Author's Note: For those that asked where the foretelling was in Chapter 1, I quote:
"Trying to lighten the mood, which was turning overly somber, Aramis jokingly asked, "And did Père de Noël visit your house and leave gifts in your shoes?"
"No," Athos said succinctly, as he pushed off the wall and began moving towards the room's exit. "Though, it was my family's... responsibility... to provide gifts to be given to the children of Pinon to celebrate the season. Like the generations before him, my father took a sack of gifts, much like Père de Noël, and gave them to the inn keeper in Pinon who made sure they were anonymously distributed to the children of the village."
Sneaky? Actually (shamefully blushing) when I penned those lines I had no idea that would become the heart and soul of this story. Originally, it was just a few sentences to set up for the next paragraph where I wanted to do a pity-party on Athos. He states that Père de Noël never came to visit him because he believed he was a bad boy (awwww, poor, poor Athos). Somehow, the delivering of the gifts morphed into the theme of the story. I do confess sometimes I start a story with a beginning, middle and end in mind (the technical term would be a plot I believe) and sometimes I just wander about, gleefully typing, hoping that something will emerge that shows me the way to the end of the story.
Anyway, two chapters left. I swore this would only be a tale of 12 chapters, each of a reasonable length. Therefore, I have forced (and it was a struggle I assure you as I like to be verbose) to gloss over details in favor of tying this up in a neat little 12 point bow. Hopefully you enjoy the end of the tale.
And whatever time zone you are in a have a Happy and Health New Year.
Athos set a grueling pace, which had to be hurting him, tremendously. But he was determined, and he didn't let up as the day progressed, pushing Roger to keep up his steady, ground-eating pace. Though Pinon was normally only a day's ride away, the snow covered roads slowed them down and darkness was falling when they were still a few leagues away from the village.
For the last hour, Porthos, D'Artagnan, and Aramis had taken turns flanking the ailing Athos and Roger. The swordsman kept closing his eyes and swaying alarmingly in his saddle. Finally, Aramis had enough of this nonsense and called the group to a halt. Roger stopped obediently with the rest of the horses, though Athos took a bit longer to process that they had stopped moving.
"Why have we stopped?" Athos demanded as he dazedly peered around in the deepening twilight. "This isn't Pinon," he stated the obvious in case anyone had overlooked the fact they were still in the forest.
"And at the rate you're going you will never see Pinon let alone deliver the gifts," Aramis told him. "You have been swaying in your saddle like a drunken sailor for the last few hours. It is only by the grace of God you haven't fallen off Roger yet."
Athos mumbled something about God that Aramis chose to pretend he didn't hear. He and Athos had different opinions on religion that were often best left unexplored.
"I warned you about falling out of the saddle and breaking your neck, didn't I?" Porthos warned his weary friend who gathered enough energy to glare at him though it was rather weak and pitiful.
Aramis began issuing orders, authoritatively. "D'Artagnan, move the sacks from Flip onto Roger. Athos, move your ass from Roger to Flip. You and Porthos are going to spend some quality time together.
When the swordsman started to protest, Porthos overrode him growling, "Hard way, or easy way, Athos?"
Suddenly too exhausted to even try to retort, Athos gave a little head tilt to acquiesce. He was feeling so poorly that he wasn't sure there was an easy way to move from Roger to Flip. With a wordless nod, which made his head throb more, he slid off Roger. The dizzy man was forced to lean against the horse heavily so as not to collapse onto the snow covered ground.
Meanwhile, Porthos popped to the ground, along with D'Artagnan, and they began to rearrange the bags. Porthos walked with a sack over to Roger. "Athos, you are in the way," Porthos informed the fatigued musketeer. "Go lean against Flip. He won't mind."
Athos gave a half-hearted scowl but did as he was told. Wobbling his way over towards Flip, he suddenly found Aramis' steadying hand on his arm. "Do watch the ground. It is quite slippery."
When they got to Flip, Aramis suggested that Athos wait on the horse because the medic thought in injured man's ability to remain upright was rapidly disintegrating. It took a lot of effort on both their parts, but finally Aramis boosted Athos into the saddle. For a moment, the marksman almost thought he was going to have to dash to around the horse to stop Athos from toppling off. However, years in the saddle made the semi-conscious musketeer self-correct before he fell off the far-side of Flip. Aramis gave a huge sigh of relief when Athos remained aloft.
He reached up and patted Athos on the thigh, encouragingly. "Perhaps you'd like to hold on to the saddle, in case, oh I don't know, Flip gets fidgety," Aramis lightly suggested and then in his mind added or in case you pass out. The marksman was surprised but pleased to see Athos' black, gloved fingers clutch both the pommel and a generous handful of gelding's dark mane.
Aramis walked over to where D'Artagnan and Porthos were tightening the last of the straps securing the packs on Roger's back. Porthos glanced over at him. "You got him on my horse?"
Aramis affirmatively nodded. "It was touch and go there for a moment, but he is onboard. However, my friend, you are going to be the only thing that keeps him there once Flip starts moving."
Looking over at his horse with the miserable looking, hunched-over rider perched on top, Porthos remarked drily, "Seems you got that right."
The three musketeers mounted, and proceeded to move out, with Aramis taking point and D'Artagnan leading Roger in the rear. True to his words, Porthos wrapped his strong arms around the ailing Athos, who didn't protest at all. Athos slipped into a comatose state where his body instinctively moved with the rhythm of the horse but his mind went offline trusting his brother to keep him safe.
Athos roused when they got near to Pinon and started directing them towards the inn's barn where they would leave the sacks of gifts. Athos' assistance wasn't necessary since they had all been to Pinon before, but they humored him.
When they got to the bag, the partially revived Athos insisted on helping move the sacks inside, though his brother's made sure he didn't do much more than give directions. After the bags had been safely stored in the barn, three musketeers walked and one stumbled back to where they had secured their horses.
"What now?" Porthos asked. ''Where do we spend the night? I don't fancy sleeping outdoors in this cold."
"I suppose the inn is out," D'Artagnan wistfully said looking over at the wooden structure in the distance.
"It is," Athos, concurred succinctly even though he would suffer the most if they were to camp in the open.
"Your house? Or what's left of it," D'Artagnan suggested next, knowing as he said it was not the best idea, but neither was freezing to death.
To be fair, Athos did consider the idea for a moment before nixing it. "I'm not sure if Catherine is still living in the servant's quarters. It would be...awkward...considering how we last parted."
"Well, neither the horses nor you are going to make it back to Paris tonight. You grew up here. You must know some place." Aramis waited expectantly for the swordsman to come up with a locale.
"There is a small cabin, by the river, a few leagues away. I spent some time in it after..." his voice trailed off for a moment before he spoke again. "...I moved to Paris. Last I knew, its roof was intact and the fireplace was functional. There isn't much more..."
"But it is better than being out in the open," D'Artagnan finished Athos' sentence for him. "Let's go."
As Athos went to mount Roger, he heard Aramis suggestively clearing his throat. Even though the light was dim, Aramis was certain Athos was glowering at him. The skin on his arms prickled in response to the negativity being aimed in his direction. However, it was cold, windy and starting to snow and Aramis didn't feeling like standing here having an esoteric conversation with Athos. So he decided to be direct and to the point.
"Go ride with Porthos," he commanded Athos, sternly.
"No."
Well, that was to the point too, Aramis thought humorously. So far, this is going splendidly.
"Very well, than you can ride with me," the marksman counter-offered.
"No."
"Alright, then D'Artagnan it is," Aramis brightly said, even though he was getting agitated by Athos' behavior.
This time Athos didn't ever utter a sound, just gave Aramis, 'the look'; the same one he sported just before shooting bad guys who annoyed him. Aramis' eyes strayed to ensure Athos' hands weren't anywhere near his weapons belt.
"If you fall off and hurt yourself, I won't help you," the marksman stated firmly, as his next persuasive argument.
A small smirk ghosted across his face. Two could play this game. "Fine," Athos replied nonplussed as he turned and reached up to grab the pommel.
Getting desperate, Aramis wheedled, "Would it help I said please?"
Athos stopped and turned back to level his gaze on Aramis. "Why?"
"I think politeness is a virtue," Aramis replied earnestly. "I like to be polite."
Before Athos could retort, Porthos cut him off. "I'm cold, tired, and hungry and I don't feel like sitting here listening to you two verbally spar for the next forty minutes."
Aramis couldn't resist teasing Porthos. "Aren't you always hungry? You and the pup?" Porthos' deep growl said it all and Aramis quickly turned serious. "You were saying?"
"Athos, get your ass over here, now. You're riding with me and Flip. Pup, take Roger's reins and lead him."
"I have a name, you know," D'Artagnan groused. "My mother put a lot of thought into picking it out."
Without any protest, Athos walked over to Flip, handing Roger's reins to D'Artagnan as he passed by the Gascon.
"What!" Aramis stood there, stunned, watching Athos obediently doing as Porthos instructed. "You listen to him! Just like that! I asked very nicely and you ignored me! He grunts and you obey."
Porthos smirked at Aramis as he took his foot out of the stirrup so Athos could use it to mount. The strong musketeer reached down and practically hauled Athos up by his good arm.
Once he was settled in front of Porthos, Athos glanced over at Aramis and simply answered. "Yes."
All the way to the cabin, Aramis fussed and fumed that no one listened to him or respected him; how he was just looking after their best interests; blah, blah, blah. The other three musketeers tuned him out, well two of them did, and the third started drifting off again, only rousing enough to keep them on course for the cabin. Once they arrived at the river, Athos instructed them to follow it until they ran into the cabin before shutting his eyes again and trusting Porthos to keep him from falling off. The instructions turned out to quite accurate. As they rounded a bend in the river, the dilapidated, wooden shack literally appeared in front of them. The falling snow and darkness aided in the illusion, but it was still a bit startling how it seemed magically to appear.
When Flip came to a halt, Athos' instincts made him open his eyes and blearily peer about. "This is it," he confirmed even though there was no doubt in anyone's mind they had arrived at the right location.
Athos removed his feet from the stirrups and tumbled down the side of Flip. Porthos made a quick grab for his collar but came up with empty air. The injured swordsman made an ungraceful landing, face first, on the snowy ground. Other than rolling on to his back after a moment, Athos made no attempted to rise. He lay there contemplating the snowflakes drifting down from the sky and landing on his prone body.
Porthos stared down at him from atop of his mix-breed gelding. "You hurt?" he asked with concern.
Athos sought to clarify the question. "You mean more so than when we started this little adventure? Probably not"
D'Artagnan and Aramis dismounted and walked over to stand next to the downed Athos.
"Isn't it cold lying there?" Aramis asked out of curiosity when Athos made no attempt to rise.
"No."
"Great," Aramis threw his hands in the air in aggravation. "You answer Porthos in full, well-formed sentences. Me, I get the single, monosyllabic reply."
"Well at least you have a name. I'm just 'pup'." Porthos and Aramis gave him a strange look for his left field comment. "Everyone else was complaining so I thought I would too," D'Artagnan rationalized to the group.
Athos let his heavy eyelids drift shut, as if he had been hypnotized by the swirling snowflakes. He hadn't been lying when he said he didn't feel cold. He was past feeling anything. His body had frozen hours ago, but his brain hadn't figured it out yet. There was a minuscule amount of warmth on his injured shoulder, which he pragmatically figured was his wound bleeding again. It didn't bother him all that much since it rather verified the fact he was still alive.
"Ah, Aramis. I think he has shut his eyes," Porthos noted as he swung down off of Flip.
Aramis immediately became the concerned medic. "Athos open your eyes!" he commanded but his plea brought about no change in the man lying in the snow.
"Athos, wake up!" Porthos barked and Athos' eyes promptly opened and dazedly peered about.
Aramis sighed with frustration. "Him, you listen to. Me, you ignore."
"Time to get up," the street fighter told Athos as he walked over and held out his hand.
Without hesitation, Athos started to struggle to rise and Porthos and D'Artagnan assisted him to his feet. Aramis stood there slack jaw, staring at Athos.
Aramis narrowed his eyes and tried again. "Let's go inside, Athos."
The swordsman stared blankly at him as if he had spoken some other language rather than French.
"Athos, let's go inside," Porthos repeated Aramis' command. This time the injured musketeer immediately started to shuffle towards the door of the cabin.
"Really!" Aramis complained as he followed the other three into the cabin. "This makes no sense."
Once in the cabin, D'Artagnan set about making a fire while Aramis lit candles and Porthos, after sitting Athos on the edge of the rickety bed, went out to take care of the horses. He eventually returned with their tack, blankets, and saddlebags. After a bit, they had a roaring fire, which was slowly taking the chill out of the drafty cabin. Athos had been wrapped in his cloak and a blanket and position near the fire, leaning against his saddle's frame.
Aramis and D'Artagnan prepared a small meal from the supplies they had been carrying. When it was ready, Aramis placed a bowl and spoon next to Athos by the fire. "Eat up while it's hot," he lightly instructed the swordsman.
Athos flicked his gaze between him and the bowl, than closed his eyes.
Without missing a beat from eating his own dinner, Porthos commanded, "Athos, eat."
Obediently, Athos opened his eyes, took the bowl, and began slowly to eat.
Aramis rocked back on his heels, fuming. He watched with growing aggravation as Athos consumed his meal. Finally, he exploded, "I can't stand this, Athos. Why are you ignoring every word out of my mouth, but are listening to Porthos like he is the voice of God?"
Athos carefully placed his half-finished meal on the floor next to him then dispassionately stared at Aramis.
"Oh for God's sake, do I have to ask Porthos to tell you to answer my question?" an exasperated Aramis asked.
"No."
"Well, that's a start," Aramis sarcastically remarked. "Care to elaborate?"
As if he were explaining something to a small child, Athos stated, "I am not bothering you anymore."
Aramis rubbed a frustrated through his hair. "Still lost here, Athos."
"You said if I fell off my horse and hurt myself, you wouldn't help me. I'm simply taking you at your word and not bothering you."
Aramis groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Really, Athos. That's what this is about? Your feelings are hurt?"
"It has nothing to do with feelings. Is that not what you said?" Athos asked with a little theatrical frown.
D'Artagnan, who was closely watching the interplay between the two men, was finding it hard to keep a straight face.
Uncovering his face, Aramis ran a distracted hand through his wavy locks, again. "Well, yes, I suppose, in the heat of the moment, I did say that."
"You did," Athos sincerely confirmed.
Aramis glanced over at Athos.
"You did say you wouldn't..." Athos started factually to repeat before Aramis cut him off.
"Yes, yes, you're right. I said I wouldn't help you if you fell off your horse. But I didn't mean it."
Athos appeared to consider Aramis' statement for a moment before saying, "Oh. And how was I supposed to know that?" he asked, the epitome of innocence.
Porthos kept eating his dinner, deciding not to play in this game. If he was a betting man, which he was, he'd wager that Athos would break Aramis first. If he played his cards right, Porthos decided he could probably snag the rest of Athos' food and maybe Aramis'. So, he kept his head bowed, ate, listened, and waited.
D'Artagnan, on the other hand, stopped eating and was concentrating fully on the floor show. He was losing the battle to keep a straight face as his mentor, in his dispassionate manner, tormented his best friend.
"How were you supposed to know?" Aramis repeated, sputtering, as his voice raised an octave. "Seriously, Athos. After all, we have been through together. All the times I have patched you up when you were hurt. Do you really think, if you were injured, I would walk away?"
"There's always a first time." Athos was so deadpan and sincere; he even had D'Artagnan starting to believe.
Aramis appeared ready to rip his hair out in his efforts to convince his brother he would never, in a million years, abandon him. "I swear by all that is holy, I would never refuse to aid and comfort you if you were injured." Aramis made a little sign of the cross as if he were blessing his statement.
Athos did his contemplative pause again that infuriated Aramis and delighted D'Artagnan. "Ok," he finally said in a manner that said end-of-conversation.
"That's all you have to say?" Aramis demanded.
Thinking for another moment, Athos added, "Thank you?" in the form of a question, not a statement. When Aramis simply stared at him, Athos added, "I think the polite response you are searching for is 'You're welcome'. I recall you saying that you do like to be polite."
A clearly frustrated and confused Aramis by rote intoned, "You're welcome."
Silence settled over the room and D'Artagnan thought the skirmish was over when Athos fired his final salvo. "Aramis?"
The marksman looked up from his dinner that he had started to eat again. "Hmmm?'"
"So you will help me if I fall off my horse and hurt myself?"
With a long suffering sigh, Aramis patiently answered, "Yes, Athos. We covered this ground already, more than once." The last three words he muttered under his breath.
Other than the snap and crackle of the fire, the cabin grew quiet again.
"Aramis?"
"Athos, you are trying my patience!" Aramis answered in a throttled tone.
The swordsman looked contritely down at his hands, but he didn't fool D'Artagnan. The boy knew Athos was toying with Aramis, like a cat playing with a rat.
Picking the exact moment when it would surely cause Aramis to snap, Athos repeated, "Aramis?"
The medic bowl clattered to the floor, though he didn't say a word, merely raised his eyes, and glared at Athos.
The swordsman knew it was time to bring this game to a close. Aramis was within a hair's breadth of clobbering him and frankly, he was too sore and too tired to defend himself. Loading his voice with honesty and sincerity he declared, "I fell off my horse and hurt myself."
Aramis' sigh seemed to go on for an eternity. "Really, Athos?"
The swordsman earnestly nodded. "It's bleeding and I may have ripped your stitches ... again."
"Of course you have." Aramis glanced over at his friend wearily. "Anything else you'd like to divulge?"
Athos, immediately, listed off his litany of ailments. "My head hurts. My ribs ache. I'm dizzy. But I only see one of you. And I'm not nauseous."
"Wonderful." Aramis resignedly rose to his feet. "I'll go get my kit."
As the browbeaten musketeer shuffled away, D'Artagnan glanced over at Athos, who seemed very pleased with himself. "Because it's fun?"
A small smile graced the usually stoic musketeer face. It was all the answer the Gascon needed.
Athos reached down, grabbed his bowl, and held it out to Porthos. "Want this?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Porthos replied as he took the bowl and dug in. "It's cold," the street fighter complained between mouthfuls. "If you had wrapped that up sooner, it would have still been warm."
"Apologies," Athos replied. "But I was having fun. I'll work on my brevity next time."
"Yea, you do that. You are getting rather long-winded, like the pup," Porthos complained as he tucked into Athos stew.
"Oh great. Aramis is gone so now you pick on me," D'Artagnan complained glancing between the two musketeers by the fire.
Porthos and Athos simultaneously shrugged. "Gotta keep ourselves entertained somehow," Porthos stated as he finished off the last of Athos' dinner.
"Exactly," Athos concurred, serenely looking over at his protégé.
"Exactly what?" Aramis asked as he rejoined the group by the hearth with his medical kit.
Athos didn't answer, but instead gave Aramis a puzzled look.
"Oh dear God, are we back to this again?" Aramis moaned in frustration as he unrolled the instruments.
"Pup. Pass me Aramis' dinner. He's gonna be too irked to eat it by the time he is finished patching up 'thos. Don't want it to go to waste," Porthos rationalized.
D'Artagnan took Aramis' bowl and handed it over. "Don't see why you have to call me pup. Aramis is back. I thought we were picking on him, now."
Porthos looked up from his bowl and did an excellent impression of Athos' patented stare.
"Because it's fun," D'Artagnan sighed with resignation.
"Exactly," Porthos replied before he went back to eating.
Aramis held up a threaded needle and looked at Athos. "Are ou ready?" he asked.
Athos tilted his head an cocked an eyebrow at the medic but remained silent.
"You really shouldn't irritate the man holding the sharp object that he is about to use on your tender skin," Aramis recommended with a an almost straight face
For the first time since Athos had started his little game, he began to wonder if he had gone too far. He worriedly peered at Aramis and the needle. The man had a really valid point. "I'm sorry," Athos humbly apologized.
Aramis' smirk turned into a full-fletched grin. "Oh, my friend, it's too late for that. Please try to hold still will you. This might hurt a bit."
D'Artagnan, who had originally gave the win of this game to Athos, was forced to reconsider. Perhaps, in the end, Athos really lost.