sound of the water.
Porthos nodded. He caught the end on the first try, looped the rope around a beam of wood and tied it. He shook water from his face, sputtering, and gave a weak signal that he was ready.
Aramis and d'Artagnan heaved on the rope. The cord bit into Aramis' hands through his gloves and he pulled harder when nothing happened. D'Artagnan gave a growl of effort as slowly, painfully, the wooden beam shifted.
Rock fell away as the beam rose and Pothos shoved. As the rubble was displaced and the river swirled in, Porthos slipped under the water. The stones tumbled and sank and settled.
They waited as the river ran and changed and didn't stop.
Wooden beams floated away.
Porthos didn't resurface.
Aramis stared at the place he'd disappeared.
Nothing.
The nightmare, the fear, clawed at him.
Seconds became years.
Lifetimes.
Not again.
The only movement was the water.
Flowing.
Rippling.
Relentless.
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