Two weeks later:
"Is she here?" D'Artagnan turned when the next draft blew in, fairly jumping from his seat. His expression fell when it was just Porthos to walk into the room, holding some form of food or present. D'Artagnan smiled, touched.
Porthos's gift was a platter of steaming food, from the expensive crab Athos had managed to barter from a sailor, to the small chocolate croissants the queen had sent by way of Constance. D'Artagnan had been touched by the exchange, but now he stood at the head of the table, feeling increasingly like a small child again. This was his first birthday as a Musketeer.
Technically, D'Artagnan's birthday had been a week before, but he had insisted on waiting until Aramis's next letter came to celebrate it. Now they just had to wait for Constance to come…
"D'Artagnan," Porthos began. Setting his platter upon the table gently. "You're sure you wanna celebrate today? 'Mis might not have some good things to say in his letter," he warned. D'Artagnan had already thought of that. He grinned, impishly.
"No use in talking him out of it, mon ami," Athos sighed, moving past him to the cupboards. He pulled out a sparkling bottle of brandy, setting it next to the platter of steaming food reverently. "My brother's last gift to me," he explained when he saw D'Artagnan's curious glance. "He insisted it must sit for at least ten years before it was to be enjoyed. I believe we're close enough to hitting our mark," D'Artagnan's eyes widened, and he grabbed the nozzle of the bottle before Athos could open it.
"Athos, wait… Don't you… I mean, if this was Thomas's… I'm honored but I can't possibly…" He stuttered, trying in vain to find the right words to express both his gratitude and horror that Athos would utilize such a gift now, for his birthday. Porthos came over and set a hand over his, watching Athos with palpable worry.
"You don't have to do this," he breathed. "We understand if you can't," Athos did not meet their gaze for the longest moment, silently fighting some inner demon, before he shook his head and looked up.
"I want to," he stated, with finality. His hand beneath theirs rippled, and D'Artagnan heard the curt hiss of air long repressed. He stepped back, humbled and a bit frightened.
"Well, then let's drink!" Porthos crowed, snagging a cup from Athos's stash. They usually met in the Comte's larger apartment for times such as these. Though farther from the Garrison than anyone else's residence, it was more comfortable, and with enough room to allow the four of them- now three, a treacherous voice in D'Artagnan's mind whispered- to relax and reminisce.
"To D'Artagnan's good health and many wise years!" Porthos continued, clinking his glass against D'Artagnan's. Athos did the same, squeezing his shoulder.
"Years of decency and brotherhood," he added quietly. D'Artagnan grinned, clinking his cup against both of theirs.
"I'm honored," he told Athos when Porthos had downed his drink, moving to answer a quick succession of knocks at the door. Athos dipped his head, slightly, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
"All for one," he said simply as a cold draft was ushered into the room alongside Constance. As the weeks had passed, summer had gradually been bowing its head to the fall. The green leaves bristling and blushing vibrant hues of red and orange. Rochefort had not yet sent any of them outside the limits of Paris, though D'Artagnan expected Her Majesty's demands on their behalf to lose their potency soon.
"Who started drinking without me?" Constance demanded as she waltzed inside, sounding hurt. Porthos took her jacket, hanging it next to the door.
"D'Artagnan," he instantly told her, flashing a wicked smile so like Aramis's that D'Artagnan had to turn away. Then, he realized what he had just been accused of.
"What?!" He squawked as Constance marched over and promptly smacked him across the face. "Ow!"
"Constance, please," Athos said, holding out a hand to accept the rolled paper she had in hand. "Today we celebrate his birth. Don't give him an early grave quite yet," he requested dryly.
"No promises," Constance sniffed, snatching a croissant from the tray and gesturing for Athos to read the letter. "Well, go on! Porthos here is fairly vibrating with his need to know, and D'Artagnan wanted only this for his birthday. Read the letter!" D'Artagnan nodded exuberantly when Athos looked to him.
"D'Artagnan, give Madame Bonacieux some brandy please, and then eat your cake. Porthos sit down. I can't concentrate when you're breathing down my neck," he commanded.
"Pushy, pushy," Porthos teased, but nevertheless, he obeyed, taking a seat at the round table with more grace than a ballet dancer. Athos sat across from him, and when D'Artagnan had poured Constance a generous cup of brandy (a feat which earned him a kiss on the cheek, and made his face burn red consequently) he sat across from them. Constance sat in Aramis's usual seat, watching Athos intently.
"The stamp is from a cobbler, this time," she pointed out. D'Artagnan sighed. Aramis had moved cities again, so it seemed.
Athos cleared his throat as he unfolded the paper. Instantly, a small ribbon fluttered to the ground, colored a dark blue with stripes of mahogany and purple. Athos scooped it in hand curiously, eyeing it.
"It's of exquisite fabric," he told them, handing it to Porthos. "What do you think it means?"
"Read the letter and find out!" Constance urged them as Porthos shrugged, handing the small ribbon to D'Artagnan instead.
My brothers,
You are indeed strange fellows, a fact for which I am eternally grateful. When I first saw a wooden whistle (it had dropped from the usual messenger's pocket. Strange coincidence, hm?) I was mystified. I swore I had seen it before; but could not recall when or where. It wasn't until I used it that I remembered the sound, and I probably scared the living daylights out of this poor vagabond who was sleeping in my new hiding spot when I laughed aloud.
"Vagabond?! He has vagabonds watching his back now?" Porthos groaned.
"You know how he makes friends with lost causes," Athos sighed. Constance giggled.
I can hardly believe you've kept this (Porthos) but it gladdened my heart to have confirmation that you are indeed receiving these letters. I don't know how you've managed it (I suspect it has something to do with your endless connections, my dear Athos) but I thank you for your thoughtfulness. Not a day goes past when I do not worry one of you has gotten himself injured or scarred, and I am not around to offer my incredible skills in needlework. Since you've somehow located me, I assume you realize that Rochefort's word is as good as void.
"No kidding," Porthos grumbled.
What I thought would be a mission of a few hours has turned into weeks. I can't express how disappointed I am to miss D'Artagnan's first birthday as a Musketeer. It took me a whole day to find a apt substitute for my unforgivable absence, small enough to be enclosed in this letter. It's the ribbon. It doesn't look like much, I know, but it's an old soldier's tradition that a man is presented a new ribbon at the completion of some great life trial. He ties the ribbon about the pommel of his sword as proof of his gallantry and strength. The ribbon you have is for having overcome adversity. I think your father would agree with me that you have faced many trials this year, D'Artagnan, and faced them all with the compassion and courage a true Musketeer should possess. I know I speak for those other two when I say your commission fills me with pride.
"Well, he ain't wrong," Porthos said, smiling at D'Artagnan.
"Not at all," Athos agreed, eyes still scanning the letter. His tone was genuine however. Constance reached forward and laid a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder as he desperately tried to fight back tears. He could only nod thankfully at their words, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat.
Damn it, he missed Aramis. He had thought that reading the letter at his celebration would make it so that they felt his presence more keenly, as if he were there, but it had the opposite effect. He felt all the more aware of his absence, and then guilty as he realized that over time, they had all become accustomed to his absence. He slid the ribbon between his fingers, clutching it like a lifeline.
As for things here, well, I've never toured France so much in my life. In the three weeks since your whistle found its way to me, I have been given orders in seven different cities. There is no rest for the weary. Though I hear The Dauphin is doing well, which gives me hope for a brighter day. Not much else does these days, I am afraid. The work I have been instructed to do is… Grueling. Confusing at the best times and downright wrong at the worst. I am struggling to make the best of things, and retain my honor, but even that requires some… Moral compromise these days.
I have not seen another Red Guard or Musketeer for weeks. Though, I did hear from a merchant that two were mysteriously found murdered in Theron last week. I sleep with both pistols beneath my pillow. I cannot help but feel I am forever being watched or hunted; perhaps both.
But forgive me. I don't mean to cause you undue stress. Things are not all bad here. I met a kind widow some time ago in Montpellier. She had a young son who begged me to teach him sword play. I had a few hours to spare; and spent a very pleasant afternoon with them, endlessly boasting about my three brothers who accompany me on daring adventures. The boy does have some potential, and I tried to encourage him best I could. He reminded me a bit of you, my dear Porthos, and I could not help but feel pleased that I may have helped bring another good soul into the Garrison one day.
How is the Garrison? I can hardly remember what it looks like by now. Though I remember the people distinctly. I hope you aren't neglecting our other brothers just out of worry for me. There are a great many things I miss (you three most of all) but as of late, I find myself craving some of Serge's chicken raspberry soup. It was the first thing he made for me after Savoy and well… My mind has been wandering there lately.
Porthos's breath caught in his throat. Athos's voice hitched while D'Artagnan laid his head on the table.
"I'm goin to kill Rochefort," Porthos growled. "We should be with him!"
Athos nodded once, regained control of himself, and continued.
It's fine. I'm fine. I shouldn't worry you. I comfort myself knowing you are safe and together, as it should be. Don't fret, we'll see each other again soon. But alas, I'm running out of paper again so let me warn you of this now: something is brewing in the South. Merchants are beginning to sell all their goods. I see fortresses and walls springing up about important cities and in the forests. Sailors embark on long journeys and avoid the land like it's a plague. Anyone who looks remotely Spanish are abandoning their homes and heading to the motherland. Subsequently, I have met many a Frenchman and woman who are returning here, fearing a growing dissent in Spain. My friends, I am loath to say, but I fear we are preparing for war.
Athos stopped, his entire face bleaching of color.
Porthos groaned and sat back in his seat, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes tiredly. Constance's mouth dropped, and she sat there gawping for a long moment.
D'Artagnan's breath hitched in his chest. "War?" He gasped.
"With Spain," Porthos muttered. "Of course. That's what Rochefort has been stewing up this whole time. He's eliminating targets…"
"Stirring up hostilities," Athos added.
"Preparing the south for siege," Constance murmured.
"War," D'Artagnan's stomach rebelled against the unfamiliar word. Once, it had been a thing of fairytales, as far away from his life as castles and carriages. Now, both things had come so near they were liable to destroy him.
And his brothers.
Once more, I beg you to be careful. I don't know what I expect you to do with this knowledge, but whatever you choose, Godspeed. The King, and France, might need you soon. As usual, Athos, tell Porthos not to go about starting tavern brawls for a few coins. Porthos, tell D'Artagnan Happy Birthday for me, and to keep his wits about him. D'Artagnan, tell Athos that he's not shaking us off yet. All of you listen to Constance. I pray I will see you soon, so we might fight together as we were meant to.
Your Brother,
Aramis.
For a long moment, they sat in complete silence, absorbing the message Aramis had just delivered to them. D'Artagnan's fingers relentlessly played with his gift, twisting the soft fabric round his fingers until he couldn't feel them anymore.
The ribbon you have is for overcoming adversity.
Adversity. It seemed he would have to continue to overcome in the coming days. His head swam. After a moment, he felt a hand on the side of his face and looked up, blinking. He realized there were tears trickling around his nose. Porthos's expression was soft as he beheld him, his own eyes twinkling with unshed grief.
Nevertheless, he mustered a brave smile. He was a good big brother. "Happy Birthday," he whispered, as per Aramis's instructions.
D'Artagnan barked an aching laugh and reached over to clink his empty glass against Porthos's. "To overcoming adversity," he said.
Porthos nodded. "All for one," he agreed softly. Constance picked up her glass.
"To Aramis coming home," she breathed. D'Artagnan turned to his mentor, chewed his upper lip nervously for a moment before breaching the silence.
"Athos?"
But the other man only stood to his feet, and silently walked out the door.
