14

Aramis crawled up the hill and mentally swore when another bramble caught his leg. He tried and failed to shake it off, and resolved to carry on, wincing when he heard the fabric ripping.
Again.

Between that and his wretched boots, he would be in rags before the end of the siege. Unfortunately, so close to the fortress' walls, he couldn't even raise his head too high, let alone put down his rifle to sit and remove the thorns from his pants.
He made it to the top and shivered when a sudden breeze made him aware of his damp body. He took pride in having been trusted to become a sharpshooter just two months after enlisting in the infantry, but the position, as comfortable as it might be compared to his weeks in the trenches, was far more tolerable in the summer. He repressed a sigh and prepared himself to wait.
That was his favourite part.
His father, aware of his usual… shiftlessness, and being a very good horseman, had tried to instil in him his love of stag hunting. The chase, the wind in the hair, avoiding the branches and feeling the mount heaving beneath your legs, the smell of its sweat filling your nostrils... And the horns, the barking, the yelling of your comrades by your side… Such were some of the few things the chevalier d'Herblay had wished to share with his son. Yet Aramis, as always, had disappointed him. Yes, he liked the excitement, but resented harassing the game to exhaustion, asking so much of his mare, and, even if he would never have admitted it to anyone, didn't care for killing for fun. That was an unusual seeming of delicacy, for a nobleman, especially one who sought out fights and laughed in his opponents' faces as he met their fists or blocked their blades, to show respect for a mere animal. But he hunted for food and, as much as he couldn't deny the thrill of lodging a bullet in a deer's head after hours of waiting, those hours made him feel like he'd deserved the meat. It was a game, yes, but a game of wits, instincts and patience, between the beast and himself, on the prey's ground and on its terms. The waiting was the game, and it gave the brash and restless young man a rare sense of serenity.
And it was the same on a battlefield.
Especially when hunting an enemy who had shot dead dozens of his brothers-in-arms over the past four days.
Aramis glanced at the vast space between the barricades and the high impenetrable walls, empty save from some lost cannonballs, discarded carts, and small trees they would have burned down already to complicate the Huguenots' sorties if they didn't equally protect their own assaults. A shrilling sound was blown and he knew Gautier and his men had made it to their position. He whistled in turn and took aim.
He knew where the sharpshooter would appear.
He knew it because he would have chosen the same spot.
He couldn't see Gautier from where he lay on the ground, but, from his vantage point in the fortress, the other man would.
And his job was to take him out before he hit too many of them.
"I won't let a single one get killed," he'd sworn, and Lieutenant Brison had sneered.
"No need to brag, lad," he'd said. "You already got your promotion. Just shoot the bastard."
Lieutenant Brison was a jealous shit who didn't give a rat's ass about how many soldiers his orders would have massacred so long as they were obeyed. He would sacrifice young recruits, send scouts get the lay of enemy-infested land, and had turned a blind eye when his men had burnt to the ground the villages they'd captured before beginning the siege. That supplied Aramis with a reason, as if he needed one, to make sure neither Gautier nor any of the others got hurt.
He held a breath when the sharpshooter appeared on the wall and adjusted his aim.
He was so young.
Skinny. Fair skin. Dark blond hair tied back at the nape. Maybe seventeen years old? Aramis ventured, barely realizing that made him not much younger than he was.
But he didn't feel young anymore. You didn't call yourself boy when you had as much blood as he had on his hands.
How many people had the lad killed himself? Was he one of those fanatics who'd left the city two days ago to slaughter an entire Catholic troop in their sleep? Or simply the son of one of those farmers whose homes they'd destroyed?
Aramis hadn't participated in most of those raids, and could claim that, when he had, didn't take a single life that wasn't directly threatening his. But that was not something to brag about.
So what if he hadn't killed any women or children? So what if he'd held enemies prisoner rather than shooting them? So what if he had not plundered villages, ransacked houses or raped girls? He'd defended himself when attacked, slain military men and farmers alike in the process, and he knew that there wasn't much he could do about it because civil wars were the worst kind of wars.
And this was a civil war against Montauban, a city that, in its centuries of existence, had never fallen.
Twenty-five thousand royal soldiers against six thousand besieged citizens and, once again, not only was the second group holding on tight, but their canons and their audacious sorties were taking a serious toll on the Catholic troops.
Also, they had faith.
For the montébannais, anything was a sign from God: a rainbow after a failed Catholic assault, a woman defender killing three assailants, two cannonballs hitting each other in mid-air...
Aramis had faith also, even though it was not the reason why he'd enlisted in this conflict. His faith had never been bellicose, nor had he felt his beliefs threatened by those of others. But Montauban's influence in the region went far beyond the religious persuasion. It endangered both the young King's weak attempts at being worthy of his father's illustrious reputation, and his will to detach himself from the authority of his ambitious mother. Many of Aramis' fellow soldiers weren't especially devout. They were last sons of small nobility, peasants ready to jump at any hope of a regular income, or even criminals. Some dreamt of glory. Others, like him, were bastards with few prospects, running away from either their past or their future. A few of them were English Catholics fleeing King James' persecutions. Almost all despised the Protestant's fanaticism, never once wondering if they might have been the source of it. But they all fought, above all, for the sovereignty of France, and, famine after famine, plague after plague, unsuccessful assault after unsuccessful assault, that made Aramis curious...
Would God favor his most dedicated children?
In the end, would it all come down to whose faith was the strongest?

On the wall, the lad exchanged a few words with a man Aramis had seen before. And definitely heard. He was one of those sermonizers whose loud exhortations never failed to heighten the montébanais' spirits and undermine theirs.
He briefly wondered if he could take him out too.
It seemed to him that this man had already caused more deaths than the boy.
But he'd neglected enough orders already. Perfect shooting record or not, Lieutenant Brison would have his skin for such open insubordination.
Gautier must have advanced because, all of a sudden, and to the preacher's surprise,the lad was in position.
Aramis moved alike.
It was not easy, from down there, with the crenellations partly blocking his view, but he'd chosen his post with care.
Just as Lieutenant Brison had chosen Gautier and his men's path, not minding how many of them would be slaughtered, but assured that their progression would hold the montébannais sharpshooter's attention long enough for Aramis to operate.
An arsehole indeed, but a fine strategist.
I won't let a single one get killed.
He aimed. Just above the barrel that protruded from the crenellation.
Gautier pursued his advance. Aramis couldn't hear him but he knew.
The lad moved forward slightly, as he knew he would.
He fired.
The lad fell.
In the distance, Aramis could make out Gautier and the others' screams of joy.
He crawled back, surrounded by the sound of the enemy's shots, but most of the bullets got lost in the branches.
Only autumn leaves touched his body, because he'd killed the only man who could have spotted him under their cover.

xxxx

"So. None of them were killed, after all."
Aramis raised his head from his cup, and his comrade's voices faltered. Lieutenant Brison was stepping into their little campfire circle, his thin face made even harder by the firelight. Gautier tensed and smoothed his large blond moustache to conceal his nervosity, but Aramis managed to appear unimpressed:
"Like I said," he answered nonchalantly.
Brison snorted:
"You're a plague-kissed overpuffed brat, you know that?"
Despite the bitterness in his words, the Lieutenant was more cordial than Aramis had ever seen him be. He was back from headquarters, having just been congratulated for another daring and successful plan, but it was not the first time, and never once before had he shown the slightest gratitude to the pawns whose existences he'd put at risk. Aramis had no idea what motivated this change of behavior, yet he would not be the one to ask.
"I will do my best and try to continue to live up to my pomposity, Sir," he answered, and had the satisfaction of witnessing a jaw tighten and fists clench.
Brison had no real self-control.
"The Duc de Luynes was here earlier. He was curious about who managed to take out the bastard."
Oh, so you had no choice but to give him my name, Aramis mused. That explains it.
The Duc de Luynes was one of the young king's most trusted advisors, and the man who, from their headquarters at the castle of Piquecos, some seven and a half miles north of Montauban, was the true brains behind the Catholic's strategy.
"He had to go back to Piquecos," Brison went on, when his information failed to get him the rise he'd expected. "But he insisted that he would mention both our names to the King."
"And you're here to deliver this message to me? I'm impressed."
Aramis felt Gautier's hand on his arm and knew he was going too far. Brison was despicable but still a superior officer. And an efficient one. Nobody would spare a second to even consider favoring Aramis' life over his if it came to that, no matter de Luynes' appreciation of his sharpshooting. Yet, he found that he didn't really care. He'd killed a young man today. Another one. He'd hidden under the leaves and waited, safely concealed from the montébanais' fire while his comrades faced it, until they finally gave him a chance to blow off a boy's head. He had every right to be bitter. Maybe he was also a bit tipsy, after two hours sipping bad wine alongside his cheerful companions, but that didn't change a thing: he hadn't renounced so many of his values and hopes to easily bow his head to a vicious twat. Brison didn't seem offended, though. If anything, he looked… scornful. Or perhaps the expression was just the Lieutenant's default one. Perhaps he was just, for once, glad about something. Perhaps this was his happy face.
The idea made him laugh.
Yep, definitely tipsy.
Brison ignored both his retort and his attitude.
"Is that all you have to say about it?" he spat.
"What do you want me to say? You know I don't care for honors."
"So you keep telling us, although I hoped you wouldn't turn your nose up at the opportunity to draw the attention of your king. But I guess you're just a flunkie all the way."
"Not everyone craves attention."
"Aramis..." Gauthier warned, and he raised a hand in peace. Brison tensed, yet the contemptuous expression didn't leave his face, and Aramis wasn't sure whether it was because he believed him or didn't. Brison was the second son of, as he said, "rough-as-a-badger's-arse'd peasants". He was, definitely, too clever for his own good, and the only reason he'd joined the military was to attract attention. And he had. Being a lieutenant already, before his thirties, and with such a background, showed anyone still harboring any doubts after having seen him fight that he'd worked to deserve his status. It also probably explained his antipathy for those who displayed less ambition. Aramis, for his part...
Aramis couldn't deny that he liked being a soldier. He'd enrolled almost on a whim, on his way back to Herblay, after a particularly bad day grieving for Juste Jules, delaying his return to what passed for his family, and hating himself for having left the Valentins only to turn dawdling into a lifestyle. He'd been in an inn, drinking moderately yet steadily, when some moronic drunk had all but collapsed on his table, spilled his wine and blamed him for the stains on his doublet. When the idiot, deaf to his motions of appeasement, had made the mistake of drawing his gun, he'd killed him on the spot. Seven hours and a very short night later, he was an infantryman in Monsieur de La Roquette's battalion, and the adventure, so far, hadn't been his worst. For the first time, he experienced a sense of brotherhood that, as circumstantial as it was, strengthened on necessity. He felt unfettered and unjudged, and it was good.
He was good at taking risks, good at having his comrades' backs, and good at killing people.
It had been a year, he'd lost dozens of companions, a handful of friends and Ebène, to a cannonball that had almost claimed his own life. Months later, the death of his beloved horse still stung, but he regretted nothing.
He couldn't regret the feeling that, for once, he fitted in, couldn't regret the camaraderie, couldn't regret the thrill of danger… And couldn't wish he hadn't been there the day they'd been sent to take a seditious village and he'd abandoned his position to hide an entire family from Caporal Hassler's cruelty.
Had he been an officer, his absence would probably have been noticed, and he'd have been shot for his insubordination. He smiled at Brison:
"Believe me or not," he finally answered. "I find more freedom in a simple soldier's life."
"Fewer responsibilities, you mean."
"Same difference."
The Lieutenant snorted, visibly determined to spare himself a longer vain argument.
"There's an officer here," he said. "Some bigwig from Paris. He wants to meet you."
Aramis barely raised an eyebrow:
"Why?"
"Get off your arse and go find out. I'm not your valet," Brison snapped, and turned on his heels, apparently expecting Aramis to follow because he took half a dozen steps before looking back and spitting: "The hell are you waiting for?"
Aramis lifted his cup:
"Just finishing my wine."
That caused Gautier and the other to laugh. Brison seemed to hesitate, but walked back to the fire to confront his insolent subordinate and whisper, his voice still carrying enough to be heard by everyone:
"You like to come off like nothing can make you flinch, don't you?" And, when that failed to ignite more than a small smile on Aramis' face: "But you're not blasé, Aramis. You like to cloak yourself in your fine principles, you play the hero any chance you get… And you do crave attention. That's the reason," he added, waving at Gautier and the others, "why you surround yourself with these lick-spittles. But trust me: even they know who you are."
There was a silence, then, a few snickers that, this time, sounded a bit forced. Aramis didn't cease smiling, and was about to offer the witty retort he was so good at making up out of the blue, regardless of his true feelings. But he was almost relieved when the scream pierced the darkness.

xxxx

"What was that?" Gauthier croaked, and Brison snorted:
"Another Huguenot sortie. Some kind of retaliation for our little coup, I guess." Aramis was already on his feet and he added: "What are you gonna do? It's pitch-black."
"That's not…" Aramis started. "Did you hear…?"
An instant later, he was tackled, and fighting for his life, face in the dirt. The man above him was heavy, and he barely managed to block the dagger coming to his throat. The blade got his hand instead, and he seized the wrist of his attacker and twisted it. The weapon fell on the ground but his other arm was stuck under his own body and he couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried. Fearing the next blow, he resolved to bite the arm that was now attempting to strangle him. He heard a yell, then a cracking sound when he jerked his head back and hit a nose. He jumped to his feet and kicked the hurt man in the face for good measure, then stole his pistol and slipped it in his belt, alongside his.
The place was chaos. Despite the weak light, he made out Brison fighting like a devil, and Gauthier on the ground, still moving. The attackers were not many, and reinforcements were coming, yet the silent attack had already taken its toll on their little camp. Aramis counted three bodies at least, dead or incapacitated, before rushing to the aid of Cartier. The man was a veteran who could stand up to most of them in a swordfight but here, in the night, taken off guard and facing two younger opponents, his endurance was quickly failing him. Aramis took on the larger assailant, stabbing him in the back before he knew he was attacked. It was odd, how the noble principles you were taught all your life to follow utterly vanished on a battlefield. There were other codes, though. New rules. New tolerances and disapproval. New behaviors to display. Laws of morality were completely reshuffled, but that was the officers' problems. Simple soldiers were just supposed to kill as many enemies as they could, try to stay alive, and obey orders.
Or, for the last part and in Aramis' case, pretend they did and hope nobody would find out otherwise.
Cartier shot him a grateful look as he finally regained the upper hand over his attacker, and Aramis noticed another assailant about to strike the back of a man he didn't know, big as an ox. He barely had the time to shoot him before being tackled again.
Almost. He saw the shadow of the enemy before it collided with him – hard, and he locked his knees, avoiding another fall but not a searing pain when one of his ribs cracked. Only a quick step back saved him from a blade coming out of nowhere, and he barely blocked a second hit as he engaged with this new attacker.
Aramis had been in many fights before, still he felt like this one would never end. And it was odd, he found himself in the mood to muse, because it had been quite a while since he'd been in a duel, but the brevity of those multiple confrontations seemed longer than his last assault of the fortress. He was drained, a bit lightheaded, and barely blocked a blow when his vision swam.
He fell on his backside and raised his sword to the man facing him, but not really aiming at anything. The hostile blade brushed his and he contemplated its momentum as it barely missed stabbing into his shoulder.
What's happening to me?
Everything was a daze. The deformed figures and dancing firelight reminded him of when he was a kid, playing at scanning his surroundings through one of his father's brandy bottles. The man above him lifted his sword…
Above?
He was on his back.
"Look out!"
Aramis blinked quickly, or believed he did, but when he reopened his eyes he was alone.
Wait… not "alone". There were noises all around but nobody still threatening him. He raised his head and, when that failed to give him a better comprehension of his situation, let it fall back. It was rather comfortable, here.
".. me? Y'hear me?"
What?
He blinked again.
"He's alive!"
Of course I'm alive, he wanted to retort, but only managed to think. There was a new person above him. A non-threatening one, it seemed. Deep voice. Broad shoulders. Dark skin. Blurry face.
"Hold on, mate!"
Hold on to what?
"Call a medic!"
"Shit!" someone – Brison? yelled. "Gautier, move your lazy arse and get Doctor Rémy! Now!"
"I can't stop the bleeding!"
"Take this! Press it on the wound!"
"You'll be fine, mate. Hold on, hey? You're doing great!"
The deep voice seemed pretty intent on comforting him, but Aramis wasn't afraid. Actually, he felt okay. His rib didn't hurt anymore, and the fight was apparently over. Gautier was alive, as far as he knew, and the fuss around him was evidence enough that they'd won.
"Hey! Don't go to sleep!"
I'm not.
"What's your name, pal? Hey!"
For God's sake! What?
"What's your name?"
"'rmis. Aramis."
"Nice to meet you, Aramis. I'm…"
"Can't find the Doctor!"
"Shit! Okay, never mind. We'll carry him."
"He'll bleed to death!"
"Do you have a better plan?"
"I…"
All this agitation was a bit overwhelming. Aramis had difficulties seeing, now, and really wished for an understandable soundscape.
Don't panic, he wanted to tell everyone fussing around him. It doesn't help and, besides…
"'m fine."
"Sure you are."
"Okay, you ready?"
Ready for wh...
Something seized his shoulders and pulled them up. He tried to yell – and maybe succeeded – and struggled – that he failed.
"Hold him tight!"
Get off me! It hurts!
It hurt.
It hurt like Hell and he had no idea where, or why, or…
"Now, on the count of three… One, two..."
He only had time to hear...
"Three!"
Then the deep voice ringing again…
"I'm not leaving you," it said.
Then the world became a bright white.
Then nothing.

xxxx

À suivre.

x

Notes: Here comes the last Act! Only three (already written) chapters to go and this fic will officially be over! Aramis is in a bad place right now, but don't worry, the light at the end of this tunnel is nearer than it has ever been! :)
Most historical details in this chapter, from the Duc de Luynes and the King (20 at the time) working on their strategies in the castle of Piquecos, to the coincidences the montébanais saw as divine interventions, along with the number of men on each side and the villages that were taken before besieging the city, are true. My description of how to take down a sharpshooter defending a stronghold, however, *might* be approximate at best.