When d'Artagnan wakes his eyes are gritty and sore, mouth dry as bone, and most alarmingly, he is wearing nothing but his smalls. He tries to raise an arm to rub away the sleep in his eyes but he finds himself trapped in a tightly wrapped blanket. He struggles feebly to get free for a moment but then there is a hand on his arm, stilling his movement. He looks up to see Aramis beside him, eyes exhausted and face lined but there is a genuine smile on his face, a look of almost disbelief.
"Aramis, where are my clothes?"
He rasps, and his voice sounds like he hasn't spoken for days. Aramis laughs a little, short and sharp, bordering on hysterical.
"You've been unconscious for almost three days and that's the first thing you worry about when you wake up?"
D'Artagnan half shrugs helplessly. Aramis shakes his head, hands busy doing something d'Artagnan can't see.
"You know, most people try to only have one near death experience a week. Of course, that wasn't enough for you now was it. Had to go and scare the living daylights out of us twice."
His tone is light and conversational, but there is something hidden beneath it, something bitter and harsh and not directed at d'Artagnan. He finishes what he was working on and lifts a little battered tin cup filled with something that smells awful. D'Artagnan crinkles his nose, turning his head away from the foul brew. Aramis' hand gently catches his cheek though, pulling his face back towards him.
"Please,"
He says and his voice is stripped bare and fragile and d'Artagnan realizes that there is still so much fear there.
"it will help with the pain."
And the poorly concealed tremor in Aramis' voice breaks d'Artagnan's heart so he doesn't resist as Aramis helps him to drink the liquid. He coughs a little as it goes down and Aramis rubs comforting circles on his shoulder, face pinched. When he can finally breath normally he grates out,
"I'm sorry."
Aramis pulls back, looking surprised.
"Whatever for?"
D'Artagnan looks away, shame-faced.
"For making you worry. I was irresponsible."
Aramis shakes his head, that same bitter look flashing across his face again.
"Please, do not apologize d'Artagnan, we are just glad you are still alive."
His voice is husky with emotion, and he bends over, pressing his face to d'Artagnan's shoulder. When he speaks again his words are muffled, but they sound choked.
"If anything it is I who should be apologizing."
He doesn't say for what, though. They stay like that for a long time, Aramis bent over d'Artagnan like he's praying over an altar and the moment is unusually intimate and unguarded for Aramis. Eventually d'Artagnan reaches out and places a hand on Aramis' head, feeling like he is giving him absolution for a sin he never committed. After a few minutes there is the sound of heavy footsteps and he looks up to see Porthos walking out of the forest, carrying an armful of sticks and branches. When he sees d'Artagnan his face splits into a wide grin, hurrying forward he dumps his armful of wood next to the fire and falls to his knees beside d'Artagnan. At Porthos's arrival Aramis rights himself and for a second d'Artagnan thinks he sees him wiping away a tear but then he smiles, his face shuttering closed again and d'Artagnan is convinced he must have imagined it.
Porthos is laughing though, and there are tears welling unashamedly in his eyes and those tears d'Artagnan are sure of. He prepares himself for another bone crushing embrace but Porthos doesn't pull him into a hug, hands hovering just above d'Artagnan like he's afraid he'll break him if he touches him. It's not until then that d'Artagnan truly realizes how close he had been to death, how bad it had really been. Porthos takes a deep shaking breath, and finally lets his hand settle on d'Artagnan's shoulder.
"Diue merci, I thought I'd never see those eyes again."
D'Artagnan smiles,
"Oh come now, do you really think you could get rid of me that easily?"
Porthos laughs, a little wetly.
"I should hope not, we've taught you better then that. If you went and died now we'd have wasted so much time training you, I'd have to drag you back from the dead and kill you again myself!"
D'Artagnan can't help the laugh that bubbles in his throat as well, regretting it swiftly when it jars his side and he winces a little.
"That would be a little more convincing if you weren't crying Porthos."
Porthos quickly wipes at his eyes with the back of his broad hand, sniffing.
"I'm not cryin', that damn fire is just too smoky."
Aramis rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Blame it on the fire if it makes you feel better, Porthos. We all know you're lying. Do I need to remind you of Athos' funeral?"
Porthos huffs and glares at Aramis who just smirks back.
"I told you, that was… emotional… alright?"
Looking around the campsite d'Artagnan notices someone is missing and interrupts the pairs lighthearted bickering.
"Where is Athos?"
Aramis shakes his head,
"No doubt off brooding somewhere. This has been hard on him…on all of us."
Porthos pushes himself to his feet, brushing off the dirt gathered on his knees.
"I'll go find 'im, he'll want to see you awake."
And with that he disappears into the forest and once more d'Artagnan and Aramis are alone. There is something hanging in their air between them, something heavy and electric and d'Artagnan can feel that something happened in the days he slept. Aramis rises from his side, busying himself with something by the fire. D'Artagnan tries to sit and groans as his body protests.
"I feel as though I've been run over with a horse."
"Well, that tends to happen when you battle a fever for three days."
Aramis comments acerbically, not looking at d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan coughs awkwardly, looking down at his hands.
"Aramis… is something the matter?"
Aramis freezes, hands halfway through tying off a sachet of herbs. After a second he continues but it's a long second and a telling one.
"Why do you ask?"
He replies, avoiding d'Artagnan's gaze.
"I don't know, you just seem… off… Did something happen?"
Aramis turns to him and there is something raw in his eyes, something anguished and d'Artagnan can feel a tension in the air.
"D'Artagnan…I-"
He's interrupted by the crunch of boots at the edge of the campsite and an exhale of breath somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. At the sound Aramis breaks off, and the iron walls close around his face once again as he turns away. D'Artagnan can sense he just missed something important, knows what Aramis was about to say meant something he can't tell what. He puts it aside for inspection another time, and looks up to see who interrupted them. Athos is standing at the edge of the camp, face and hair dripping wet and a look of such unbridled relief on his face that d'Artagnan is not sure whether to laugh or cry. He crosses the clearing in four broad strides, dropping to his knees beside d'Artagnan and just sits there, eyes roving over d'Artagnan's face like he has to convince himself that this isn't a trick, then when he's assured himself d'Artagnan truly is awake he reaches out and grasps one of d'Artagnan's hands in his own two, holding it tightly for a second like if he lets go d'Artagnan will slip away again. D'Artagnan lets him, grasps Athos' hands as tight as he can with his own and finally Athos smiles, and it's small and tired but it's an honest smile.
They let d'Artagnan rest for one more day before they set off for Paris. This time Aramis will not hear of d'Artagnan riding alone, and he's inclined to agree. He's feeling better but even now he thinks he'd be more likely to fall off a horse then stay on it by himself. He expects Aramis to be the one to ride with him but as they get ready to leave he asks Porthos to ride with him instead. Porthos complies readily, gently helping d'Artagnan up in front of him and with little fuss they're off, homeward bound.
D'Artagnan notices as they ride that Aramis is keeping to the front, riding a little ahead of everyone and not looking back, not looking at d'Artagnan. He's not avoiding him, exactly, but he seems distant and detached. There is something sitting heavily on his shoulders, its clear to see, d'Artagnan just wishes he knew what.
Something is sitting heavily on his own shoulders though, which distracts him from Aramis' sudden distance. Something that has twisted it's way into his heart and settled it's roots there and now it grows. Something dark and painful and secret that tears at his throat and tongue until he tastes blood in his mouth. Something dangerous. It is words that echo in the back of his mind, words of a man long dead and buried. What have you become, my son.
It hurts in a way he had never imagined before that his father might not like the man he had become. Because the truth is he is now sworn to serve a king who his father never believed in, the truth is he has blood on his hands and he's afraid some of it might be innocent. He believes though, believes in the sword in his hand and the oaths he swears and believes in the men he fights beside and that is enough to make the hurt worth living with, he thinks. Because for the first time in his life d'Artagnan has something to believe in greater then himself. For the first time he has something truly worth dying for. But the words still ache, in a tender place inside of him that had never quite healed after his father's death, and no matter how hard he tries he cannot push them from his mind.
They ride at a steady but slow pace, not wanting to push d'Artagnan's healing body and Porthos is a steady comfort behind his back. Despite that it's still uncomfortable. The hole in his side is closing but the fever has left him weak and unsteady. Aramis makes him drink another foul tasting brew before they set off but even that only dulls the pain, like a numbing blanket of snow over the forest floor. It's not that d'Artagnan has never been injured before, over his time with musketeers he had accumulated his fair share of bumps and bruises, but this is the worst he's ever been hurt before. Over the past week he's become intimately acquainted with pain in all its forms. The sharp bright insistent pain of a fresh wound, the constant belligerent ache of healing skin, the intense burning heat of a fever in his veins. And he knows this pain now, too, a low deep misery in every inch of his body. It's become a living, breathing thing. Taking each breath with him, it echoes in each beat of his heart and hides behind each blink of his eyes. He can feel sweat beading on his brow and he presses his lips tight and looks inside of himself for a strength he knows he has. Porthos notices when he reaches a hand up to wipe at his brow, he can feel his heart skip a beat against his back.
"Are you feeling warm again? Is it…"
And he doesn't finish his sentence but d'Artagnan knows what he's asking. He shakes his head, and when he replies his voice is strained.
"No, no… it's just…"
"It just hurts?"
Porthos replies, and the words are kind. D'Artagnan nods shortly.
"Lean back against me, it will be more comfortable."
D'Artagnan shakes his head, surprised at the offer.
"I'm heavy, I don't want to put to much weight on you."
He can almost feel Porthos roll his eyes behind him, a sigh rattling through his chest.
"D'Artagnan, don't be stubborn. I can take it."
The heavy hand on his shoulder pushing him back against Porthos' broad chest doesn't leave him much choice in the matter and so he lets himself be pressed backwards. It's an improvement, laying back takes some pressure off of the wound in his side and the pain recedes a little. After that Porthos tells him stories, of his childhood in the court, of the adventures (and misadventures) he has had with Aramis and Athos, of love and loss and honor. Tells him stories of home. His voice is low and calming, a gentle rumble against d'Artagnan's back, and he lets himself be lulled into a half-sleep, his lullaby long past spilt blood and smoke and hope, a soldiers dreams.
Night starts too fall heavy and cool, they're still almost a day from Paris so they pull off the main road and make camp. He insists on climbing off the horse himself and it hurts but it comes with grim satisfaction, gives him a sense of control he's been lacking since he collapsed. He offers to help gather firewood but Porthos just gives him a look that could wither plants and gently pushes him down against a log. The rest of them busy themselves with setting up camp and soon there's a fire going and Porthos is dividing up dried meat and bread between the four of them. He sits and watches them all silently, and now it is even more glaringly obvious that Aramis is avoiding him. Over the course of the night he says maybe ten words to d'Artagnan, and never quite looks him in the eye and when he does he sees something in Aramis' gaze he can't quite understand. Something almost guilty. After he eats and forces yet another concoction down d'Artagnan's throat he retreats to the other side of the camp and sits broodingly against a tree, cleaning his musket and pistol and taking first watch.
For a long time d'Artagnan lies awake, watching the stars glisten silver in the velvety darkness of the sky above him and listening to Porthos snore. The night is full of the sounds of the wind rustling the dry leaves still left on the branches of trees and whistling along the plains, and he can hear the faint sounds of Aramis nearby. Eventually he falls into a restless slumber. That night d'Artagnan dreams. Dreams of burning fields and trees like torches and the walls of his childhood falling around him. Dreams of his father, standing unscathed amidst the destruction asking him ah, mon fils, qu'avez-vous fait. He wakes up gasping with those words echoing in his ears.
mon diue - thank god
mon fils, qu'avez-vous fait -my son, what have you done