Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A sense of foreboding resurrects memories of Savoy and threatens Aramis' precarious hold on sanity. While helping him to regain his balance – the musketeers and d'Artagnan begin a new path to strengthen their ever growing bond.

*Very slight season three spoiler.*


Chapter Seven: Penance

Today

Aramis stood stark still in the overwhelming heat. Sweat trickled from beneath his curls and down into his eyes. Oddly enough, he felt no sting from the salt, and continued to stare straight ahead – back stiff as a board; perfectly at attention.

When his vision blurred, he blinked and the surroundings of bright sun; flags flapping in the breeze; the King slouching petulantly in his royal chair – alongside his Queen, diminished and segued into a wood – covered in snow, ice and blood.

A chill crawled up his spine – he shivered slightly and swallowed down the sensation of being consumed by an arctic blast. He swayed a bit and could swear snow fell lightly about him, and that his fingers and toes were turning blue – burning with cold.

But that was impossible.

Beside him stood Porthos – so close he could feel the brush of his shoulder, and knew he was in the present. He would not make that horrible mistake again. Remaining in the here and now, next to his rock – the touchstone for his sanity - was the ultimate goal. The past of Savoy was five years hence – gone and he must keep it there lest he be overpowered with grief and lose himself….again.

He minutely shifted his feet, gripped his hat more securely and closed his eyes to shut out the snow, the screams and the blood. In the near distance, he could hear the King mumbling on about Savoy and its uselessness – it being a pimple; unimportant – a blip on the map. And those words spoken in disdain had it all flowing back to him in a clear nauseating rush.

His friend's earlier words of encouragement; their care and obvious worry for his wellbeing; his own show of bravado from the night before – telling them that he could do this thing; stand strong in the face of debilitating memories – fell bit by bit to the wayside. All he could sense now was a cold insipid wind that seemed to carry with it a harbinger of death. Something insidious was headed his way – he could feel it.

And then a shot was fired; startling him out of the past. All thoughts of Savoy dissipated, and he was on the move.


Yesterday

Aramis was in his element – surrounded by gawking recruits and hopeful musketeers. He pushed his hat down tight on his head; wiped sweat from his brow; closed his eyes – lowered his head and pulled the trigger. The sound of the retort echoed throughout the garrison alongside incredulous gasps and running feet.

When he opened his eyes, and lifted his head – smoke curling from the muzzle of his musket – an excited call of "bullseye" from d'Artagnan could be heard down by the target. Grown men groaned; and exuberant recruits jostled each other with excitement. Whispers of "did you see that?" reached his ear and he puffed his chest out the more for it.

Aramis removed his hat and laughed with good humor as coin clinked; fed his headgear and hit the bottom with weight. "Thank you gentlemen", he announced with a slight bow and grinned broadly with panache. "This is all for a good cause, you know", and pat each man solemnly on the back as they handed over their lost monies.

"You might think they would have learned by now", Porthos observed with a shake of his head as Aramis dropped his musket heavily on the table and joined him on the bench for the noon day meal.

"You would think", he agreed and downed a cup of water handed to him by a pleased Serge in one savoring gulp. "Nice shooting" the old man complimented then winked and headed back to his kitchen.

"And what cause would this be for?", Porthos asked as he continued his meal – curious as always what Aramis did with his winnings. But as per usual – he got no real answer. "One well worth their sacrifice", he countered vaguely, jiggling his hat with satisfaction on one hand while reaching for bread with the other.

Porthos chuckled softly at this and wondered for the hundredth time it seemed, what hidden depths lay beneath the air of Aramis' quick smile and affable nature. For it was times like this, when all seemed well on the surface – he could look deep into those dark eyes and see an abject stillness and wished to know what the man was truly thinking.

But as he kept reminding their young recruits – every man had secrets – life altering moments that lay buried beneath the surface. And such moments or events had nothing to do with the true worth of a man, or his dedication to country, crown and brotherhood.

He just hoped that one day, Aramis – and Athos for that matter – men he loved and would give his life for would find it in their hearts to give of themselves – just a little. Perhaps one day, he would even follow his own advice.

In that moment, d'Artagnan rushed the table – upsetting water pitchers; plates and a bowl of fruit as he sat alongside them. Energy radiated from every pore in his body, as he grinned from ear to ear. "That was absolutely magnificent!" He exclaimed with vigor and reached for an apple over Porthos' plate. "Hey, watch what you're doing!", Porthos chastised and brought his food in – protectively close to his chest.

Crunching down for his first bite, d'Artagnan spoke excitedly around his chewing. "I have never seen anyone shoot as you do Aramis – you never miss."

"Will you teach me that trick?" he asked, faced flushed with enthusiasm.

Aramis frowned and pointed a chunk of bread in his direction. "It's not a trick d'Artagnan. It's a well-honed skill that has gotten me out of many a scrape. That skill was imparted to me by a musketeer gone blind – who could shoot a coin from my fingers at thirty paces."

"Yes, but will you teach it to me?" d'Artagnan asked again – eyes wide with hope….and something else.

Aramis took a bite of his bread and considered the request. He had not taught that particular skill to anyone – though many had asked. But something about those eyes, brown pools of earnest honesty and keen spirit, broke him down. Usually he kept such trade secrets to himself.

"Of course", he found himself saying before he knew what hit him.

"Thank you!" d'Artagnan shouted and leaped from his seat, dashing off to rejoin his fellow recruits – who waited nearby – apple left behind unfinished.

Porthos laughed aloud. "I see you cannot resist either", and called out to Serge for more stew.

Aramis smiled in agreement and could see the young men commandeer the range; attempting the skill on their own with little success. No – Porthos was right, he could not resist the eye thing d'Artagnan seemed to have perfected. That boy had weaseled more stories; more training; more sympathy and compromise out of him than his brothers had in the five years he had known them.

Where the three of them had formed a strong bond of loyalty and brotherhood over time – they still held much about themselves close. They were unwilling or perhaps more accurately; afraid to share their frailties.

But d'Artagnan was an open book – who shared much of himself without even realizing it; and did not ask for anything in return. He was becoming quite the little brother – and knew Athos and Porthos could feel it too. Especially Athos, who seemed to him though, troubled of late; was also lighter; much more amiable; less introverted, and he knew it was due to d'Artagnan's influence.

A shadow hovered; Aramis looked up and smiled, for here was the object of his musings.

Athos sat wearily, removed his hat and pushed hair from his face. "Why so weary already brother?" Aramis asked. "It is but only noon. Surely things can't be all that bad?"

Athos sighed, refused a plate from Serge; and scanned the garrison yard. He then peered up toward his Captain – who stood leaning against the balcony railing surveying his surroundings. He recognized apprehension when he saw it; and worried for Treville. Pressure from somewhere seemed to be mounting for him, and he would do all he could to help.

"Where is d'Artagnan?" he queried – looking once again out into the dusty yard filled with men sparring; eating and carrying out various duties.

"After my wondrous display of marksmanship", Aramis recounted and jiggled his hat full of clanging coins – "he has gone off somewhere in the company of other young men to try and replicate my genius."

Athos quirked a slight grin. Yes – d'Artagnan would like to learn a skill such as shooting with his eyes closed he thought. It was something that would appeal to his adventurous nature.

After a few bites of his replenished bowl of stew, Porthos placed his spoon down with deliberate care. "Wait a minute, what is it that has you so apprehensive?" he demanded; and squinted at Athos with a penetrating glare. He sensed something in his guarded state almost immediately. "Don't tell me!" he leaned back with dismay.

"I'm afraid so Porthos – we have been placed on parade duty for tomorrow. And it will be d'Artagnan's first – a good lesson in discipline for him, I think."

"For him, maybe – but why torture the rest of us?" Porthos moaned, gesturing between he and Aramis.

"The King wishes for his best musketeers to be there; and Treville assures me that his best are actually us."

Aramis laughed, coughed up bread gone down the wrong pipe and slapped Porthos on the shoulder in mock compassion. "We will keep you from getting bored brother", he consoled with humor.

"Can you keep the sun from beating down on me? Can you keep the flies from accosting me; or keep my feet from hurting?" he bemoaned with exaggeration and an exasperated sigh.

"I'm afraid not", Aramis pronounced with over the top feelings of sympathy and reached for his cup. "That would be completely out of my purview!"

After some moments of contemplative silence, Porthos couldn't help but to ask, "So who are we standing in parade for this time? Who does the King wish to impress and show us off to; or are we truly protecting him in this venture?"

"The Cardinal's Red Guard will be there as well", Athos answered. "We are to stand in attendance for the Duke of Savoy, as he comes to give his allegiance to France."

As the words passed Athos' lips, Aramis felt his world tilt off its axis. The sun was too bright; the heat stifling; his heart raced – pounded in his chest and threatened to explode. A sudden need flea, to get away before the past engulfed him right here and now rushed toward him – shouting at him to get up.

His mouth suddenly dry, he downed his drink and stood quickly to his feet. "Oi – where are you off to?" Porthos asked – unsure of what just transpired. One minute there was jovial rapport, now – Aramis looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"I've got something to do", Aramis responded ambiguously and picked up his hat.

Porthos grabbed his arm, attempting to read his friend's face. "We'll see you later then?" he insisted.

Aramis softened his features, in the face of such care and gripped Porthos' hand. "Yes – later", he promised, broke free and was out the garrison gates – walking at a fast clip.

Athos frowned. "What was that about? What did I say?"

Porthos lowered his gaze and retraced their brief conversation. When he searched out the worried face of Athos, his eyes were hard – "Savoy", he murmured.

"We have to go after him Athos", he stressed with purpose; and pushed his plate away.


Aramis sat in the back row of pews and let the horrific memories of Savoy crash around him like an avalanche. He found it hard to breathe; tears escaped of their own volition and his shoulders shook with trembling sorrow. He had not cried with such passion for five years; and felt the pain of his constricted throat, pounding head and tight chest keenly.

Upon entering the church – he had raced to the altar; fallen to his knees and fervently prayed for guidance, help and sanity. Purposely, he had skirted around the musketeer cemetery – just to the side of this small sanctuary and ran inside as if his life depended on it.

And it did.

For five years he had made it his purpose to bury the events of that day – deep into the recesses of his mind. His hope was to give the desolation its own compartment alongside the painful memories of his mother; his childhood fraught with deception; his first love and lost child.

It had been an ongoing mission to keep those compartments locked and separate; so as to not lose his mind. Aramis swiped the tears forcefully from his face and took a deep shuddering breath to stave off hysteria.

It had taken almost a year to recover – to pull his life back together after Savoy. Porthos had become his true friend; pulled him from the edge of a despair so paralyzing that he could not move; let alone take nourishment; care for his most basic needs; or think rationally.

He would forever be grateful and forever love Porthos – not only as his friend; but as his family.

Faith in his mother's God had also brought him through the darkest of moments. God and Porthos had not abandoned him – had not given up on him; had brought him back to life. As Porthos reminded him over and over again during that time; he had survived for a reason.

When he finally emerged from that deep well – never really himself again – but someone new and different; Athos had joined their ranks and slowly but surely, the three of them had become inseparable. They had become the steadfast glue that kept him from flying apart.

But now – Savoy licked at his heels and he could feel his carefully locked compartment about to break open. When he looked down, his hands shook with fear, and he could not fathom his weakness – that all it took was one word to bring him to this unraveling state.

Aramis turned to the cross; clasped his hands, and then murmured with complete devotion and conviction born of an absolute trust, "Give me strength O Lord", over and over again. But the screams of dying men; the hard frozen ground dotted red overtook him, and he was lost among the trees; downed tents; dead bodies and falling snow.


When they found him, Aramis was seated among the graves surrounded by the twenty. The sun had begun to set and they could just make out the silhouette of him sitting in the midst of the fallen; their crosses reaching out to provide a sort of protective haven.

His hands dug repeatedly in the dirt and as they got closer could see blood on his shredded nails. Porthos reached him first; fell to his knees at his side and knew right away – Aramis was lost in memories of Savoy.

Porthos grabbed up his bloodied hands for inspection, then the sides of his face; searched deep into his eyes and there beneath the anguish was the spark of life he was counting on – not so lost then, he sighed with relief. He then gripped his shoulders and shook him hard – once; twice and then a third time.

Aramis blinked as if just awakened, and before him was his dear friend Porthos; not far stood Athos and standing bewildered and further back – d'Artagnan – who shifted from foot to foot; eyes darting uncomfortably around the cemetery; hands fisted tight at his sides.

He frowned and tried to concentrate.

What were they doing here in the snow? He didn't remember them being in Savoy. He was the only one to make it out alive – how was it they were here? They needed to leave; follow the trail Marsac left so deftly behind of his cloak; his pauldron; his shame – for it was time to join his fallen brothers down into the earth to rest.

"Porthos", he rasped in confusion – peering through the frozen condensation, "Why are you here?" and reached to grab the lapels of the big man's coat.

Brow furrowed with unease, Porthos answered with deliberate care, "We're here to take you home Aramis." He looked to the sky to push back unshed tears; and continued – his voice shaking, "It will be dark soon, and you should come with me so you can rest."

Aramis peered out among the graves, his eyes wet with emotion. "That's why I'm here brother – to lay down and rest." He turned back to Porthos and explained, "You see – I'm so very, very tired. I carried on without them when I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed."

And as Aramis turned away to lay his head down in the grass, Porthos shook him again with strength. He remembered this argument from years ago, and could not believe after five years, they were back to square one. "You did not leave them Aramis", he shouted. "You survived."

But Aramis wasn't listening and pushed away to stare out among the dead – ready to join them in sleep. Undeterred, Porthos reached out and effortlessly brought them both up to their feet and whispered in his ear "Just stand with me Aramis and let's go – yeah?"

To lay here inert would be a dangerous thing. He remembered this – the stillness; inability to move – eat, to function. Aramis wouldn't return to such a state, he would forbid it.

Aramis stood, but planted his feet firmly in the dirt. Perhaps if he did not look at his friend, this apparition that did not belong here in the snow, he would fade away and leave him be.

Porthos sighed with grief. Time was of the essence. They needed to convince him to leave here on his own accord – take him home, and talk sense to him. But to spook him; force him would be….

Caught unawares, Porthos took in a sharp breath as Aramis pushed away from his hold with unexpected strength and speed – and then made to escape into the nearby woods. Stepping forward, Athos spoke up then – an idea taken seed; hoping the man's aversion to command was still intact.

"Aramis", Athos bellowed out with authority, "You will leave this place and come away with us now. This is an order Aramis – you do not belong here."

Aramis stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to meet Athos' authoritative stance. With his hackles raised – he lifted an eyebrow. He did not take well to following orders and would do as he pleased. "It is you who do not belong here Athos. It is you who should leave – not I", and turned to disappear into the night –the instinct of flight now strong.

Hearing some semblance of self and understanding in his friend, Athos dared to forge ahead, and moved closer, "If you will not leave here with us now Aramis, I will hunt you down in the dark; strike you senseless, and carry you from this place."

His back stiff with defiance, Aramis placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Athos replicated the motion, and Porthos could see this all going to hell. Aramis was not in his right mind, and Athos wanted to force the issue. The standoff left a heavy sense of dread in the pit of Porthos' stomach. He hated to see his friends this way.

"I will not say it again Aramis", Athos yelled out and waited with deadly silence for Aramis to make a choice. Feeling the tension rise, Porthos moved to intervene…but from the shadows d'Artagnan spoke up anxiously – unsure – not understanding the precariousness of the situation – unaware of the ghosts of Savoy plaguing Aramis; pushing him beyond reason. "Please Aramis", he pleaded. "Can we not just go?" The cemetery closing in around him, dredging up sorrowful memories of his father buried alongside his mother back in Lupiac.

Aramis blinked, relaxed the grip on his hilt; and there before him, in the dark, d'Artagnan stood – his eyes round and large; seeking him out in the blackness. The snow ceased falling, the breeze blew warm, and his fingers no longer tingled with cold. The twenty were solidly in their graves; no longer calling for him to join them in rest.

"Please", d'Artagnan repeated, and reached out his hand.

Porthos breathed out a sigh of relief as a dazed Aramis looked around uncertainly; a lost look on his face, unclear as to why he stood in the musketeer cemetery; his hands bleeding – his friends gazing at him with worry. "Yes of course", he stammered tentatively and followed d'Artagnan away from the cemetery, toward the streets of Paris, and the garrison.

Following close on their heels, Porthos questioned Athos with a slight tremble to his voice, "Would you have hit him, fought him here sword to sword?"

Athos shook his head, and in his voice Porthos could hear the real fear that things could have gotten out of control, and not ended well. "I don't know. He is my penance Porthos. It is he who keeps me from drowning in my own past sins and misdeeds. I would never purposely hurt him."

"Nor I", Porthos agreed. Perhaps Aramis was his penance as well – his conduit for righting all of his wrongs. He would think on it. But for now they would take him home, speak on his courage, his purpose in their lives – their love and brotherhood. They would get him through this night and many others if need be – no matter hard he fought them.

"You know", he said with a twinge of awe, "it's a good thing Aramis can deny d'Artagnan nothing when he does that thing with his eyes."

"Yes – a good thing", Athos repeated gratefully as they made their way home.


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