Title: A Restlessness in Common
Author: JenF
Chapters: 7 of ?
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.


At any other time, in any other circumstances, Aramis would be grinning right now. d'Artagnan has grown in oh so many ways since he burst into their lives but the current display of language is so clearly expressed Aramis has no doubt the younger man has had years to perfect its delivery.

But it's hard to smile when your soul is empty and all you long for is a quick death to relieve the guilt and remorse tearing you apart. So he lets his mind wander, desperate to avoid replaying the last half an hour of his life. Porthos would berate him soundly, he reflects and thoughts of his dearest friend bring him small comfort. He allows his eyes to close and lets his mind close in on itself.

In the background he can hear d'Artagnan continue his diatribe against their captors. Thibaud, Aramis knows, will take no notice, but Descarte? He's another matter altogether. Aramis has known him for less than a week but a man as perceptive as the musketeer needs only a few minutes to truly know a man's real nature. It is, he muses ruefully, a gift.

He knows he should try to stop d'Artagnan but, try as he might, he cannot find it within him to speak up. Maybe, he ponders, he's finally lost the ability to talk. Maybe he's already dead but his mind hasn't caught up yet. Descarte will kill them all, he realises. He's doing the boy a favour really, he reasons, allowing him passage to a quick death rather than the tortuous hell he's been in for the last few days.

d'Artagnan falls silent and Aramis furrows his brow, regretting it almost instantly as old cuts on his forehead protest the movement by sending shards of pain into his skull. He can hear footsteps crunching on the dusty ground, solid and confident. He listens to a drone of words from a voice he's known forever. He can't decide whether this is a good thing or not. Part of him knows, has always known, that he can't give up now. He can give up on himself, but never on d'Artagnan or Athos. How can he make them see that their sacrifice is too much?

"You shouldn't have come," he whispers, not sure who his words are aimed at, if anyone. Part of him wants Athos to scoop d'Artagnan up and run, to leave him here to suffer the consequences alone. He shakes his head to stop the downward spiral of despair, desperate to get his point across to his brothers-in-arms.

"Why would we not?" Athos's gentle words pierce the haze clustering around Aramis' thoughts and Aramis can't understand the confusion underlying the question.

"My life is not worth his," he mutters, and now he's said it, it seems more real. It has happened, he can't pretend he's imagining this all any more. Porthos is gone, his life given for Aramis' and Aramis doesn't believe he will ever be able to live with that knowledge, that responsibility.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan begins before Athos interrupts with the assured confidence of experience and birthright.

"Your life is just as worthy as any of ours," Athos tells him.

But Aramis will not, cannot, believe him. How can Athos tells these lies when a man such as Porthos lies dead because of him? He doesn't understand why Athos, and d'Artagnan, don't hate him. In their position, he reflects, if they had been the cause of Porthos' death he would never be able to forgive them, let alone treat them with the compassion and respect currently radiating from these musketeers. He doesn't know how to make them understand.

"My life is not worth his," he repeats and then it's as if a damn has burst and he cannot stop. "My life is not worth his. My life is not worth his," over and over again, his voice fading until it becomes his world.

"This is all very touching." a voice cuts through his mantra, "But it's really not why we're here and quite frankly, it's tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will."

Aramis doesn't hear, doesn't care what happens now. His refrain continues to fall from his mouth without any effort on his part. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognises this is probably the start of a breakdown and he should probably be fighting it. But the time for fighting has been and gone. There's nothing left worth fighting for.

And then there's a weight on his shoulder, warm and comforting, demanding his attention. Fingers curl gently into his flesh, like so often recently yet so different – caring, not cruel.

"You will not touch him again," Athos snarls and Aramis hears the determination in the words. For a few moments he allows himself a little hope. The words he's been clinging to fade into nothing and he leans into the touch, taking what warmth he can.

Athos' threat seems to have fallen on deaf ears though and Aramis freezes as he hears Descarte decree. "I will do what I chose, to whom I chose."

Aramis looks up, and it's more than he can take. d'Artagnan is as still as a statue and Thibaud is spinning a dagger around carelessly in front of his face. Aramis knows what the man can do with that knife and the memory of it slicing into his arms while he lay helpless among the filth of the makeshift dungeon with only the rats for company is too much for him. He cannot bear for another to suffer and his mind takes the only course of action left to it.

He is no longer in control of his body. He can still feel the hand on his shoulder and he thinks the grip has tightened but he's not sure. He's not sure of anything any more. Athos has to go to d'Artagnan, he reasons. He has to. But the thought of losing what little contact he has with the real world shakes him to the core. His muscles are quivering and he can't stop the shaking in his limbs. He feels Athos take a step forward and he resigns himself to being left alone again to face what may come.

But the weight of Athos' hand remains steadfast. He feels the vibrations running down Athos' arm as Descarte scoffs, "Really, Athos? You've already lost one. You would risk another? And for what?"

Aramis' world is contracting very quickly and effectively. His vision is blurring, and he falls back on the one thing he has always relied on. His faith.

The prayer falls easily from his lips, Latin learned at the seminary as a child springing forth like second nature. Most merciful Lord Jesus! by Thine agony and bloody sweat, and by Thy death, deliver me, I beseech Thee, from a sudden and unprovided death.

But his prayers are interrupted by the unthinkable. A shot rings out and Aramis' head shoots up from his supplication. He watches, hardly breathing, as Thibaud falls backwards, dragging d'Artagnan down with him. The world slows down and he scans the walls of the courtyard, years of instinct taking over, subduing the fear and panic he's been subjected to. The medic and soldier in him wants to go to d'Artagnan another part of him wants to know where this saviour has come from.

Porthos, he thinks. It must be Porthos. Hope soars in his heart like a dove and for the first time he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a way out of this after all.

Descarte, it would appear, isn't happy. His movements are quicker than Athos and as the older musketeer pushes Aramis down so he is less of a target, Descarte is over the boy, his own musket out, head spinning, surveying the surroundings.

We're looking for the same thing, Aramis realises from his position on the ground. He finds the time to wish Athos had been a little more gentle but then he supposes the older man isn't aware of quite how bad a host Descarte has been. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of metal and a mop of dark curls appear briefly above an outcrop of rocks before disappearing so quickly it has him wondering if he saw it at all.

But it's all he needs to see. He would know that silhouette anywhere and it gives him the boost he needs. He catches Athos' eye and gives him a slight nod that he hopes says it all. I'm back. I'm okay. You can rely on me.

Which is just as well, because they are still hideously outnumbered and with d'Artagnan out cold and his own hands still tightly bound, Athos is effectively on his own down here.