Title: The Details
Fandom: The Musketeers, BBC
Author: gaelicspirit
Characters: d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, OCs – GEN
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line; I tend to work familiar quotes in where I can.
Summary: Set S1, directly after Episode 8, The Challenge. Each man has his demons. Facing them separates the brotherhood; overcoming them takes a united front.
Day Three: The Road
Porthos hadn't been in the courtyard when they rode out the next morning.
Not that Aramis needed to see his friend before departing, but…he had hoped. Things hadn't been left easy between them. Had Porthos been there to see them off, Aramis would have been reassured that his friend bore no hurt from his parting, especially as it might appear to Porthos that he was putting this journey above any of his friend's concerns.
Which, he had to admit, he was. But that didn't mean he wasn't torn about it.
In the last five years, there had been very little Aramis had done for the Musketeers that hadn't included Porthos. They simply worked well together, reading each other's signals, accepting each other's limitations, covering for each other's fears. There was an understanding they shared that Aramis had not found with another person in his life since he'd left his father's home.
Traveling with d'Artagnan made logical sense – and was apparently the only way his current commanding officer would approve of this journey – but he felt the lack, not having the steady presence of Porthos at his side. Athos' parting words had been to simply keep an eye on their youngest, noting that all may not be well in Gascony. Aramis had nodded his acquiescence, wondering at that last missive.
Clearly all was not well: a mad man had recently decimated a farming community.
Athos had been a tad overprotective of d'Artagnan since the lad first infiltrated their brotherhood, but this additional warning seemed a bit much. Aramis hoped they could each quickly complete their tasks, settle their consciences, and return to what had become home these past years.
The chill of dawn burned off as they breached the outer limits of Paris, heading out into the countryside. Free of the confines of the city, the air seemed to grow lighter, breathing easier, and the sunlight cleaner. He eased into the canter, keeping abreast with d'Artagnan, who rode as though he'd been born on horseback, and enjoying the feel of the wind in his face.
Aramis was reminded of the last time they followed this path: d'Artagnan had been seriously injured and the three of them battered by the toil of overcoming Red Guard disguised as bandits. But they had returned, and Aramis attribute it to their unity. Which only ended up causing him to feel the lack of his friends' presence all the more.
They continued in silence for several hours, making good time and separating themselves from the cloying harness of Paris, the King, and the duties of the Musketeers. To rest their horses, they periodically drew to a walk before heading off again. As the sun crested a sky so brilliant blue it hurt to look at it too long, Aramis brought a hunk of break from his satchel, nodding to d'Artagnan to do the same. They ate on horseback, looking to make Toulouse in two days' time.
As they rode and ate, he glanced askance at d'Artagnan, noting the set of the young man's jaw, the shadows clinging to the corners of his eyes. He didn't envy the lad's journey. His own would be difficult, but manageable. It was simply his duty to perform after Marsac—
Aramis took a breath, purposefully turning his mind from such thoughts. Savoy was long ago; he'd learned the truth and had behaved as a soldier. He'd forgiven his Captain, his friend, and had moved on. Nothing good could come of lingering thoughts in such a state.
"So," he spoke up, needing to fill the suddenly heavy silence. d'Artagnan started at the unexpected sound of his voice, blinking and glancing his way. "Barely a day after becoming a Musketeer and you're on the road to open old wounds. Some people would need a bit of time between one and the other."
"I have no intention of opening old wounds," d'Artagnan shot back, his voice husky with memory.
"Really," Aramis drawled. "You don't imagine that might happen, returning to your home for the first time since you departed?"
d'Artagnan glanced over, adjusting his seat slightly, the dark blue of his heavy travel cloak shifting free of his saddle. "You're one to talk," he accused. "What was that Porthos was saying yesterday? How are you not troubled about visiting Marsac's home?"
"Ah, deflection," Aramis nodded. "An apt tactic, were you not sparing with a master. What do you expect to find when you reach Lupiac?" Aramis pressed, having seen the wound in d'Artagnan's eyes.
The healer in him sought to remove the poison and keep it from festering; the friend in him knew it would take a fair amount of trust for d'Artagnan to release such pain.
d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, then looked away. "I don't know."
Aramis tilted his head at that. The lad's voice had a quality unique among the four of them: by pitching it just right, d'Artagnan was able to cut through clutter or erect an effective shield. It was soft, rich, both lyrical and dangerous and one could never be quite sure how close to the surface his true emotion lay.
"What are you hoping to find?" Aramis asked, sincerity tempering his tone.
"Answers," d'Artagnan sighed.
Aramis rode quietly beside his young friend, processing what he knew of d'Artagnan's past – of d'Artagnan himself. It struck him, suddenly, that all he could truly say for certain was that the lad's father had been murdered before his eyes and he'd grown up on a farm. It wasn't much to say for someone who had fought and bled at his side this past year.
"d'Artagnan," he started. "Have I ever told you about the last time I visited my own family home?"
Looking over with surprise, d'Artagnan shook his head.
"No, I thought not."
Aramis slouched a bit in his saddle and swung his right leg across the pommel, resting his elbow on his bent knee. He'd tied his reins in a knot and let them hang on the horse's neck, trusting his mount to keep to the path as he'd done a thousand times before.
"There was a time I wanted to be an abbé, as you know, but certain…shall we say, proclivities, prevented me from every truly committing to the order."
d'Artagnan rode silently, his head canted sideways as he listened.
"Several years before I was commissioned into the Musketeers, circumstances caused me to take my leave from my family home outside of Paris. My dear mother had been taken by sickness when I was a boy, my older brother and younger sister had married well. That left just my father." Aramis lifted his chin, remembering. "The day of my departure, he called me into his study and said, René—" he tipped his head toward d'Artagnan with a conspirator's wink, "—he always called me René. René, he said, you will have many opportunities to bring shame to yourself and your family. Choose wisely."
"Choose wisely?" d'Artagnan repeated, drawing his head back. "That was it?"
Aramis nodded, his eyebrows fleeing to his hairline as he sighed. "He was an enigmatic man of few words."
"They could have at least been words that helped you."
"Ah, but they did, you see," Aramis corrected him. "Each time I've slipped while on my path as a Musketeer, I've thought of those words and wondered if this was the choice that would bring shame to myself and my family, or if there was still one more opportunity to be had." He shrugged, lifting the corner of his mouth in a grin. "Since I never really know, I simply have to keep trying."
d'Artagnan returned his grin and shook his head. "Is any of that actually true?"
"Well, I did consider life as an abbé."
"You," d'Artagnan's grin widened. "A priest."
"I can be quite pious," Aramis returned. "I have been told by many women that I'm quite skilled on my knees."
At that, d'Artagnan laughed outright and Aramis decided to take it easy on pushing the lad for answers as to what could be waiting for him in Gascony. They still had another day's ride to Toulouse and he preferred to not have two friends out of sorts with him if he could help it. As they continued down the road, Aramis shifted his leg back into the stirrup preparing to pick up the pace once more. He could see a copse of trees on the lee side of a curve in the road, casting shadows across their path.
Just then d'Artagnan called out, pointing ahead of them. A brace of pheasants were crossing the road not fifty yards away.
"Hungry?" d'Artagnan asked.
"You catch them, I'll cook them," Aramis offered.
Before he could say another word, d'Artagnan had kicked his horse into a run. Aramis let him get several strides ahead before he followed. He saw d'Artagnan draw his harquebus just as he turned the curve in the path toward the trees and disappeared from sight. What followed was a terrifying cacophony that had Aramis urging his horse forward.
The shot from d'Artagnan's harquebus was followed by a loud crack and the sound of his friend crying out just before a loud splash. Aramis pulled his horse to a stop next to where d'Artagnan's nervous mount danced before a large tree limb that had fallen across the road, alarmed to find the saddle empty. Catching the dark horse's reins, he looked around hurriedly for any sign of his friend, spying instead only the body of the bird. He dismounted, tying the horses to the tree limb.
"d'Artagnan!"
"Here," came the sullen, terse reply.
Aramis moved around the limb to see his young friend crawling out of a shallow creek, holding one arm against is chest. His dark hair was soaked and hanging in his face and he was muttering something about there being a bloody fucking branch in the bloody fucking road. Once he reached the bank, pulling his boots from the muck with a wet, sucking sound, Aramis crouched down near him, working to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.
"Well," he started, "looks as though you got the bird."
d'Artagnan peered up at him through a curtain of wet hair. "You're cooking the damn thing."
Aramis felt the amusement edge up beyond his control and he dropped his head back and laughed.
"Go on," d'Artagnan said, waving a hand at him. "Get it out of your system."
"You're quite the sight, my friend."
d'Artagnan glared past Aramis toward his mount. "No carrots for you tonight," he told the animal, then frowned. "Aramis, will you check his legs? He hit that limb rather hard."
Aramis pushed to his feet and moved over toward d'Artagnan's still-nervous mount. Running his hands down each leg, then picking up to check the hooves, Aramis nodded reassuringly.
"He's intact. No harm done."
d'Artagnan exhaled in relief, slumping a bit on the muddy bank. Aramis reached down and grabbed d'Artagnan's hand, pulling him to his feet, but stopping with concern as d'Artagnan gasped in pain.
"What is it?"
"Wrenched my shoulder," d'Artagnan replied.
Aramis frowned. "This is as good a place to stop for the day as any," he declared. "Let me see if you've done any real damage."
Muttering unintelligibly, d'Artagnan made his way toward the offending tree limb, his boots making squelching noises as he moved. Dripping, one arm hanging at his side, the other curled protectively against his chest, he stood completely still, staring at the tree limb as though not sure what was to happen next.
"Sit," Aramis ordered.
As if mentally ordering his knees to bend, d'Artagnan sank stiffly to the surface of the tree limb, bracing himself upright. Aramis stood in front of him, vision drawn to the lad's shoulders. It only took him a moment to see what the problem was, and he was fairly certain he was about to make d'Artagnan's already bad day turn much worse.
"What?" d'Artagnan muttered, his voice low and wary. He looked up at Aramis, blinking water from his lashes. "You look like you're having an epiphany and I don't like it."
"Yes, well. It appears you've managed to move your shoulder a bit out of socket."
d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes, glancing back at his mount. "I didn't."
"I must say I've not seen you come off a horse quite so easily before," Aramis commented, setting his weapons belt and doublet aside to allow for easier movement. He approached d'Artagnan. "Were you distracted?"
"By the pheasant," d'Artagnan reminded him.
Aramis shook his head, helping d'Artagnan undo the toggles that held his leather doublet and sleeves in place. With practiced ease he rolled the garment from d'Artagnan's sore shoulder, then helped him slip it off his other arm.
"I have seen you stay seated in a firefight, one hand holding a harquebus, the other a rapier. A brace of pheasants is nothing compared to that skill."
Aramis watched as d'Artagnan fumbled with the laces on his shirt and took pity on the lad, moving his hands aside so as to help him remove the soaked garment as well. Aramis set the sopping cloth aside, exposing d'Artagnan's bare chest to the elements, the water droplets skimming across the goose bumps covering his flesh. The unsightly knot of d'Artagnan's shoulder joint caused Aramis to grimace. He gently probed the muscles surrounding the knot and d'Artagnan flinched away.
"Easy," Aramis murmured, resting the flat of his hand on d'Artagnan's back as if reassuring a spooked horse. "What's on your mind, my friend?"
Holding himself still, d'Artagnan sighed, the exhale capturing what sounded like years of if onlys and a lifetime of lost hope.
"Old wounds," he replied finally.
Aramis felt the honesty in those heavy words fall between them like a stone. Now was not the time to press the issue, but Athos had been right when he'd said d'Artagnan needed watching. There was much more behind those dark eyes than the lad was willingly exposing.
"You can't continue with that shoulder like this," Aramis told him. He shifted so that he faced d'Artagnan's side, then gently pressed his hands flat to either side of the lad's shoulder. d'Artagnan's skin was damp and chilled and Aramis felt a slight tremor running through the muscles there.
"I'm going to put it back in place, but it will hurt."
"I'm ready."
"Grab hold of something," Aramis ordered, watching as d'Artagnan reached out and gripped one of the stunted, protruding branches from the fallen limb that had causes the ruckus in the first place.
Without warning, Aramis gave his hands a sharp twist, pushing the joint back into place. d'Artagnan's cry of pain was bitten off and Aramis heard air hammering out through gritted teeth. The branch d'Artagnan had grasped to balance himself snapped and his dark head bent forward. Aramis shifted so that his hip blocked further forward motion and held still as d'Artagnan brought his breathing under control.
Reassured that the lad wasn't going to pass out on him, Aramis gave d'Artagnan's wet hair a pat.
"There, now," he said watching the muscle along d'Artagnan's jaw bounce reflexively. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
d'Artagnan glared up at him, but remained silent. Aramis tilted d'Artagnan to the side to make sure another wound wasn't lingering.
"What's this?" he asked when he saw the cut along the back of d'Artagnan's ribs. It wasn't bleeding, but looked a bit irritated.
"It's nothing," d'Artagnan replied, but didn't pull away. "From LeBarge, during the fight. It will heal."
Aramis nodded, brows furrowed, replaying the fight and remembering d'Artagnan rolling off the edge of LeBarge's sword, stumbling with the impact. They hadn't thought much of it at the time, but perhaps they'd been remiss in that assumption.
"If it begins to trouble you, make sure to let me know," Aramis replied.
d'Artagnan simply nodded and pushed himself to a wavering stance. Aramis waited until he was balanced and watched as the young Gascon made his way toward his horse. By the time he'd changed from his wet clothes to the only spare dry ones he'd brought with him, Aramis had seen to the horses, set a fire up, put a pot of creek water to boil, and was cleaning the bird.
Pausing next to where Aramis had deposited his doublet and pauldron on the rocks next to the fire, d'Artagnan used one hand to spread the leathers out to dry. He'd managed to get his spare shirt over his head, but hadn't slipped his sore arm through the sleeve or tucked it into his breeches.
With one eye on d'Artagnan's stilted movements, Aramis set the bird on a spit above the fire. Then retrieved his bags from where he'd propped up their saddles. Opening a pouch from his saddle bags, he dumped a packet of herbs into the now-boiling water and then moved over next to d'Artagnan. The lad was pale, his mouth rigid with obvious discomfort, but he was moving easily enough.
"I wouldn't move that shoulder much tonight if I were you. Want some help?" He nodded toward the loose sleeve.
With a look of irritation at his own arm, d'Artagnan nodded and allowed Aramis to help him slide the shirt on the rest of the way.
"Porthos dislocated his shoulder once," Aramis said, offering d'Artagnan an escape from the berating he was no doubt giving himself. "Much worse than this. His arm was practically at the front of his chest."
"Aramis, please," d'Artagnan muttered, looking slightly green at the description.
"Sorry," Aramis lifted a hand and made his way back around the fire to where he'd set their plates and utensils. "Just saying you're not the first."
"How'd it happen to him?" d'Artagnan asked, then smirked slightly in reaction to Aramis' raised eyebrow. "Wait, I think I know. Rooftops?"
"He wasn't always able to clear the distances between buildings," Aramis shrugged, stirring the pot of water.
"So he's told me," d'Artagnan replied.
Aramis reached into the pot of water and scooped out a mug full of the simmering liquid. "Drink this."
"Is it that foul-smelling concoction you've given me before?" d'Artagnan asked warily.
"Yes," Aramis replied, arching a brow. "And if you didn't get yourself into quite so many scrapes I wouldn't have to give it to you."
Grumbling, d'Artagnan accepted the mug, then settled back against the tree limb as they waited for their food to cook.
"Who taught you about medicines and herbs and such if your mother died when you were a boy?" d'Artagnan asked suddenly.
Aramis tilted his head at that. No one had ever inquired before. It had simply been something about him they accepted, like Athos' stoicism and Porthos' raucousness.
"There was a Jesuit priest near our home," Aramis told him, watching the fire, remembering. "He had books on the subject written in various languages – Latin, Spanish, even runes."
"The language of the Celts?"
Aramis nodded. "Much of the herbal remedies came from druid practices."
"Isn't that…," d'Artagnan winced as he shifted positions. "Pagan?"
"Perhaps," Aramis conceded. "If anyone had caught him, there would no doubt have been trouble. He simply claimed his remedies were from God and when they worked, no one questioned it."
"Is that how you learned Spanish?" d'Artagnan asked, cupping the elbow of his sore arm with his opposite hand, holding himself still.
"It is why I learned. Not how I learned." Aramis answered, without offering further information.
d'Artagnan seemed to accept this as an end to the latest barrage of questions and quietly sipped the mug of hot, herbal liquid Aramis had provided. Night drew close around them, sending the thicket they'd camped within into shadow before the rest of the world saw the last of the sun. When the pheasant was cooked, they tore the meat from the spit and ate greedily.
"I must say," Aramis commented around a mouthful, "this is the best tasting bird any of my friends has ever landed on."
"I didn't land on it. I shot it," d'Artagnan protested.
Aramis grinned. "I cleaned this bird. There wasn't one bit of lead in the thing."
d'Artagnan looked away, chewing.
"You landed on it."
"I…may have scared it to death," d'Artagnan conceded.
At that, Aramis cackled. "You certainly have a knack for that, I'll grant you. I believe you give Athos daily heart attacks."
"It's good for him," d'Artagnan muttered with a wry smile. "Interrupts the brooding."
Aramis tipped a pheasant leg toward him in a salute of agreement. "He has been especially…ominous lately."
"You noticed that, too?" d'Artagnan asked with a frown. "Thought I was being overly sensitive."
"Any idea of the cause?"
d'Artagnan glanced away. "No," he replied, his voice a gruff disguise of the truth.
Aramis frowned, wondering if the lad knew and refused to divulge, or if he were troubled that Athos was keeping something from all of them.
"Would he have let you go?" d'Artagnan asked suddenly.
"Let me go where?"
Using a piece of pheasant meat to gesture, d'Artagnan pointed down the road. "To Toulouse. Alone. If I hadn't come into the office yesterday, would he have let you go?"
Aramis took a breath. "Yes."
"Then why—"
"He was protecting you, d'Artagnan. You're important to him."
Sullenly, d'Artagnan stared into the flames as he finished his meal. The firelight reflected on his angled features, turning his dark eyes into depthless pits, his cheekbones tossing shadows.
"It takes quite a bit for Athos to admit when he cares about something," Aramis informed him. "And he doesn't always do so with words."
"He has more faith in you," d'Artagnan pointed out.
"Well," Aramis shrugged, stretching his feet out before him, parallel to the fire. "I've earned it."
d'Artagnan glanced at him.
"How long?"
"Until what?" Aramis asked.
"Until he trusts me as he does you and Porthos?"
Aramis wiped the pheasant grease from his lips with the back of his hand, then crossed his arms over his chest. "It isn't about trust, d'Artagnan. It's simply time. And experience. And," he lifted a shoulder, staring at the fire, thinking, remembering, "…not dying."
He hadn't realized how hollow his voice had become, or how closely d'Artagnan was now watching him. He fell into memory, lost to the wretched, helpless feeling of watching the light leave a brother's eyes. He couldn't help but think of Marsac, of the shift in weight as life fled and the man grew heavier in his arms.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, not quite fully aware that his words were audible, the void around him seeming to swallow the sound, "it's easier to say you don't care than to explain all the reasons why you do."
"Aramis," d'Artagnan's volume matched his own, as if worried he'd startle Aramis if he spoke up too loudly. "If you want, I'll go with you to Marsac's home. You don't have to do that alone."
Aramis brought his eyes up, regarding the young man before him, seeing an age to his eyes that he rarely took time to notice. He smiled, his lips trembling slightly, wanting to cave with the effort. d'Artagnan was traveling back to his devastated home to find who he'd known from his youth was alive or dead, and he was offering to spare Aramis the burden of solitude in his own journey.
"You're a good man, Charles d'Artagnan," Aramis replied. d'Artagnan looked away. "And I thank you for the offer," Aramis pulled himself forcibly free of the melancholy he could feel tugging at him, "but this is something I must do."
They took turns keeping watch that night, d'Artagnan taking the first round. His shoulder ached too much for him to get comfortable, he claimed, so Aramis prepared him some medicine that he knew would help take the edge off, though it would take a bit to kick in.
Aramis' dreams were a tangled vista of the past several days, and because his mind was perhaps his worst enemy, he found images of Porthos transposed with Marsac. He dreamed that he held his friend in his arms, feeling the warmth of blood spread across the big man's chest, flooding the air with a coppery tang, spilling over an ineffective grip as Aramis tried to stem the flow.
He knew he was calling out, shouting, begging Porthos not to succumb, but he could hear nothing. It was as though he'd been struck deaf. The moment Porthos gave way to death's dominion, Aramis watched his friend's dark eyes leech of color, turning white and horrific as they stared up at him, sightless and terrifying.
He woke with a strangled cry, his jacket twisted about him, sweat matting his hair to the back of his neck, the feeling of Porthos dying in his arms all too real. d'Artagnan was crouched over him, concern written in the lines framing his eyes, a hand resting at Aramis' shoulder where he'd shaken the man awake.
Waving off his young friend's worry, Aramis got up, went to the creek to splash water on his face and took up his watch. It had been some time since he'd had such a vivid dream. Logically he knew it stemmed from a combination of the situation where he was going and the one he came from, but logic served no purpose when the night was heavy and thick and there was nothing tangible to reassure him that what he'd seen wasn't true.
d'Artagnan watched him warily for a bit as he took his spot on the bed roll next to the fire. Long enough that Aramis gathered the shouting he couldn't hear in his dream had been more audible than he'd originally thought. Gruffly, he told the young man to go to sleep; they had a long ride ahead of them.
He didn't like the way d'Artagnan's eyes seemed to strip away all protective walls he spent so much effort building.
It wasn't long before he realized that neither of them had a good relationship with sleep. d'Artagnan lay on his side, off his sore shoulder. His body was tense; Aramis could see lines of discomfort – if not outright pain – in the way he held his arm against his chest, putting his back to the fallen limb they camped beside so that he didn't roll.
As Aramis hoped, the medicine he'd provided allowed the young Musketeer to drift into sleep, but d'Artagnan's own dreams seemed to grip him tightly, sending his body into a tense arch as though he were bracing for a blow that never came. Aramis poked at the glowing coals of the fire as d'Artagnan twisted roughly, grinding his teeth loud enough Aramis heard it from his perch.
"Can't see him…," he whispered, though Aramis had to wonder if it was actually a scream. "Gérard, can't see his face…."
Aramis looked up, surprised. It was the same name that Athos had asked d'Artagnan about back at Treville's office. Just as he reached over to wake d'Artagnan and spare him further imagined torment, the young Musketeer relaxed, the dream having apparently released him and offering him the chance to breathe freely, of which Aramis was grateful.
He knew intimately what it was like to have nightmares feel too real to be simply dreams. He'd felt the pain of losing himself to oblivion only to reclaim his truth in the harsh light of day. He'd seen the possibilities cloaked by night lost to the moment when duty stood in the path of desire. He watched d'Artagnan following that same path, walking in the footsteps of men he trusted.
And it broke a piece of his heart.
11
