Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Eleven: pallysd'Artagnan, Rosey Malone, twaxer, Arlothia, ImaginaryArtist17, LordLady, enjoyedit, DalamarF16, MashiMoshi, UKGuest, and Aednat the Fourteenth

So early today haha. We have a snow day here so I've got my husband home helping out with the kids so I find myself with some extra time on my hands. What is there to do but go ahead and post Chapter 12 early! Enjoy!


Chapter Twelve: I Can Be the One You Call


I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.
Unknown


May 5 , 1625
Estate of Comte de Beauvais


Aramis glanced over his shoulder as the door all but slammed behind them, scarcely giving them time to clear the threshold.

"You think he might have invited us to stay the night," Porthos muttered next to him. "King's Guard and all. It's not as if we're rabble off the streets."

Aramis started back down the stone staircase towards where they'd left the horses. He heard Porthos trot down after him.

"Don't you think it would have been polite?" Porthos pressed.

Aramis honestly hadn't been surprised. He'd seen firsthand how many supposed 'nobles' tended to treat those they deemed 'lesser' – be it by wealth or breeding. He'd known the moment he'd laid eyes on the Comte de Beauvais that they'd be turned out the moment the king's missive went from their hands to his.

"I was given dinner and bed at a marquis' estate while you were gone in…" Porthos trailed off and cleared his throat. "Anyway, would have been polite seein' how far we traveled and given the sun's nearly gone already."

Aramis retrieved an apple from his saddle bag and fed it to Esmé as he looked up at the darkening sky.

"Men like Beauvais wouldn't let the likes of us even leave the imprint of our asses on their chairs," Aramis finally replied. Beauvais had actually reminded him of his father in some ways. Though, at his core, Beauvais had been nothing but a greedy man who thought position defined power. Julien d'Herblay had made his living under the mandate of the opposite – power defined position. A subtle difference, but one Aramis understood with clarity.

Esmé finished her apple and nudged greedily at his chest.

"No más," (No more,) he told her regretfully.

"He seemed polite enough when he greeted us," Porthos pointed out as he climbed wearily onto Fort's back. Aramis put his foot in Esmé's stirrup and hauled himself up as well. It had been a long day that had started early. They were both saddle-weary and in dire need of rest.

"Your judgement of character could use some work," Aramis muttered mostly under his breath. It wasn't an entirely fair assessment, really. Aramis had the advantage of having been exposed to his father's associates in his youth, most of whom were just like Beauvais. It was easy to spot that sort when you knew what to look for.

Porthos scowled at him and turned Fort towards the gates.

"I happen to be quite a good judge of character," he defended.

Aramis hummed doubtfully and urged Esmé to match Fort's gait.

"We're too far from the nearest inn to make it," Porthos commented. Then he smiled cheerfully. "It'll be under the stars for us tonight."

"And in the mud," Aramis grumbled. The storm last night had left the roads a sloppy mess and he knew finding a dry place to camp would be impossible. But then, of course, the whole idea of camping had his stomach twisting in his gut. It was ridiculous, frankly. He'd always had a great love of the outdoors, to his mother's patient amusement and later his father's frustration. He didn't know why the idea of spending a night under the stars had him itching to clutch at his pistols.

Except he knew exactly why.

"I'm sure we can find a bit of wet grass instead of sleeping in mud," Porthos assured with a chuckle.

Aramis sighed.

As soon as they'd woken this morning, Porthos had started the whole cheerful bit again. He'd smiled and talked brightly as if he hadn't woken Aramis from a screaming nightmare and found he'd gagged himself to keep it quiet; as if they hadn't both laid awake in silence most of the night.

On the surface, he seemed carefree and relaxed.

It would have been a relief if Aramis hadn't seen the worry in his eyes; if he hadn't noticed the tense set of his shoulders and the way he kept watching him as if waiting for Aramis to burst spontaneously into flame or something equally dramatic. Seeing all of that, hidden beneath the bright smiles and hearty chuckles, bothered him like an itch he couldn't reach.

He was made even more wary by how out of character such behavior was. Porthos hadn't brushed aside Aramis' considerable 'issues' since the day he'd woken in Savoy. He'd allowed him his own charade for a time, yes, but even then the concern had been open and the worry obvious. Now, out of nowhere, he was pretending to be unaffected.

It was maddening.

Even more frustrating, he knew exactly what Porthos was doing. He was giving Aramis a taste of his own medicine, as it were. Showing him how infuriating his own behavior had been over these last weeks.

What he didn't know was why he was doing it.

And the lack of clarity on that point was perhaps the most maddening of all.

"Aramis!"

He turned, meeting Porthos' gaze. The quizzically arched brow on the larger man's face suggested that had not been the first time he'd tried to get his attention.

"What?"

"That grove we passed on the way in is just around the bend. How does that sound?"

A grove – as in with trees.

A snowy forest flashed before his eyes and suddenly he was there. The sounds of battle echoed around him and his hand found his pistol, pulling it halfway from his belt on instinct alone.

"Whoa! Hey, easy!" Porthos reached and caught Esmé's bridle, bringing them both to a stop.

Aramis blinked rapidly, dispelling the memory that had imposed itself on reality. The vision faded away but the sounds did not. His hand tightened on the pistol, searching the area around them for the threat he could feel with every fiber of his being.

"Aramis! Look at me! Look at me!"

He forced his head around, dragging his eyes up to meet Porthos'.

"Breathe," Porthos whispered. "There's no one here," he stated. "Just breathe. We'll find another place to stop. No trees," he promised.

Aramis sucked a breath into his panicking lungs and swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. He wasn't able to stop himself from scanning the countryside around them again.

"We can't sleep in the open," he argued hoarsely. His years of soldiering insisted they take the proper precautions.

"Less trees then," Porthos amended.

Aramis squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed again. He still felt it, that tingling in the back of his neck, warning him of unseen danger. Perhaps if he didn't still hear the clashing of steel and the cries of the dying, he would be able to pry his hand from its grip on his pistol.

"Hey," Porthos' voice was insistent but gentle, "are you with me?"

Aramis forced his eyes open and drew in a shuddering breath.

"I'm with you," he replied tightly, as he slowly uncurled his hand from the stock of his pistol. "I just..." he trailed off and shook his head, biting back a confession of his unreasonable paranoia. There was nothing to be done for it anyway. He wouldn't burden Porthos. This was meant to be his penance. It was his to bear, and his alone.

"What?" Porthos pressed.

"Nothing," Aramis answered and then cleared his throat. "Let's keep moving."

He nudged Esmé to start walking again. Porthos was forced to release her bridle or be dragged from his own horse, so he let her go and urged Fort to follow.


Porthos watched Aramis from across the fire.

When they'd first made camp – in a small clearing nestled just beyond the tree line – Aramis had circled the area no less than five times before he'd decided it was fit for their purpose. Then, as Porthos had built a fire, Aramis had gone hunting for dinner. He'd returned an hour later, pale and trembling, but the rabbit he'd been carrying had been shot directly through the eye.

From there, it had only gotten worse.

Every sound in the trees or shift in the shadows had Aramis tightening his grip on his pistol. His sword, Porthos noticed, sat on the ground next to him, but he never once reached for it.

He never flinched. Never seemed afraid. He was just ready. He was primed for a battle as if it was just around the bend.

"Talk."

Porthos blinked, taking an extra moment to comprehend that Aramis had spoken.

"What?" he finally asked.

Aramis was staring at him across the flames, one hand wrapped around one of his pistols, the other resting lightly on the grip of his dagger. He was sitting against a log, one leg stretched out, the other bent up, pressing his knee to his chest.

"Talk," Aramis said again, though he offered no further explanation.

Porthos stared back at him, thoroughly confused.

"Come on, you've been going on all day and now you've nothing to say?" Aramis accused.

Porthos watched his eyes dart to track something in the trees and then snap back to Porthos.

"Aramis…"

"The smiles and the laughter… You've been playing that game since yesterday. Why stop now?"

Porthos frowned when Aramis' hand went white around his pistol. This was…unexpected. He'd expected his charade to bring about the same explosive reaction as yesterday. He hadn't anticipated Aramis demanding he keep it up.

Before he could even think of what to say, Aramis straightened, staring off to their left.

"Aramis?"

But the marksman was slowly rising to his feet, gaze pinned on something in the trees like a predator targeting his prey.

"Aramis?" Porthos tried again, more urgently this time.

In a blink, Aramis brought up his first pistol and fired. Porthos nearly jumped out of his skin and before he could do more than curse, Aramis was taking off at a sprint, abandoning the spent pistol even as he drew its twin.

"What the bleedin' hell…" Porthos pushed up, grabbed his sword, and charged after him, buckling his belt into place as he moved.

Aramis dashed into the trees without slowing, making hardly a sound as he pursued whatever had caught his attention. He moved like a panther, Porthos thought distantly; all smooth, coiled, dangerous grace.

Porthos, as he crashed into the trees several paces behind, figured he was likened more to a bull.

It didn't take long for the light of their fire to vanish behind them and then the darkness of the forest swallowed them.


Aramis had seen him by chance – a pale face amidst the darkness of the surrounding trees.

He'd been sure, at first, that it was a trick of his mind. So many times over these last weeks his mind had conjured phantoms to torment him. He'd studied the figure in the trees and been sure it was nothing.

But then the man had shifted, realizing he'd been spotted.

Aramis saw a glimpse of a musket barrel and reacted, firing his own pistol before the enemy could get his weapon to bear.

He swore he hit him, but it must have been a graze because the man had been fit enough to flee.

What was Aramis to do but follow?

He kept his gaze pinned on the fleeting figure ahead of him, mindless of the branches that clawed at him. Snow crunched under his feet as he moved. He was gaining. He nearly had him.

He lost sight of his quarry for half a breath, as the man curved behind a tree. Aramis was around the same tree three steps later.

The man was gone.

Aramis stumbled to a stop, breathing hard as he turned, eyes searching the darkness.

He was here. He had just been here.

Where had he gone?

He had to find him. He had to find him before he got back to the others, before they attacked. He had to…

"Aramis…"

He spun, his pistol rising defensively and finger curling around the trigger.

A large man with dark skin and wide eyes stumbled to a stop, hands raising in surrender.

"Whoa," the man soothed, "easy now."

Something in his voice was familiar, so familiar. But Aramis didn't have time to think about that. He had to find the man who'd been watching them. He had to find him before he brought his men down on the others.

He should have warned Marsac before he ran off. He should have raised the alarm so the others would be ready. He refocused on the man before him, pistol still raised.

"Did you see him?" he asked sharply. "Where is he?" he demanded quickly. "I have to find him," he added breathlessly, searching the area again with his gaze.

"Aramis," the large man rumbled, voice pitched low, "where are you?"

Aramis looked back at him with his brow raised in surprise.

"What kind of question is that?" he scoffed, backing away a pace when the big man tried to approach. "I'm here with you. Where is he?" he demanded again.

"There's no one here, Aramis," the man replied. "No one but us."

"He was here," Aramis insisted. He looked again, straining his eyes to see into the shadows. "He was here. I have to stop him before… The others… I have to stop him…" He felt as if his lungs started seizing. He couldn't properly draw in breath. He raised wide eyes back the larger man. "Matáran a todos," he gasped. (They'll kill them all.)

"Aramis." The stranger moved closer. Aramis backed away, pistol wavering in his grip.

"Stay back," he hissed. The man stopped immediately, hands still raised.

"Easy," he rumbled. "You know me."

Aramis shook his head, battling with his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

"You're not in Savoy," the large man soothed. "Look around you, what do you see?"

Without meaning to, Aramis glanced around. At first there was only snow. But with a blink it flickered away, replaced by signs of spring. Aramis frowned in confusion, wincing as the pressure in his chest compounded.

"You're not in Savoy," the man said again, taking a cautious step closer. "It's a trick of your mind."

The pistol shook in his grip.

"You know me," the large man went on gently, easing closer still.

Aramis met his gaze.

He had worried eyes, caring eyes. This man knew him. He cared about him - his voice shook with the weight of it.

Aramis blinked and he remembered.

"Porthos." Relief swept through him and the pistol fell harmlessly to his side. Porthos was an ally, a fellow Musketeer. Something in his chest eased as he realized he was not alone.

"That's right," Porthos seemed to nearly wilt with his own relief, shifting closer, reaching for him.

Aramis recoiled.

"We have to find him," he insisted, stepping one way, then another, uncertain of which path to pursue. He felt his chest start to tighten again.

"There's no one here," Porthos reminded gently, still pitching his voice as if Aramis were a startled colt.

"There was a man," he told him, voice shaking. "I saw him." He turned and gestured vaguely at the trees. "Yo lo vi." (I saw him.) Something squeezed his lungs, preventing them from working properly.

"There's no one here," Porthos corrected calmly. "I was right behind you," he reminded.

Aramis shook his head, dragging in a breath past protesting lungs.

"Yo lo vi."

"It was a figment, a phantom, nothing more," Porthos insisted.

Aramis looked up at the branches above them, gaze searching through the boughs to see the heavens beyond. He shook his head again as emotion swelled in his chest, choking him. Was it only in his head? Was he going mad? The vice around his chest tightened.

Aramis reached up to dig his fingers into his hair. His short hair. Always so short now.

He was so tired of this. He was so tired.

Why couldn't he breathe? His pistol fell from listless fingers and he pressed a hand to his sternum.

"Aramis?"

His chest tightened painfully and dark spots danced across his vision.

"Aramis!"

His knees gave way and he fell. But no sooner had his knees hit the forest floor than strong hands were wrapping around his arms, keeping him from going down completely.

"Aramis, breathe!"

But he couldn't. His lungs wouldn't work, his chest wouldn't loosen.

"Aramis, hear me now, brother. Come on, you've got to hear me! I'm with you, Aramis. You're not in Savoy. You're not alone. I'm here, Aramis. I'm here."

I'm here.

Porthos.

Porthos who was always here, always at his shoulder. Porthos, whom he wished would leave at the same time he wanted to beg him to stay.

"Breathe, Aramis. You're not alone. I'm here."

Air slid into his lungs, burning its way through his body like liquid fire.

"You're not alone," Porthos whispered again.

But he was. He would always be alone. Of twenty-two sent to Savoy, he was the only one left.

Something in him cracked.

He exploded out from where he'd been half folded towards the ground, pushing off of Porthos with a growl.

"Why are you here?!" he demanded. "I've done everything I can to drive you away. Why won't you just leave me alone?!" he shouted as he stumbled to his feet and away from the other man. He leaned to snatch his pistol back from the ground.

He suddenly wanted to get back to the camp, to the fire. He was so cold.

He staggered back the way he'd come, only partially remembering the path of his adrenaline-induced flight through the trees.

He heard Porthos hesitate and then follow after him.

"Aramis."

"Just leave me alone!" Aramis snapped over his shoulder.

"I can't do that. I won't."

Aramis rounded on him, nearly tripping over a root hidden by the shadows.

"¿Por qué?" he demanded but Porthos just stared at him. "¡¿Por qué?!"

Porthos' gaze narrowed in confusion and Aramis threw his hands up in annoyance, both with himself and with Porthos. Sometimes he just wished his mind would pick a language and stick to it.

"WHY?!" he shouted. "Why can't you just let me be?"

"I've told you, Aramis, so many times."

"No," Aramis shook his head and started walking again, putting his back to Porthos, "don't say it."

"I'm your brother."

Whatever had cracked in him fractured further and he whirled once again.

"My brothers are dead! And the one whom I thought could be trusted betrayed that brotherhood when he left me there to die!"

Porthos stared him down, expression grim and fierce all at the same time.

"I'm not Marsac, Aramis."

Aramis dug his hands into his hair and resisted the urge to shout in frustration.

"Do you think I don't know that?" he argued with a touch of hysteria. "I know!"

"Then why do you treat me as if I'm the one who betrayed you?"

Aramis, temper ignited and heart pounding, answered before he could stop himself.

"Because you're the only one here!"

And it wasn't fair. Aramis should have returned to a Garrison of brothers ready to support him. He should have come back to a captain who would guide him back from the darkness he was trapped in. Treville should have been there.

He should have been there.

But he wasn't. He had turned his back on him instead.

Everyone was content to let him drown in darkness. Everyone was relieved that he did not burden them with his suffering.

Everyone but Porthos.

He had tested Porthos in every way he could. He had pushed and shoved and demanded to be left alone. He had given Porthos every chance to prove that he would let him down, just as Marsac had.

But Porthos remained.

Even now, his steady voice echoed through Aramis' memory.

I'm here.

He was there and no one else was.

"Aramis…" Porthos stepped closer, hand reaching out.

Aramis backed away, shaking his head and turning. He stalked back through the trees, fixating on the light from the fire that he could finally see again. He heard Porthos trailing after him, but didn't slow. His hands were shaking so hard it was all he could do to slide his pistol back onto his belt. He was still battling it when he broke through the trees back into the clearing.

He was so distracted that he almost didn't notice.

The tingling at the back of his neck.

"Aramis!" Porthos' frantic shout was the second warning he got.

Both, unfortunately, came too late.

A force slammed into him, bringing him hard to the ground. His right shoulder took both his weight and his attacker's and a sickening pop made his stomach lurch into his throat even as the pain erupted. Then, in a blur, the weight bearing down on him was gone as a howl of rage tore through the space above him.

Aramis pushed his left hand against the ground, already feeling the pain fade to nothing as adrenaline flooded his system and his focus narrowed into battle readiness. Porthos was wrestling with whoever had tackled Aramis, growling like a bear. He seemed to have it well in hand so Aramis scanned for other attackers even as he climbed to his feet.

He tore his pistol from his belt and shot a man leaping from the trees. The man fell back without a sound, Aramis' shot having torn straight through his eye. He threw down the pistol and twisted to reach his dagger, only to realize it wasn't there.

He'd left it and his sword by the fire.

Five more men emerged from the trees, all brandishing swords.

Aramis knew he had to get a blade in his hand if he had any hope of defending himself and protecting Porthos' back.

So he turned and ran.

"NO!" he heard someone shout. "Don't shoot! Take them alive!"

He was almost back to the fire.

Something smashed into the back of his legs, sending him crashing to the ground for a second time. His chin cracked against the earth and he tasted blood, but he didn't feel the pain. He twisted, throwing his left elbow into the face of the man trying to get a better grip on him.

Then he dug his toes into the dirt and clawed his way forward.

Just a bit further.

His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger and then he was ruthlessly yanked backwards, his fingers grasping uselessly in the grass. With a shout of frustrated anger, he rolled, unseating the weight trying to settle on his back. He grabbed a fistful of the attacker's doublet and hauled himself onto the man's chest. Then, pinning him with his weight, Aramis drew back his left fist and hit him once, twice, three times. Sufficiently stunned, the man blinked dazedly up at him.

Aramis reached down, wrapped his left hand around the attacker's sword hilt and yanked it free of the scabbard. He flipped the blade and drove it down into the man's heart. Then, using the sword as a brace, he pushed to his feet and pulled the blade free, stalking back towards where Porthos was now fighting four men. They'd thought Aramis the weaker threat it seemed.

A mistake.

He entered the fray with a cool, calculated focus. There was no wild emotion, no raging yells. There was only his training, his instincts, and that vein of ruthless fury that he saved for moments like this.

He drove his stolen sword up through the nearest man's back and ripped it free just as swiftly. In the same moment, Porthos snapped the neck of the man he'd been brawling with.

The furthest man shifted back a step and then brought his hand to his mouth, letting loose a loud whistle.

Aramis lunged at the other remaining enemy, sending him stumbling back as he deflected the attack. It gave Aramis room to get to Porthos' side, allowing him the moment he needed to finally draw his own sword.

Side by side, they watched more men melt out of the trees.

Aramis tightened his hand on his stolen sword, frowning as the encroaching enemy shimmered before him. One moment they were simply dressed – mercenaries from the look of it. The next they were masked and there was snow on the ground around them.

Aramis shifted back a step, unsure.

He blinked but the snow remained and the masks didn't fade away.

He was there again.

He was in Savoy.


A man, riding alone down the road, brought his bottle of wine up to his mouth, intending to let the liquid join the entire bottle's worth already warming his belly, but dropped it to the ground when the blast of a weapon firing broke the stillness of the night. It sounded distant, but that could be the trees playing tricks. Close or not, the sound was sobering.

He straightened in the saddle, taking up the reins with purpose for the first time in hours.

He urged Belle along, trusting his horse to be sure footed in the darkness.

A few minutes later, he thought perhaps he'd imagined the sound in his stupor.

But then he heard a muffled shout.

"NO! Don't shoot! Take them alive!"

Turning back didn't even enter the man's mind as he put his heels into his mount to urge her into the trees towards the shout. Perhaps it was curiosity, or recklessness, but his only thought was to discover the source of the yell.

He could see the light of a fire through the trees and slowed, sliding off his horse and loosely wrapping the reins around a branch. He rested his hand on his sword as he crept closer.

Hiding himself behind a tree, he watched a battle unfold before him.

A man was pushing himself up, having just stabbed another through the chest. Then he was stalking across the small clearing, looking clearly like a predator on the hunt despite the fact that one arm hung uselessly at his side.

The swordsman stalked over to where another small battle was taking place, aiding a large, dark man against four assailants. Together, they halved that number with ease.

A sharp whistle echoed through the air as the smaller man lunged at the nearest of their remaining enemy before stepping up next to his larger companion. Then more men poured from the trees.

The first man took a step back, looking uncertain. But then, even from across the clearing, the stranger could see the reckless, wild, fury alight in the man's eyes.

Then the battle was on.

The smaller man all but flew forward, fighting like a demon escaped from hell. The larger man followed, bellowing loudly as he covered his companion's back.

The man watching from the trees drew his sword, but hesitated, undecided.

He had simply been passing by the grove of trees when he'd heard the original shot.

It wasn't his fight, really. He had no right to get involved. He simply wanted to move on from Paris towards new cities with new taverns where he could drink his pain away.

But something about seeing two men facing overwhelming odds pulled at his sense of justice. There was no decency in an ambush like this.

Honor demanded he intervene.

Honor. The same honor that had led him to put his wife to death? It had been his duty, his obligation towards his brother. His sweet, gentle brother - stolen, ripped from life by her. But his heart had punished him ever since. What kind of man was he? To have loved a woman capable of such a thing? What kind of man was he to love her still?

He reached with his free hand to grasp at the locket that hung around his neck. He was haunted by her. By her laughter. Her smile. His mind drifted back to the bottle of wine he had dropped, desperately wanting to drink away all thoughts of the woman who had destroyed his life. But he supposed he would have to use another distraction to drown out the memories of her for the moment.

Even as he made to step out from his cover, however, he saw the smaller man go down. A strike from the pommel of a sword, it looked like. He tried to push himself up but was hit again before he could. He went still after that. The larger man let loose a wild roar of anger and killed two men in quick succession, but then a blade caught him across the back of his leg and he went to one knee.

The stranger clenched his jaw when the stock of a pistol cracked against the large man's head a moment later and he fell.

As he watched, both unconscious men were bound with their hands behind their backs. The smaller one was hefted onto a burly man's shoulder and the larger was dragged between two men as they headed back for the trees they'd emerged from.

Sword still drawn, the man eased out of the trees and ran to the campfire, hoping for a clue as to what had just happened or who was involved. He found an ornate pistol, recently fired, abandoned, an undrawn sword, and a forgotten dagger. He collected the weapons, already resolved that he would return them to their owners. He found two sets of saddlebags and two saddles next, prompting him to glance up and around.

There.

He saw a large black horse pulling frantically against its tether. Nearby, the remnants of broken reins hung from a low branch.

Chewing his lip in thought, the man shouldered all he had found, save the saddles, and returned to his own horse. He loaded her down with the extra bags and then mounted, heading back for the clearing. He moved over to the frantic steed and, from his saddle, reached with his sword to slice the reins.

Suddenly freed, the horse took off back towards the road and, hopefully, towards home where it would be looked after. The man turned his own horse then and started across the clearing, paying no mind to the bodies of the dead that had been left behind. Just before reached the trees, he caught sight of something glinting from the moonlight in the grass, something that looked oddly familiar.

Sliding off Belle once again, he crouched and retrieved a second pistol. Frowning, he dug into one of his saddle bags and pulled out the first one. He held them side by side.

Identical.

And expensive.

He slid them both back into the bag and re-mounted, starting into the trees. He progressed slowly, wary of alerting his new enemy that they were being pursued. He wasn't even entirely certain he was pursuing them. Quite a bit of time had passed since they'd vanished into the trees with their prizes. He might not be riding in the same direction they were going in at all anymore.

That thought was swiftly put to rest when the sounds of arguing reached him from somewhere ahead. Dismounting, he led Belle behind him as he slowly picked his way closer. He left her out of sight and then continued on foot until he came upon a second clearing, smaller than the first.

"It was supposed to be easy!" a man with bright red hair was shouting.

"If you thought taking two Musketeers would be easy, then you're a fool," another man replied coolly. He was hovering over two unmoving figures on the ground, pulling at something on their bodies. He stood a moment later, brandishing two curved pieces of leather.

The stranger blinked, the man's words suddenly sinking in as he stared at the familiar uniform.

Musketeers.

The two captives were of the King's Musketeers.

He'd only met a few, but he had heard many stories. In the five short years since they'd been commissioned, the specialized regiment had set itself apart. They had become known for their high standard of honor and integrity as well as their impressive level of combat skill.

"Take these to him as proof of our good faith," the man instructed, tossing the uniforms to a man already on horseback. "Tell him to meet us at the old church in two days' time with payment."

Old church.

He frowned, wishing he knew the area or that his brain wasn't wading through a bottle of wine.

"What about our money," the redhead complained as the man on horseback rode away.

"When I get paid, you'll get paid, not before," the cool man replied. "Get them onto horses."

Then he strode to his own horse and mounted, obviously trusting his instructions to be followed. The stranger watched the two Musketeers each get tossed over a horse's back like sacks of grain. Then the remaining men were moving out, leading the two horses carrying their captives by the reins.

He watched them, frozen in place.

He could turn back, find a nice tree to sleep against and pretend he never saw any of this. He could retrieve the spare bottle of brandy from his saddle bag and drink his way to quick oblivion.

Who could blame him? He was outnumbered, had no information to go on but 'old church', and following them would no doubt risk his discovery.

He could ride back to Paris and report this to the captain of the Musketeers.

But the man had said 'two days.' It would take two to get back to Paris and another two to return, longer if this 'old church' was hard to find.

The Musketeers didn't have time for that.

Honor as a gentleman demanded he pursue. His duty as a man demanded he do whatever he could to rescue the Musketeers from these men's clutches.

No matter what had happened in the past, honor and duty were all he had left now. He might as well be true to them.

Something ignited in his chest, burning warm and bright for the first time since…since his life had fallen to pieces around him. Something that had been missing as he wandered the taverns of Paris trying to drown out the memory of her. Something he had never thought he would feel again.

Purpose.


Porthos woke to a pounding in his head. He groaned, trying to shift his hand up to find the source of the tacky stiffness he felt in his hair. He met immediate resistance and found he couldn't even pull his hands forward. They were bound behind his back, he realized suddenly, with rough rope that was scraping into the flesh of his wrists. He was partially on his side, partially on his stomach, with his forehead pressed into something cold and hard. He could feel the chill seeping through his clothes, making him shiver.

"Bleedin' hell…" he muttered as he finally forced his eyes open to take stock of his, apparently dire, situation. He blinked into the dim, dreary darkness and immediately saw a mess of short, dark hair facing him, the body attached to it bound and sprawled exactly as Porthos was.

Aramis.

Porthos grunted and dug his shoulder into the hard stone floor, maneuvering to get his knees under him. Pain flared in his right leg. He ground out a groan, but didn't stop. When he finally succeeded in levering his torso off the ground, he stretched his arms and curled forward, straining to get his bound wrists low enough to slide under him. He kept his gaze fixed on Aramis, who hadn't stirred, as he tried to force his body to bend and stretch just a bit more. The rope dug into his skin, scraping it raw. But then, finally, he slid his bound wrists under his rear and down behind his thighs. He sat back up and wriggled his way to unthread his legs through his bound arms.

As soon as his boots cleared the rope, he was scrambling forward onto his knees, grasping at Aramis' shoulder with his bound hands.

"Aramis?"

There was blood coating the side of Aramis' face, stemming from a cut high on his forehead and a second one next to his right eye. Porthos' gaze slid nervously to the pink, young scar cutting through the hair on the same side. He was no physician, but he knew blows to the head were messy business, especially too many of them too close together.

"Aramis!" he called again, carefully shaking the shoulder beneath his hands.

He was rewarded with a groan.

"Hey, that's it," he encouraged, "follow me back."

"P'th's?"

Aramis hadn't opened his eyes yet, but this brow had creased and lines of pain had tightened around his eyes.

"I'm here," Porthos assured quietly, painfully stepping over Aramis' hips to crouch in front of him, never releasing the grip he had on the other man's doublet. He leaned closer, "Open your eyes, 'Mis."

He winced at the use of the nickname, having said it without meaning to. He hadn't dared use it since Aramis had taken it so badly weeks ago.

"P'th's?" Aramis blinked blearily, frowning in confusion when he saw Porthos hovering in front of him.

"I'm here," Porthos said again.

"Y' sh'dn' be here…" Aramis slurred. His frown deepened as his eyes scanned Porthos' face. "No esta seguro." (It's not safe.)

Porthos felt his heart thud to a sharp stop in his chest before restarting in a punishing rhythm. He recognized those words. He didn't know what they meant, but he had heard them before. He watched Aramis' eyes flit around them, seeing everything but not comprehending any of it. A shiver shook Aramis' entire body and Porthos cursed the coldness of the room, suspecting it was only making this all harder.

"You're not in Savoy," he stated firmly. "Listen to me, Aramis," he shifted his tethered hands, twisting them until he could press his fingers against Aramis' jaw. "You're not in Savoy."

Aramis went absolutely still under the touch, eyes fixating on Porthos' with a level of ruthless intensity that made his breath stall in his chest. He stayed frozen as Aramis studied him, and waited as the other man found his way back.

He was able to see it the moment Aramis found his footing again.

"Porthos."

"There you are," Porthos sighed in relief. "I'm here," he assured one more time.

"Where's here?" Aramis asked, lifting his head slightly.

He went pale, eyes widening briefly, then he twisted towards the ground, shoulders rolling unnaturally. Porthos grimaced in realization just as Aramis retched, losing whatever was in his stomach to a bout of violent heaving.

"Easy," he soothed, wrapping his hands in Aramis' doublet when he was finished and dragging him away from the mess. He was startled to a stop when Aramis ground out a sharp moan of pain. "What is it?" he demanded, pulling Aramis upright by his doublet with more care and easing him against the wall. It looked awkward and uncomfortable with his hands still trapped behind his back, but Porthos didn't know what else to do.

"My shoulder," Aramis revealed through gritted teeth, "is dislocated."

Porthos swallowed thickly. Back in the Court, Charon had dislocated his shoulder falling from a stolen horse once. He had cried from the pain of the injury, but that had been nothing compared to fixing it. Porthos would never forget the way Charon had screamed when Old Man Cedric had set it back in place.

But as he watched, Aramis was taking slow, even breaths. The lines of pain in his face faded until he was staring at Porthos with a level, steady gaze.

"I need you to set it," the marksman instructed.

Porthos blinked.

"What?" he gasped. "I can't. I don't… I've never…"

"Porthos!" Aramis cut through his stilted objections. "You have to. If it goes too long, there could be lasting damage."

Porthos shifted his gaze to Aramis' right shoulder, taking in the odd way it was resting.

"Henri has taught me how to do it," Aramis went on calmly. "I've done it a handful of times myself already. That new man, Bertrand, can't seem to keep his shoulder in place for more than a day or two."

Porthos had a sudden memory of Bertrand falling awkwardly during a hand to hand training session. He'd been in obvious pain and carried off to the infirmary before Porthos could work out what was wrong.

"Porthos," Aramis called for his attention when he stayed quiet for too long.

"What do I do?" he managed to ask hoarsely.

"First, I need you to cut us free."

Porthos stared at him in exasperation.

"With what? A sharp glare?"

Aramis blinked at him, and then his lips twitched into a vague grin.

"As fascinating as that attempt would be to witness, I think the blade in my boot would be simpler."

Porthos stared at him and Aramis shifted, shrugging his good shoulder sheepishly.

"You might have mentioned that," he scolded as he dug his fingers into the side of Aramis' left boot.

"Um…"

"What?" he sent the marksman a sharp look.

"Other boot, Porthos."

Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Of course it is," he muttered, shifting over to Aramis' right foot. His searching fingers found the delicate, narrow hilt almost immediately. He carefully withdrew the blade, realizing that it wasn't sheathed and wary of cutting Aramis with it.

When he had the blade free he took a moment to study it. It was a small thing, barely the length of his palm, and narrow. It had a good balance to it, likely good for throwing. He arched a questioning eyebrow at Aramis as he flipped it in his hands and sawed at the ropes around his wrists.

"I've found, through unfortunate experience, that keeping a weapon or two hidden on my person is a wise precaution."

"Or two?" Porthos wondered as the ropes snapped and he felt a tingling take over his hands. He hadn't realized how tight those bindings were until they were finally gone.

"Come now, Porthos," Aramis huffed in amusement and let Porthos carefully turn him so his hands were visible, "I can't very well reveal all my secrets, can I?"

Porthos rolled his eyes and carefully cut at the ropes around Aramis' wrists. He wasn't sure he wanted to know where else Aramis might be hiding another blade. Porthos, personally, had never been one for concealed weapons. In the Court, everybody had been armed and no one bothered pretending they weren't.

The ropes fell away and he dropped the knife, carefully easing Aramis' injured arm around to his lap.

"Now what?" he asked worriedly, noticing Aramis had lost a shade of color and was taking slow, determined breaths again. The marksman was using his good hand to carefully feel around on his injured shoulder. Finally, he nodded sharply.

"Help me lie down." Porthos did, sitting by his right side. "Now brace your boot here, on my ribs, and take my arm. One hand above my elbow, one above my wrist."

Porthos did as he was instructed, watching Aramis' jaw flex against unvoiced pain.

"Straighten it towards you, yes, like that. Good."

Aramis went quiet for a moment, eyes closed and jaw clenched. Porthos licked his dry lips and swallowed, waiting.

"In a moment, you're going to pull with all you've got. Whatever you do, don't stop until you feel my arm shift back to where it should be."

Porthos felt sweat sprout on his brow despite the coldness of the room.

"And if I pull your arm off?" he worried.

Aramis huffed a tight chuckle.

"I've no doubt of your strength, Porthos, but even you couldn't manage that."

"Aramis…" Porthos swallowed again. He didn't want to do this. The memory of Charon's scream echoed through his head.

Aramis opened his eyes and glanced at him.

"I need you to do this, Porthos. Please."

The quiet plea steeled Porthos' nerves and he nodded, tightening his grip on Aramis' arm.

"Remember," Aramis instructed as he fixed his gaze on the ceiling, "don't stop."

"I won't," Porthos promised. "On three?"

"Why not." Aramis sounded a bit impatient now and Porthos took a breath to prepare himself.

"One…two…three!"

Porthos pulled.

Aramis didn't scream, not like Charon had. Instead he arched off the ground, jaw clenched so tightly Porthos worried for his teeth. He didn't seem to breath, didn't make a sound, but his uninjured hand pounded once against the ground in a closed fist.

Porthos wished he would just scream. He was sure it would have been better than the silent agony the marksman seemed to be bleeding into the air around him.

True to his word, he didn't stop, not until a stomach-churning 'pop' sounded from Aramis' shoulder and the joint settled back into place. Porthos immediately stopped pulling, but didn't let go of his hold on Aramis' arm. The marksman melted back to the floor, breathing like he'd just run a lap around the palace gardens.

"Aramis?"

"Good," Aramis praised, voice hoarse as if he'd been screaming for hours. "You did good, Porthos."

Porthos felt rather like he'd aged a decade in the last sixty seconds, but he nodded in acceptance anyway. He helped Aramis sit up again and eased him back against the wall. Carefully, he rested Aramis' arm into his lap and then released him.

"A sling?" Porthos suggested though he wasn't entirely sure if they had anything to fashion one with. But Aramis just shook his head.

"I'll be needing both arms by the end of this, I think," Aramis explained, turning his focus on Porthos with alarming intensity.

"What?" Porthos couldn't quite keep the defensive edge out of his voice.

"Are you hurt?" Aramis demanded suddenly, eyes sweeping over Porthos critically.

Porthos' head ached and he felt his leg throb where he'd been cut. He opened his mouth to reassure his friend that he was fine. But Aramis eyes narrowed.

"You are," the marksman decided. Then there were hands in Porthos' hair, gently, but persistently skimming his scalp. He couldn't help but hiss when Aramis' probing fingers found the wound at the back of his skull.

"Easy," he squawked as Aramis unceremoniously pulled his head forward so he could inspect the damage. In the dimness of their prison, lit only by a small vented window high in the ceiling, Porthos wasn't sure exactly what Aramis hoped to accomplish.

"Is your vision impaired? Are you dizzy? Are you confused at all? Is your stomach unsettled? Do you know your name? The day?"

Porthos closed his eyes and shook his head against the rapid fire questions. He reached up and caught Aramis' hands, pulling them away from his head so he could raise it to meet Aramis' gaze. The marksman's eyes were wide and somehow bore an air of fierce focus as well as a touch of frantic hysteria.

"Porthos du Vallon," he answered gently. "Considerin' dawn is breaking," he tilted his head towards the small window, "I'd say it's now Tuesday. No dizziness, no faulty vision, no confusion, no upset stomach. That was you, remember?"

Some of the tension left Aramis' posture and he blinked, pulling one hand from where Porthos had his trapped to wipe self-consciously at his mouth even as he cut his gaze away.

"Do you know your name?" Porthos challenged with a teasing grin.

He was pleased when more tension faded from Aramis' posture and he slid a vague glare in Porthos' direction. Porthos smiled in response, but then sobered.

"You were confused when you woke, Aramis," he reminded, worry thickening in his throat. "And you were sick."

Aramis hummed in vague annoyance, dancing his fingers across the right side of his face and the two cuts residing there.

He must have seen the worry building in Porthos' eyes because his fingers slid back to ghost over the scar on the side of his head.

"It's all right," he assured. "My stomach has always been a bit temperamental when it comes to head wounds. And it was the cold of the room, I think, more than these," he gestured at his bloody face, "that caused the confusion. The cold always seems to…" Aramis trailed off abruptly, gaze cutting away as tension tightened in his shoulders again.

Porthos tightened his hold on the hand he still somehow had caught in his. He wondered what it meant that Aramis hadn't pulled it away.

"Don't do that," he admonished gently. "Don't hide from me, Aramis."

"I'm not hiding," Aramis defended quietly, but the way he refused to meet Porthos' gaze suggested otherwise.

"You are," Porthos argued levelly. "You have been since you came back. But you don't have to." He leaned until he caught Aramis' averted gaze. "You don't have to," he said more firmly.

For a long moment, Aramis was as still as a statue – unmoving and barely breathing. Then, without warning, his shoulders bowed as if a great weight had just settled on them. Later, Porthos imagined that this was the moment Aramis had begun to break. This moment, he would come to realize, was the turning point.

"But I do," Aramis countered softly. There was such a heavy weight in his voice that Porthos only barely resisted the urge to reach out and pull the smaller man into a protective hug.

"Why?" Porthos demanded, fighting and failing to keep his voice even. This was too important. This conversation had been waiting for far too long.

When Aramis tilted his head and met Porthos' gaze fully, the larger man felt his chest tighten at the sheer weight of sadness, weary resignation, and loneliness in Aramis' eyes. He tightened his hands around Aramis' again.

"It's what they needed."

"Who?"

"Everyone," Aramis revealed. "Why do you think no one has said anything? Why do you think they have allowed this to go on so long? Even Treville…" A pain so tangible flashed through Aramis' gaze that Porthos was certain he felt it by extension. The marksman swallowed thickly and shook his head. "They don't want to see, Porthos."

"I want to see," Porthos insisted. "I said something.I didn't allow it."

Aramis stared at him with a sad and weary resignation in his eyes.

"And you were the only one, weren't you?"

And something finally slid into place in Porthos' mind.

"That's why you were so angry with me all the time," he realized. "Not because I didn't allow you your mask, but because it was only me who didn't."

Aramis' lips twisted in some tragic version of a smile.

"What were you to me compared to them? Compared to Treville? It shouldn't have been you, Porthos."

The words should have sounded accusing, even bitter. But instead, Porthos heard a vein of bewildered awe. Still, after all this time, all that had happened, Aramis doubted him.

"You knew what I was," he accused. "What I still am. You just don't want to trust it. Maybe you can't. But you know, Aramis."

Porthos refused to believe he had been the only one to feel it – the instant spark of brotherhood. He knew he wasn't the only one to have felt the kinship, the familiarity, the sense of home. He knew Aramis had felt it too. But Marsac's betrayal was a poison that had left nothing in Aramis' life untouched.

The smaller man's lips twitched into a frown as he studied Porthos like he was some unsolved puzzle.

"And I know you think you have to do this alone, Aramis," Porthos pressed, determined to push for as much ground as he could. "But you don't. I'm here and I won't leave you."

Something flashed in Aramis' eyes and in an instant Porthos knew he'd pushed too far.

Aramis' hand, clasped tightly in Porthos' all this time, withdrew sharply.

"Aramis…"

"You know why I have to do this alone," Aramis accused. "I told you why."

"And you're wrong."

Aramis' eyes hardened and his face turned to stone. Without another word he stood and backed away.

"Aramis."

"I don't expect you to understand," Aramis snapped, an anger that Porthos found all too familiar coloring his tone. Porthos watched him circle the small room, hands tracing the walls as he inspected their prison.

Porthos sighed and looked around as well.

The room was small and dark, though it was getting brighter as the sun rose higher outside, filtering more and more light through the solitary little window above them. He was studying the window, idly wondering if it would be of any use for their escape, when a sharp hiss drew his attention.

He swung his head around to Aramis and found the man staring down at something on the floor.

Porthos followed his gaze and saw a drying patch of blood. The cut on his thigh twinged in pain.

A set of dark, accusing eyes settled on him.

"My leg," he admitted freely. "I don't think it's deep."

In a flash, Aramis was on his knees at Porthos' side.

"Which leg?" Aramis demanded as he started pulling at his own doublet, stripping it off and yanking his shirt tail out of his breeches.

"My right," Porthos told him even as Aramis sharply tore a strip off the hem of his shirt, leaving the fabric hanging in a jagged, sorry pattern.

He shifted obligingly to allow Aramis access to the wound and tried not to do more than grimace when Aramis prodded it.

"It could do with some stitching," Aramis muttered. "I need to start carrying a medic kit," he added softly as an afterthought.

"You could hide it with your secret knives," Porthos suggested with a chuckle. He grinned when Aramis' gaze flitted up to his. The marksman's lips twitched in reluctant response.

"Not an altogether terrible idea, that," Aramis replied as he carefully, but tightly, wound the strip of torn shirt around Porthos' leg. He tied it off and sat back, studying Porthos with that puzzled stare again.

"What?" Porthos wondered, stretching his leg and wincing. It felt better, though, with the pressure of the makeshift bandage.

Aramis cocked his head and opened his mouth, but abruptly closed it and looked over his shoulder towards the door. A moment later, Porthos heard it.

A shuffle and then a thud.

Aramis brought his head back around to meet Porthos' gaze.

In the span of moments, they had an entire conversation without speaking a word.

They shared a decisive nod and Aramis looked pointedly at the knife Porthos had abandoned on the floor, clearly telling Porthos to take it.

Porthos tilted his head and hardened his gaze. If Aramis thought he would take their only weapon and leave Aramis defenseless, Porthos had only one word for him.

Un-bloody-likely.

Aramis rolled his eyes and gave Porthos an insultingly patronizing glare. He then produced a second knife from what Porthos was certain had to be thin air.

"Where did you have that?" Porthos wondered as he snatched the first knife from the floor. Together, they climbed to their feet, Porthos a bit more gingerly, and moved to stand on either side of the door, Porthos to the left, Aramis to the right. The door, raised as it was above a set of five stone stairs, stood now at their waists, but with any luck the position would hide them from immediate view.

"A hidden sheath on the inside of my breeches," Aramis responded. He gave Porthos a narrow look. "Where did you think I had it?"

"Honestly I was terrified to guess."

Aramis snorted a chuckle and then sobered when the sound of keys in the door lock alerted them to their visitor's arrival. Porthos shifted the small blade in his hand and waited.

The door creaked open and a tall, ginger haired man stood there. Porthos recognized him from the battle when they'd been taken. He coiled his arm, ready to strike, but the man tipped forward, crashing face first down the stairs without so much as a groan. He tumbled to a heap on the stone floor and didn't move.

Porthos stared down at the body, then looked up at Aramis who was looking equally bewildered. As one, they turned to the door.

A man with straight, light brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a bearing that spoke of noble breeding stood in the doorway, an elegant sword in his hand.

Porthos looked to Aramis again but the marksman was fixated on the newcomer. His head was tilted slightly and there was a curiously perplexed arch to his brow.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Porthos wondered even as he realized the man seemed inexplicably familiar.

"My name is Athos."

The man inclined his head a bit in greeting. His voice was clean and clear, his speech polished in a way that confirmed what Porthos had guessed about his heritage. Porthos shared a look with Aramis, whose brow arched further as he met Porthos' gaze. They both looked back at this Athos when he spoke again.

"Now, if you gentlemen would follow me, I have come to rescue you."


End of Chapter Twelve

And so Athos finally arrives. I'm sure many of you have been waiting anxiously for his official entrance into the story. I know we kind of saw him in passing a couple of chapters ago - that was just a tease ;) I thought long and hard about how to introduce him and in the end, I wanted his true debut to be something befitting the honor and bravery his character embodies. I hope you all are as excited to see the three of them come together as I am!

Share your thoughts with me! I would love to hear them!

Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn


"This was too easy," Aramis whispered. "Something's not right."

"That shot should have brought them down on us," Porthos agreed.

"They're waiting for us," Athos finished.

"I'll distract them," Aramis decided. "You two get out and go for help."

"We'll distract them," Porthos corrected sharply and then looked at Athos. "You slip out and go for help. Captain Treville in Paris – tell him everything."