The bottle was nearly empty.
His stomach churned, gurgled and clenched around the slosh of wine he had consumed with no food to soak it up. The long hours in the saddle had only been disrupted to let his horse rest along the way, food had been too far from his thoughts, thoughts that he was still trying to untangle even after the day spent in the tavern. Aramis stared at the letter he had set on the table and wondered how the hell he had ended up here...
"Look to your left; now your right. A Musketeer is never alone Brujon. Remember that."
...but he had not been a Musketeer for the longest time. Had given up that honour and then fooled himself into thinking that he could win it back. Had tried to fit into a space where there was none, had played the part and pretended his heart out but the damage was too much, the wound too old, the scar too hard. Aramis' poured the last of the wine and upending the bottle he shook it slightly to coax out the last drop...
"It's good to see you again my friend. It's been too long."
"That wasn't my choice."
...no it was his; he could not blame them for the way they reacted. He had no right to come looking for the world he had left behind. He was the one who had walked away, it all started with his decision, to sleep with the Queen, to keep it a secret, and then to walk away, flounder down the path in search of ways to keep safe those he held dear. And yet it was him who had brought them in the line of fire in the first place and he had broken what had held them together...
"We were comrades. I never had to worry what was behind me because you – you had my back."
...reaching out he picked up the sealed envelope. He knew how he had ended up here where he belonged, in a place he deserved; it was a fool's hope that had made him follow the Musketeers back to Paris. Aramis had dared to believe in it when he should have known better. There was nothing to do but move on, or try to. He glanced once at the glass he had filled and stood up, left that one full and alone at the table for the absent friends he had no way to return to.
Stepping out into the aging night, he tucked the letter in his belt and ignored the way the world shivered just a little in his gaze. Whether it was from lack of sleep, exhaustion or excess of wine he could not tell. Breathing to calm the swirling wine his gut Aramis turned to the door away to the side of the Inn. Briefly he wondered if he should come back in the morning but ignored the thought and knocked on the door.
"Madame Pascal," he bowed slightly before the woman who opened the door, "we meet yet again,"
"Had a feelin' you would turn up on m'doorstep sooner or later," she said.
"It is good to see you too,"
She stepped away from the door in a silent invitation to enter and went in search of her lantern. And Aramis smirked lightly; he could probably find his way to the cellar with his eyes closed. As it was she still lit his way down and offered him the lantern to take to the storage.
"Any more Ombres passed through here?" he asked.
Watched the old face contort in a frown as he stepped further down the ladder.
"Haven't met any," her voice filtered down in the cool metallic air of the storage compound, "but I've heard some have stopped by the house this evening. Didn't come to the Inn either but someone said they'd been trapping rabbits in the forest."
Aramis picked up a pistol, chose it from the many in the barrel and tested its weight before holding it out and checking its balance. It felt decent enough and he placed it in his belt, plucked off the nearest sword too and looked for another good pistol.
"How many?" he called.
"Don't know,"
Aramis decided he would come later to fill up for the people under his command and taking what he needed he climbed out of the storeroom. Madame Pascal saw him to the door and closed it after him. With the comfort of the weapons in his belt he went to collect his horse; asked the stable-hand to not saddle the animal and taking the reins from the man led the animal down the street, the sloshing in his stomach wouldn't allow him to mount the horse and he hadn't the strength to unsaddle the animal all over again once he reached the house.
There was a heaviness settling in his bones, making each footfall an effort. Aramis trudged along and forced his mind to think ahead, searched for reserves he would need for the encounter with this new lot Treville had brought for him. He hoped that this one was like the last one and a grimace pulled at his features at the thought of the two men he had lost from that handful.
Swallowing back the sour taste that rose to his mouth Aramis stopped in his tracks and leaned against his horse's flank. There was an unseen weight bearing down on him and closing his eyes he waited for the sinking feeling beneath his feet to stop...
"What's the vital thing to remember in a duel?"
"Honour?"
"Not getting killed. By biting, kicking, gouging, it's all good."
"I was raised to fight like a gentleman."
"Were you raised to die young?"
...because this time there was not even the solace of watching over his brothers from afar, just a loss he would carry to the bitter end. With a wince Aramis forced himself away from the patient animal and patted its neck. Refused to think of the hollow pain that reverberated through him, ringing in the empty spaces of his heart where there was no honour left, no reason, no purpose...
"A musket for hire with thieves for company and one eye on the door."
...one step after another.
To move on ahead, to turn his back on what he had left behind and walk; walk away as far as he could and hope that he could somehow leave his past behind him. Aramis looked up when his horse neighed softly, tossed its mane in irritation when the man looked back over his shoulder. He murmured an apology to the animal for dragging it along as he had been doing. Scratching at the animal's forehead he shook his head slightly, it seemed this was what he did, dragged along those at his side into trouble.
Turning back Aramis resumed his walk down the dirt road, his steps stumbling as the earth seemed to lurch under his feet. The world swaying gently as he made his way to the house at the end of the lane. He watched his destination come closer, squinting at the muted glow that fused out from the window and counted the horses tied to the post at the front of the house. Three of them.
This was it.
And he had made his peace with it once. He should have left it to that. Should never had left Douai. He was lucky that he had succeeded in achieving what he had set out to do. He had seen his brothers safely home from war; he should have let it end there, stopped the story and repeated the glowing warm chapters of the beginning residing in his heart, recounted them to willing ears until his last breath. Should have stayed back and lived with his guilt and his hope...
"Better to die a Musketeer than to live like a dog,"
...bile rose to the back of his throat again and Aramis coughed. Stumbled a few steps and bent forwards when the assault he had been holding at bay finally hit him. Coughed and gagged and brought back all the wine he had consumed and still his stomach clenched. Pulled on his insides and burned in his throat, pushing to force out every last remnant that he may be carrying.
Aramis coughed again and clutched at his middle as his stomach rebelled again and again and again.
There was nothing left in him and yet it demanded more.
A low groan slipped past his lips and he forced them shut. Swallowed back the bitter taste and straightened, locking his knees when they threatened to give away under him. Measuring his breath he swallowed a few times and cleared his throat; his lips turning up slightly when he felt a wet nose nudge at his shoulder and he turned back to his horse.
"Thank you," he said, voice coming out a little raspy, "you are too kind,"
He led his horse over to the three and found a place for it. Stopped at the threshold and adjusted his weapon's belt before reaching out to open the door. He dropped his saddle and saddlebags under the pegs by the door and turned to the room that was lit from the blaze in the fireplace, just as it had been years ago when he had first entered this house. Aramis walked further into the main room ready to meet the new faces.
And stopped in his tracks at the sight of the old.
Athos and Porthos looked up at his entrance, attention drawn from where they were sitting in the chairs by the table and d'Artagnan turned around from where he was stirring a pot over the fire. Aramis stared, eyes rounding as they traveled from one face to the other. His throat tightened, threatened to close up completely and he swallowed hard.
The door was behind him; he could turn around and leave.
Aramis let go a breath as a shiver passed through him.
Run, his mind told him, run now.
His heart agreed; it couldn't take this anymore.
He put down the ladle slowly.
Gaze not leaving the dark eyes that went over his face before shifting on to others, the shock and confusing there making the man before them look younger than his years. Stepping away from the hearth d'Artagnan stepped closer to where his friends sat and watched pain gleam in Aramis' eyes and something else too; something that looked like fear.
D'Artagnan stepped ahead, heard the creak of chairs as he friends surged to their feet and to his horror Aramis scuttled back a few steps.
"Stop," d'Artagnan raised his arms, "just stop, all of us."
He glanced at Athos and Porthos; they had noticed the retreat too and it sickened him to know that Aramis was apparently viewing them as a threat. He didn't want to imagine exactly what the man expected of them but there was no denying that Aramis was once again not at their side but across from them. With a nod d'Artagnan turned and walked back to the pot over the fireplace. Picked up the ladle and stirred the stew though it didn't need it.
"Dinner's ready," he said over his shoulder, "grab a bowl, I'm not your housemaid,"
Grumbling under his breath Porthos stomped down the corridor to where they had found the kitchen in their initial search of the house and d'Artagnan felt relieved when Athos turned away too, moving past Aramis to rummage in his saddle bag.
"I think another bottle of wine would do," he said.
D'Artagnan looked to Aramis who was still staring, a look of bewilderment mixed with uncertainty that would have been amusing if not for the unshed wetness in his eyes. He waited until the dark eyes met his gaze and motioned to his saddlebag by the wall where Aramis was still standing, looking impossibly exposed without his doublet or a cloak.
"There's bread in there," d'Artagnan said.
And turned to take the bowls and spoons and glasses that Porthos returned with; kept a watch from the corner of his eye on Aramis who stood their blinking like a child shaken awake. But it passed and d'Artagnan let go a breath he didn't know he had held back when the man knelt to grab the bread and then walked up to the table. Yet he didn't say a word as they sat to eat and stared at the bowl of rabbit stew with the wariness of a man expecting it to hop away from before him. By the intensity of his frown d'Artagnan had a feeling it just might and rolled his eyes.
"What did the poor stew ever do to you to deserve such a treatment," he asked.
Aramis looked up at him with a start and d'Artagnan grinned, it spread wider when he saw some of the rigidness melt from the shoulders of the man sitting across from him. Deciding not to point it out he turned his gaze away to Athos and told him that his horse needed a new bridle. His mind half registered the reply since it was busy congratulating itself as Aramis eased enough to raise a spoonful of stew to his mouth. His father had always said food was the best way to calm rising tempers, which was why he had insisted they wait for Aramis at the house Treville had talked about last night. And absurd as it was d'Artagnan smiled when food offered them a bit of normalcy which gave way to a comfortable silence that fell across the table, not happy but just calm enough.
It lingered still as they finished eating and d'Artagnan noticed with a frown that Aramis' glass of wine hadn't been picked up once, he had barely touched his bread and the bowl before him was more than halfway full as well. Dark eyes met his own, catching his subtle observations and d'Artagnan looked away.
Aramis lightly pushed away the bowl before him and crossed his arms on the table.
"Why are you here?" the man finally asked.
"What do you think?" Porthos countered.
"I think the Minister talked,"
"An understatement of what we were exposed to, but yes," Athos nodded, "he had a lot to share."
Aramis gave a dry chuckle as he sat back, an arm draping over the corner of the chair's backrest as he regarded the Captain sitting at his side. His smile was all sharp edges and playful smugness when he spoke next.
"He must be cursing my name for putting him in that position," he said.
"He should have allowed you to tell us that you've been –" d'Artagnan shook his head, "that you were – he shouldn't have ordered your silence,"
"It doesn't matter what you knew or didn't;" Aramis said, shrugged a shoulder as his smile turned more cutting, "I may have been in a monastery or in camps trailing the Musketeers yet it doesn't change the fact that I left you all. Nor does it change the reality that I don't belong where I once did. I left, for where shouldn't matter."
"Of course it matters," d'Artagnan said and it held all the indignation he felt.
And that was what Aramis' dark eyes pinned down with one word.
"Why?"
Aramis' gaze didn't falter, his smile remained and d'Artagnan looked away again, for some reason he couldn't find it in him to meet the dark eyes that were forcing questions in his mind he rather not think about. And yet he did, he had to wonder if Aramis had been at the monastery all these years would they still have followed him if he had walked out on them again? And why were they here anyway? Was it guilt? If it was then did that mean that they have been punishing him since he returned? He flinched as memory of the recent sword practices he had witnessed came to his mind and something akin to self-disgust stirred in him for not having stepped in when deep down he knew that things were getting out of hand in those pretend fights. Would they still feel guilty for it had they not known what Treville had told them? Were they feeling guilty of that at all?
His gaze met Porthos' and saw the same turmoil in the eyes he had learned to read so well; found it in the blue ones as well when he glanced at Athos.
"So gentlemen, the question remains. Why are you here?" Aramis asked.
And damn him for being able to read them all so well too.
His gaze fell from where he had met d'Artagnan's and onto Aramis' hand that had curled into a fist where it had remained on the table.
Porthos felt his own hands clench in his lap; he could not deny that he hadn't forgiven his friend for abandoning them, could not honestly say that there was no hint of guilt behind his thoughts that had urged him to follow the man here, guilt that had stirred only when Treville had explained the scars that his friend carried and he had actually witnessed the bruises his blows had left on the man he had once called a brother. He looked to Aramis and something chipped in him when his old friend's eyes flicked towards him the same instance, unerringly catching his gaze in a manner too familiar.
"Why did you return with us?" Porthos asked.
His own breath catching in his throat at the surprise of the question that had slipped past his lips. He could feel d'Artagnan sit up straighter, could feel Athos' eyes boring holes into him and wondered why this was the first thing he needed to know. Why was it so important to know the reasons his friend had to follow them back to Paris?
"I missed you," Aramis' voice was low, but the words didn't waver, "all of you,"
And that knocked the breath out of him.
He had not expected the honesty. The simple words for such a raw sentiment.
"Your name's Porthos? After the hero in the stories?"
"Stories? I was named after my mother's father."
"You were 'the' Porthos?"
"The Porthos. This is the Athos and the D'Artagnan."
He had been too angry, too caught up in the shock of finding Aramis again. Too bitter to face the man who had abandoned them to war. But now he couldn't help the warmth that unfurled in him, not the scorching heat of resentment that wished for the same pain upon Aramis that he had suffered by losing his friend, but a pleasant glow of home and hearth that came from the knowledge that he had been in his friend's thoughts all along. Porthos pulled in a long breath and held it, grabbed onto that feeling and let it sink.
"Why did you leave?" Athos asked, "this time; why are you here?"
Something flickered in Aramis' eyes, a flash of pain that was gone as soon as it came.
"I think I've had enough of the self-flagellation that was going around," he said, "my own included."
Porthos frowned. There was something about the choice of his friend's words that pricked at him. His frown deepened when Aramis glanced to the side and they found a rather shocked looking Athos. The Captain of the Musketeers closed his eyes as a grimace skittered across his features.
"Penance," he said.
And Porthos felt the word like a kick to his chest, his gaze darted from Athos to Aramis and he shook his head slightly. Whatever came over his face it softened the look in the Aramis' eyes who was watching them both. And then Aramis simply nodded.
"I understand," he said.
And Porthos flinched; because his friend looked like he honestly did. He would have readily faced anger, he would have taken accusations and he would have met the blame head on but the resigned look in Aramis' eyes left him feeling unbalanced. The sheer exhaustion that emanated from his old friend as he brought up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and smooth his finger and thumb over his brow stirred in Porthos something akin to what he had felt when Treville had explained his second reason to recruit Aramis. Porthos glanced at the fist on the table, he could reach out and grasp the man's forearm, could offer him – no – he looked away. Suddenly the table between them was too much of a distance, years worth of it.
"I understand I was foolish to leave for Paris with you," Aramis said, "I don't have a place among you three, why drag it out and make it painful for everyone?"
"No," d'Artagnan shook his head, "no, that's not right,"
And to Porthos' surprise their youngest laid a hand over Aramis' fist, his eyes going from him to Athos and then back at Aramis. Shaking his head he curled his hand and gripped the one beneath his. Face set in determination and chin rising in defiance.
"No," said their youngest.
And Athos was laying his hand on top d'Artagnan's. The Captain turned to look at Aramis and gave a firm nod.
"All for one," he said.
That promise, that accursed vow they hadn't voiced since the day Aramis had walked away hung in the air like an arrow flying to its mark. Porthos exhaled slowly. He reached out and placed his hand on Athos'.
"And one for all," Porthos said.
Watched as Aramis looked from them to the hands piled over his own. Brown eyes wide with a telltale gleam before he shook his head slowly. Aramis let go a breath, pulled out his hand and with the screech of his chair pushed away from the table.
He hadn't just pulled away.
He had scrambled out of his chair, shaking his head as he went.
Athos watched the man stumble slightly and throw out a hand to grasp the wall for support. His breathing fast and eyes clenched shut as he leaned against the hand pressed onto the wall. Head dipping slightly as he pursed close his lips and breathed through his nose.
Aramis' fingers curled into a fist against the wall as shook his head slowly and straightened. Pushed away from the support the wall offered and forced his breath smooth, a change swift and sure from a panicking man to one in control, the act of a man who could not afford to lose it. And Athos saw the Aramis he had seen questioning him in Saint Antoine, saw the man stepping in to calm a dispute at St. Pierre's house with an authority that he permeated though it was not sanctioned.
"You know I hate following orders."
"Then don't make me give you one."
A leader Treville had asked him to become upon their return to Paris and now he was looking at the one the Minister had succeeded in making. While he was still a soldier at heart, still looking to his superiors for orders and directions be it from the King or the Minister. But as Aramis stood firmly on his feet and looked to them with a hard smile that was nothing like the man they had known, Athos knew he was watching the Captain those three men had addressed him as. This was a man ready to make a decision, difficult though it may be and he looked ready to see it through.
"I'm honoured that you've followed me here, but our paths had long been separated and I see no way of them entwining again," he said, spread his arms out in a gesture too open to be honest, "But I hope you've got all the answers you needed,"
"All the answers we needed?" Porthos growled.
He was on his feet before Athos could stop him, his hand grasping his friend's arm to pull him to a halt only a few steps away from Aramis. His warning hold did nothing to prevent the glower from the larger Musketeer and when Athos glanced at the target of his rage there was a challenge in the younger man's eyes. It dawned on him that this was exactly what Aramis wanted, he was pushing them into reacting the way they were so that he could avoid – Athos frowned slightly – avoid what?
"You want to give us answers then tell us why you walked away from us? Why did you choose to fight alongside mercenaries instead of us?" Porthos grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him closer, gave Aramis a slight shake, "We were brother weren't we? If you were going to fight in the war why not at our side?"
Aramis grasped the wrists of the hands holding him but made no move to free himself. His smile held a touch of mockery, his eyes a hint of taunt and Athos' frown deepened. Whatever the man was thinking of doing the Captain simply knew it was not a sane move to goad Porthos, not on this matter.
"You know why I walked away," Aramis said, "You all know it very well."
"Oh yes, you made a vow. What happened to that when you were out their fighting in the war?" Porthos sneered, "Was it just for us then?"
"Yes, yes it was,"
And Athos' hand fell away from his friend as he closed his eyes even as he heard Porthos slam the man in his grasp back into a wall. Somewhere there was a screech of a chair that told him d'Artagnan had left his seat too but it was drowned out by the harsh sound of a gasping laugh that came from Aramis. Like a rustle of glass shards that were being dragged against the floor it left Athos wincing.
"I abandoned you all," Aramis chuckled drily, "I left,"
"You didn't abandon us," d'Artagnan spoke up.
Athos glanced to the younger man who had come to stand at his side and was staring at the man pinned to the wall with something almost like pleading in his eyes. D'Artagnan shook his head and laid a hand on Porthos' shoulder, gaze flicking from one man to the other.
"You didn't abandon us," he said again, "you were watching our backs the entire time,"
"Why?" Porthos demanded, "Why did you do it?"
Aramis let his head fall back against the wall with a hard thud, his gaze taking a distant look that had Athos reaching out to grip Porthos' arm again, fingers digging just a little tighter. It was a glimpse of what was brewing beneath the surface of Aramis' demeanor and the Captain's mind raced to understand it before more damage could be done.
"You were going to war," Aramis said.
The quiet tone hinted at something that was just there, just a bit out of reach. Athos let go of Porthos as he watched Aramis blink slowly, his eyes focusing back on the men before him.
"Then you could have ridden out with us when we came for you," Athos said.
"I couldn't,"
And that was the crack in the ice he had been looking for.
"Why?" he pushed.
"Wasn't safe for you all to have me at your side," Aramis said.
He let go of Porthos' wrists, his hands falling by his sides as he looked the big man in the eyes.
"My presence was a danger. I couldn't risk it," he said.
"We can take care of ourselves. You had no right to decide that for all of us," Porthos snapped.
And something shifted in Aramis' face. He wrenched free from the man's grasp and shoved him back; it did little more than to make Porthos stumble back a step and that Athos was sure it was simply from the surprise of it. Their old comrade glared at the big man and jabbed a finger in his chest, his other hand clenched in a fist at his side as the dark eyes narrowed in fury.
"You had been forced into being fugitives because of my actions, because it was your decision to stand by my side;" he glared at the Musketeer before him, "Your right to chose that gives me the bloody right to decide what I saw fit to keep you all safe!"
"You –"
"Yes I decided that and I will make that same damn decision all over again if you throw me back in that situation," Aramis growled, "when I was shackled in the dungeons you think the only ones in danger were my son and my love? You were all set in a line for the gallows, Constance was imprisoned! Lemay was beheaded. Even if you had made a liar of Rochefort the seeds of doubt were already sowed."
He stepped back from Porthos and turned away; ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls that were caught between his fingers and Athos saw fear in the dark eyes staring at the floor.
"War makes death a habit, it makes it even easier to cover up a murder," Aramis said.
"We would have protected you," said Porthos.
Aramis looked up at him and smiled, a softening in his face that was almost fond.
"I know, and I couldn't let you," he said, "besides it was not the safety of my life that made me take that decision. I was not the only one who would have been conveniently lost in the war; you three wouldn't have survived it either. Even without me there you three could still have had a target on your back. I needed to watch out for it."
And Athos suddenly remembered the massacre his friend had survived in the cold of Savoy, remembered what they had learned about it just recently, about the betrayal at the top of the command. His gaze met Aramis' and the other man shrugged a shoulder in manner bordering on helpless.
"I didn't know Adele was dead. The last I heard, she'd gone to the cardinal's country estate. I – I thought she'd made her choice."
"She did monsieur. She chose you. The cardinal said you'd understand the necessity for her death."
The dark crypt flashed in his mind as the smell of dust lingered in his memory. Athos remembered the pain on his friend's face, the cold shadows there that had suddenly made the man before him seem aged and weary.
"Suspicions and whims of those in power can get entire units of men slaughtered," Aramis said, "I had been through that once. I couldn't let it be you all this time around."
Athos flinched when Porthos suddenly reached out and swung Aramis around to face him. For a minute he was sure the Musketeer would land a hit on the man in his grasp and he could feel d'Artagnan stiffen at his side, clearly thinking the same. There was open defiance in Aramis' stance, in the hardening of his eyes as he stared at the bigger man.
And then Porthos yanked him closer, wrapped his arms around Aramis and held him.
D'Artagnan chuckled and Athos smiled.
But the tilt of his lips upwards slowed when his eyes met Aramis' over Porthos' shoulder. The younger man's arms were still at his side, rigid even, and the half of his face that was visible over the big man's shoulder was slack in shock. But the worst were his eyes; pained and wide and bordering on terrified.
This, Athos realized, was what the man had been seeking to avoid.
While they had had each other to ease the pain of one loss, Aramis had lived alone with the loss of three. He had endured being close to them while making sure he was not acknowledged; how many times had the man ensured they made it back to each other Athos wondered and realized that all those times Aramis had lived with the belief that he could not follow the path to them. A sickening feeling churned in his gut as it dawned on Athos how fragile that tentative hope must have been and how firm the resolve and the faith in his brothers behind it that had made their old friend follow them back to Paris. And that sick feeling burned in the back off his throat, making him swallow hard at the realization of how thoroughly they had shattered that, how firmly they had rebuked him.
His thoughts were confirmed when he noticed Aramis' hand coming up to create space between him and Porthos.
"Please don't," said Aramis.
Don't; please don't do this his heart begged.
Thundered in the cage of his ribs as if looking for an escape, pounded against the flesh to let it out, to let it go and let it be. His hands pressed against Porthos' chest and pushed, strength waning as a trembling started in his limbs.
"Don't," he said again.
Tried to put some distance between them.
But Porthos held him closer, the arms around him shifting to hold him just a bit tighter. And he couldn't take it. Aramis shifted slightly in the little room he had only to be pulled snug in the embrace again. His throat dried up. He couldn't take this, this constant tug and shove that had fooled him the first time around. The moments of camaraderie, the fleeting sense of brotherhood and belonging that had fed the embers of his ridiculous hope only to be met with icy glares and cold shoulders.
He cleared his throat.
"Let me go," his voice was still hoarse.
"No," Porthos murmured, "stop fighting it,"
One large hand shifted to the back of his head, tangled in his hair and pressed him closer still.
"Stop fighting us brother,"
But he wasn't their brother, hadn't been their brother for years now. Aramis wriggled and pushed back, cursed the sudden shivering that had set in his bones and blinked at the burning in his eyes even as he tried to break free. He snarled when he couldn't. His breath coming in harsh gasps as he struggled like a trapped animal, the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears drowned out the world until all he could think of was how much he had lost.
His brothers, his honour, his love, his son, his home, his life that he had fought so hard to build away from under the shadow of the d'Herblay's bastard he had grown up as.
But if there was one thing little Rene of his beautiful Maman had taught the man Aramis was, it was the ability to live, to treasure each moment until he had to move on again; because that was inevitable for him. It was his curse; to wander forever, to never belong. So he would do just that, he would move on from this as well because there was nothing left for him to go back to.
"Don't do this," it was his own voice that broke through his thoughts, "just let me go,"
And then he heard another voice. Close to his ear.
"We're here brother. I'm here," Porthos murmured, "And I've got ya Aramis, I've got ya,"
And he had, warm and strong and there, right there holding him like nothing could ever come between the two of them.
Aramis' breath snagged at the back of his throat and he coughed, his struggle easing to a stop as he instinctually curled into his friend. His arms moved up and slid around the brother he had so firmly believed was lost to him. Hands that had been trying to shove him back clutched at the back of Porthos' doublets and Aramis could feel the sting in his fingertips where they dug in their grasp to hold close his friend. With his face turning his nose pressed into his brother's collar and Aramis just breathed.
The leather of his friend's doublet pinched at his cheek but he didn't move away, he had missed him – he had missed them – missed this so damn much.
"I'm sorry I hurt you," he said.
Voice breaking slightly that had nothing to do with the sudden squeeze from Porthos' arms.
" 'm sorry too," muttered the big man,"could've handled it better,"
Aramis snorted and pulled back slightly, feeling steadier than he had in years when the dark eyes that met his own were those of his brother, not the war ravaged hero but Porthos – strong, gentle and full of guilt Aramis realized. He shook his head and tipped his head to the side when the other man didn't let him go completely, his large hands curled in a near possessive grip on Aramis' forearms.
"You were hurting," Aramis said.
"Shouldn't have let that rule my words and a-"
"I understand my friend," Aramis cut him off with a shrug, never wanting to see the depth of guilt in those eyes, "monastery or mercenaries, I did abandon you for them,"
"Well he could be a gentleman and let others welcome you back for starters," d'Artagnan spoke up, eyes widening in mock innocence, "I mean that is, if you're looking for a better way to handle things Porthos,"
Porthos gave their youngest a sideways glare and Aramis had no warning before he was yanked forwards in another embrace, his face smashing against the buckles of Porthos' doublet and back bent at an awkward angle. He felt instead of saw one of his friend's arm curling around his head as Porthos turned abruptly to the side.
"Wait your turn," his growl was playful, " 'm not done yet."
"That's not fair!"
"Not my problem," Porthos tossed over his shoulder.
And Aramis felt himself getting dragged along as the man turned again, maneuvering him out of d'Artagnan's view. Aramis hid his grimace in the leather of Porthos' doublet, the angle was wrecking havoc on his back muscles but he could not complain, not when he could hear the lightness in Porthos' voice that he hadn't ever since they had returned to Paris.
"Gentlemen," Athos' voice cut in – the tone so achingly familiar in that sardonic exasperation that Aramis felt his eyes burn as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.
"Fine," Porthos said.
And letting Aramis up he stepped back slightly only to have the younger musketeer fill his place. D'Artagnan threw his arms around Aramis much like the young man he had been before the war and stepped back grinning wide. His hands still clasped onto Aramis' arms, the hold firm yet gentle, fingers splayed as if intent to cover the scars underneath although he couldn't see them through the sleeves. The younger man's gaze flicked there and when he looked up there was a wet sheen in his eyes.
"I –"
Aramis shook his head slightly, silencing the words not yet formed.
"It's over," he said.
D'Artagnan nodded and cleared his throat.
"Welcome back," he announced.
"Aren't you a bit too sure of yourself," Aramis raised a brow, the words softened by a smile.
But his smile faltered when a sudden bout of dizziness had him stepping back to lean against the wall. He barely registered the hand on his arm as he slowly slid to the ground, legs folding under him even as he closed his eyes to wait out the spinning of the room. He wondered if the wine was still somehow affecting him even though he had expelled all that he had consumed this night and then some.
"When was the last time you slept?" Athos' voice came through the roaring in his ears.
Breathing carefully through his nose Aramis cracked open his eyes and glanced at the man from the corner of his eye where the Captain of the Musketeers had come down to his knees beside him. It was him gripping the arm, the sleeve of Aramis' shirt clutched in a fist as if he had grabbed him at the last second.
"I –" Aramis frowned, swallowed thickly, "the night before Pauline died?"
He had not meant it to come out as a question and the glare that the blue eyes leveled at him was enough of a proof of it being the wrong answer. Drawing a hand over his eyes he shrugged, sleep hadn't been his friend for years now anyway.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You are an example of it," Athos replied.
He let go of his arm and sat back on his haunches, divested Aramis of his pistols and sword before he shifted back against the wall, taking off his doublet as he went. Aramis watched him fold it before placing it on his outstretched legs. It seemed like he was settling in for the night and a glance beyond told him so was d'Artagnan as he flopped down on Athos's other side.
"Too many nightmares," Porthos said like someone who knew about them.
"I sleep when I need it," Aramis said.
"Looks like you've needed it for a while now," d'Artagnan snorted form Athos' other side.
Aramis couldn't deny that, so he pulled his legs out from under him and shifted to find a comfortable spot on the floor. And somehow sitting there on the hard floor with a bare wall at his back, sitting there between Athos and Porthos; their shoulders nearly touching his, Aramis found he hadn't felt this comfortable in years. He felt a smile touch his lips as he stared at the glow of fire beyond the table before him and knew that the warmth that he was feeling had nothing to do with the blaze.
"No matter what we wish, things have changed," he said.
Porthos threw an arm around his shoulders and the grin that came to his face was a defiance to his words all unto itself. Aramis glanced at his friend, careful not to move his head too much lest the dizziness gained momentum again.
"All the more reason to keep some of the old safe and close," Porthos said, "something unfailing to touch upon when nothing makes sense."
"Something to remind us of who we are," Athos nodded.
And it was a wonderful thought. Yet Aramis couldn't help the twinge of sadness in the face of this confidence, for he had seen the shifts and changes and the growth in his friends that he could not deny. Sinking into the grasp of the arm that was wrapped around his shoulders he shook his head softly. Winced when that stoked the feeling of spinning that had settled around him.
"But we have changed," he said, "all of us. Even I have changed and –"
He stopped abruptly when he felt a hand land on the back of his neck. He turned his head to look at Athos who had turned slightly and was staring at him with all the conviction of a man who had spent years facing down enemy fire. His hand was a grounding pressure at the nape of Aramis' neck, affectionate and firm.
"You asked something of me when we were captives," Athos said, "And now I'm asking you for the same,"
Faith.
He had asked Athos to have faith in his brothers.
Aramis bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from screaming that he had shown that faith hadn't he? It was his faith in their brotherhood that had brought him back to Paris and into the ranks he had left behind after all. As if in reflex to the rigidness that was now quivering with the strain in his neck, the hand at the back of it pressed a little harder, fingertips kneading the taut pull there. And Athos' voice was hoarse at the edges when he spoke next and the blue eyes meeting his gaze were seeking something, shifting carefully through Aramis' thoughts like trembling hands sifting through a heap of glass figurines.
"I only see it now for what it was," he said as if he had read Aramis' thoughts, voice pitching in soft plea, "Just tell me that it is not completely lost,"
Aramis closed his eyes.
He could not face this, could not accept his own stubborn belief that kept him tethered to the men he called brothers. It was dangerous and silly and it hurt and it was one of the few precious things in his life that always kept him going. Even when he felt that he had nothing left to give he couldn't help but offer more.
He gave a sharp nod.
His eyes opening in surprise when Athos pulled him close, Porthos' arm falling away as the big man shifted a little to give him more room and suddenly the side of his head was resting on Athos' doublet where it was folded over his friend's legs. Aramis stared wide eyed at the fire in the hearth that was clearly visible from his new angle and held his breath at this change of events.
Years of distance from the men he believed his brothers. Years of living with being the one in charge; as the one responsible for everyone under his command, the one responsible for the safety of an entire regiment and planning and re-planning to keep ahead of both friends and enemies now made this suddenly vulnerable position terrifying.
He hadn't realized how rigid he had gone until he felt the hand on his shoulder, thumb swiping to and fro in a motion too soft for the stiff fear in his muscles. And there was another one, a larger hand that had settled on his knee, heavy and warm, and then there was a doublet draping over him. Distantly he realized it was d'Artagnan's although he had no idea how he had guessed that. The glare from the blaze was making his eyes ache and as Aramis let go the breath he had been holding; the tightness in his chest loosened a bit.
"What you did for us, the way you watched our backs. I can't imagine how hard that must have been," d'Artagnan said, his voice coming from somewhere by his head, "I still have nightmares about those wolves and now that I know it was you who stepped before them I can't even – what I'm saying is, thank you,"
"And as for you not having a place among us, that's just not possible," Porthos' voice was gruff, as if it was having trouble moving past his throat, "we tried – I tried – tried bloody hard too but you were there 'Mis. In every sadness and joy you were there even if you weren't. Even if I wished you gone you were there; a bloody stubborn presence haunting the life out of me. The place that you have at our side can never fade out or be filled by someone else,"
"What he means is that you could have been in the monastery all these years and we still would want you back with us," Athos said, his hand shifting from Aramis' shoulder to the side of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, "we were hurting and bitter and we forgot that just because you've sat out one war doesn't change what you had learned from all the ones you had been a part of. Even if you hadn't done what you did during this war you'd still be one of us."
"It's just that what you did do is kind of –" d'Artagnan searched for the word, "you must have saved our lives so many times and we didn't even know. That's –"
"Idiotic," Porthos finished for him, "don't you dare do that again,"
The weight on his knee lifted and came down onto his side. His breath paused again as the large hand rested on the smattering of small healed wounds beyond the shirt; the palm was warm where it pressed in a tender grip and was light in a silent apology even as it trembled with the heavy guilt behind it.
"And even if you had avoided that idiocy, we would have come after you still," Athos said, his grasp in Aramis' hair tightening slightly, the tug just shy of painful, "you let us go once and we let you. This time if you resist Porthos here will knock you out and we'll bring you back trussed up if we have to."
A wet snort escaped Aramis.
It was only then that he felt the wetness on his face, noticed the warm trails that had been rolling over the bridge of his nose and soaking up the side of his face pressed onto Athos's doublet. He unclenched stiff fingers where they had grasped the same doublet that was under his head and had a feeling he might have left some nicks in the leather. As if it was a signal of safety to the rest of his body Aramis felt his shoulders slump, the joints in his legs loosen as did the stiffness in his back, muscles relaxing for the first time in over four years as the taut feeling in his bones melted away.
Between one blink and the next Aramis fell asleep.
Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you guest reviewers, Jmp, Tychen, Caroline, Debbie, Beeblegirl, Guest and Nanaa. You all who take the time to leave me your thoughts Thank you so much!
there's still a bit left so...TBC