A/N: A lengthy one shot this time with our favorite marksman. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!
"El Francotirador"
Aramis sat against a log on the ground, cleaning and loading his pistols while the din of Spanish voices chattered around him. Amidst the menial bustle of tending camp for the night were also boasts about individual routines and who would impress the King of France more.
"I'll have His Majesty's head spinning just like my plates," Gutierre proclaimed.
Someone laughed and pointed out the dancing would obviously be the man's favorite.
"I don't know," Sabastian put in, poking the tip of his blade underneath his fingernail. "I think my knife throwing will steal the show."
Aramis paused in his task and inclined his head a fraction to listen more intently. He could easily envision a knife thrower turning a performance into an assassination. The man couldn't hope to get away with his own life if he took that route, but it was something to watch out for. Martyrs for a cause were not unheard of.
"I bet the king will be drawn to El Francotirador," someone else interjected.
Aramis could feel their gazes turn toward him, and he lolled a lazy smile their way. "Think they'd be impressed if I shot an apple off King Louis's head?"
That got a laugh and some cheers.
"Then Gutierre can juggle Arias's head when he gets beheaded for trying!"
"He can juggle two heads if Arias shoots Louis's off!"
Aramis forced himself to laugh with the rest, though he found none of it funny. The threat to the king was very real, or at least Cardinal Richelieu believed so. There had only been whispers of a plot though, no proof. But with a Spanish delegation coming to visit the palace in Paris, no one wanted to take any chances.
Which led to Aramis's mission. The Duke of Cardona was bringing along a performing troupe, which was a tad odd but the Duke had insisted, thus arousing the Cardinal's suspicions. And so Aramis had been tasked with infiltrating it, not only because he spoke fluent Spanish and could pass as a Spaniard from near the border, but his skill as a marksman could also serve as a form of entertainment, something he and Porthos had taken advantage of at times to earn some extra coin.
The delicate part had been traveling south into Spain without being caught as a suspected spy, and then meeting up with the troupe in a seemingly random encounter of chance. All of which Aramis had to do on his own, which his brothers had not been happy about. But it had been necessary. And it had worked. He'd been with the company for a couple of weeks now, performing in the towns they traveled through and earning a name for himself. El Francotirador. The Marksman. That was his performance name, but outside of that he went by Arias.
"Alright, that's enough," Lorenço, the leader of the group snapped, breaking up their jesting. "We're in France now."
"So?" someone challenged. "Who here's gonna know Spanish?"
"The King's name and your ridiculous guffawing needs no translation. Now finish pitching the tents. We'll be in Paris tomorrow."
The small group broke apart. Aramis resumed cleaning and loading his guns, then got up to take some stew for dinner. Weeks of being a spy among the troupe and he hadn't uncovered an actual plot against France. His lack of success only frustrated him and weighed heavily on his honor with the recriminations of failure. He was running out of time. And the fact that he hadn't uncovered anything did not in any way convince him there was nothing to be found. There was an undercurrent in the company, something Aramis couldn't quite put his finger on. Yes, there had always been tension and ill will between France and Spain, which accounted for the crude gibes directed at the French monarchy and the occasional invective. Yet there was also a hint of eagerness and anticipation as they neared Paris. Perhaps it was a typical performer's excitement at the chance to impress a royal dignitary; Aramis couldn't be sure.
Later that night as people settled down to bed, Aramis wandered by one of the tents on the edge of camp. A delicate hand slipped out between the canvas folds and snagged his collar, deftly pulling him inside. Lips immediately crushed against his, and he snaked his arms around a petite waist as he kissed back. They stumbled the four feet across the floor before falling onto a pile of bed rugs. Estrella giggled and reached to undo the drawstrings of his shirt. He captured her hand in his, stalling her intentions.
She frowned. "What's wrong?"
He sighed. "Soon we will be performing before the King of France." He shook his head and lowered his voice. "How can you stand it?"
Estrella gave him a sympathetic look and reached out to brush one of his curls behind his ear. "There is a greater purpose to it all."
"Yes, continued relations between our two countries," he muttered.
Estrella smiled impishly. "Maybe. In a matter of speaking."
Aramis quirked a confused brow. "And what does that mean?"
"Shh." She pressed a kiss to his lips, and then down his jaw to his collar bone. His skin tingled from the sensual caresses, and though part of him wanted to push for more answers, he also knew that too much might arouse her suspicions or close her off to him completely. And so he went along with a night of ardor. After all, working as a spy was very lonely.
At the crack of dawn, Aramis slipped from Estrella's tent and returned to his bedroll to pick up his weapons before he headed out into the surrounding forest to relieve himself. The hoot of an owl gave him pause, and when it came again, he turned his head to the left and caught a glimpse of black through the trees. Checking to see no one else was around, he headed further into the woods and broke into a wide smile as Porthos stepped out from behind a large juniper. Athos was right behind him.
Porthos grinned back and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. "Still alive," he commented.
"Had you any doubts?"
Porthos grumbled under his breath. "Goin' off without backup. 'S not right."
"As you can see, I've managed perfectly well."
"Have you found anything?" Athos asked.
Aramis deflated. "Something feels off, though I haven't been able to discover anything concrete."
"The Cardinal is getting impatient the closer the Spanish get to the palace."
Though Athos didn't mean it as a reproach, Aramis took it as one. He was failing in his task.
"I could try to push a little harder," he said. "I've been getting close to one of the women in the troupe. She's the type to be a confidante to men and I believe she may know something."
"Yeah, that's the only reason you're gettin' close to her," Porthos gibed.
"Don't do anything to expose yourself," Athos put in.
"I'm thinkin' that already happened," Porthos continued cheekily, earning an irritated look from Athos.
"You know what I mean."
"We're running out of time," Aramis argued.
"And if you're caught, you won't be able to pass any crucial information on to us."
Aramis conceded the point with a cant of his head. "I should get back." He paused to smile at them again. "It's very good to see you, my friends. And not just because I'm glad for some friendly French faces. It will be nice when this is all over."
"Be careful," Athos intoned.
Aramis waved a hand in acknowledgement as he headed back to the camp. People had begun stirring from their bedrolls and Aramis joined them in the task of packing up. They would be in the city by the end of the day, and due to perform for the royal palace tomorrow. The Duke of Cardona was of course already there, having traveled ahead in his stately carriage. If the threat was to come from him directly, Aramis knew his fellow musketeers would handle it.
The caravan traveled slowly across the countryside, most of them on foot and a few riding on the supply wagons. Aramis participated in the banter among the troupe, but it held no warmth as when done with his brothers. Aramis would be glad when he could finally put aside Arias and resume his true identity.
As they finally reached Paris, he pulled up the hood of his cloak to conceal his face. It wouldn't do to have someone in the streets recognize him now.
Members of the Red Guard met them at the edge of the city to then escort them to the palace. Once there, they were directed around to one of the back gardens where they would be setting up their performance tent and camping out behind it, out of sight of the palace windows, of course.
Everyone set to their appointed tasks in efficient silence. The hostile bearing of the Red Guards did not inspire much chatter, even if they weren't likely to be understood.
Estrella sidled up to Aramis and reached out to tug his hood down, but his reflexes were instantaneous as he caught the hem and held fast. Only a few were privy to his mission, and members of the Red Guard were not part of that trusted group.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked.
Aramis flicked a hooded gaze at her. "Before I found such jocular occupation with my marksmanship," he began quietly, "I may have used it in the employ of some…less than sanctioned exploits in France. Who knows what soldier here might recognize me."
Estrella gaped at him in disbelief. "And you came right to the palace to perform?" she hissed. "Does Lorenço know about this?"
Aramis feigned a regretful grimace. "No…I'd only just gotten employment; I didn't want to risk losing it. Besides, I will merely replace my usual blindfold with a hood when I perform, and that way no one will see my face." He flashed her a coy smile. "Would you do me the honor of escorting me to and from the ring?"
She shook her head in seeming exasperation. "I have half a mind to tell Lorenço the danger you've put us all in." A small huff escaped her lips. "But after tomorrow it won't matter."
Aramis cocked a brow. "That's the second time you've alluded to something mysterious. Care to enlighten me?"
She just smiled and patted his chest. "Let's just say it will be a performance to remember."
Aramis forced himself to keep the affectionate look on his face until she turned and left, and then he finally let it drop to a frown. So whatever was planned was due to happen during the performance. Again, Aramis thought of Sabastian's knife throwing routine. Would they really be so bold?
Anxious to find out more but not knowing where to look, Aramis continued helping with the setup. At one point he spotted Estrella and Lorenço talking privately, too far out of earshot to catch snippets of their conversation. Initially, he wondered if Estrella was telling the troupe's leader about Aramis's backstory, but neither of them glanced his way during the discourse, so he imagined he wasn't the topic after all. Which did not allay his fears.
That night, Aramis slipped away under cover of darkness to find his brothers. He should have known they wouldn't have been far, and two figures cloaked in shadows stepped out from behind the pillars of one of the verandas. Aramis instantly recognized the pair of their builds and stances before seeing their faces.
"Whatever is planned is going to happen during the performance tomorrow," he informed them without preamble.
"They're gonna try to kill the King in front of that many witnesses?" Porthos asked dubiously.
"I don't know. I can't even say for sure it is an assassination." Aramis ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You should keep an eye on the troupe's leader, Lorenço. Out of everyone, he seems the most apt for putting together some kind of plot."
"We should cancel the performance," Athos said.
"It's the Duke's provision," Aramis pointed out. "He'll take offense."
"Offense will be the least of his problems if the King of France is murdered."
"Yeah, but we don' even know if he's in on it," Porthos put in. "How much trouble would falsely accusin' him bring?"
"A great deal," Aramis pointed out.
Athos shifted in agitation. "How close are we going to let this get to the King?" he asked in a low voice.
Aramis's shoulders dropped a fraction. "I can try searching Lorenço's tent."
"No, we'll do that," Athos immediately countered. "If we're spotted, we can claim we're doing a security check."
"The Duke won't like that either," Aramis said.
"We'll deal with it. Assuming we're caught at all." Athos nodded to Aramis. "Keep your eyes and ears open. And if the show must go on, then at least we'll have one extra body in the thick of it."
Aramis dipped his chin in return. They parted ways and Aramis immediately headed for Estrella's tent, desperate for one last shot at teasing those elusive secrets from her lips. But she wasn't there. Aramis drifted by Lorenço's tent, trying to discern any voices from within, but couldn't. He almost lingered anyway, but didn't want to be accosted and asked what he was doing, so he wandered the camp, keeping his senses peeled for anything amiss.
He found nothing, and soon it seemed as though the rest of the troupe was asleep. Aramis, however, stayed awake and on watch until the breaking of dawn.
When morning came, he assisted with the final preparations before the show, eyeing every single member of the company with trepidation and suspicion. Sabastian was sitting off to the side, sharpening his knives, and Aramis tried to recall if he'd seen Estrella and him talking in hushed tones at some point. Or perhaps Lorenço had. Aramis couldn't remember, and the lack of evidence was grating on his nerves. If anything happened to the King because he'd failed his mission…
With one hand on his loaded pistol, Aramis took his place in the back of the performance tent, concealed in the shadows as the court began to arrive. The King and Queen took their seats in the middle of the audience, the Duke of Cardona to the King's left. Other courtiers filed in around them, bustling with excitement at the entertainment they were about to enjoy. A performance to remember, Estrella had said. But remember in what way? Aramis still couldn't imagine how anyone would think to succeed here today without it being a suicide mission, and that scared him more than anything, because one prepared to die for his cause was the worst kind of enemy—it made them nigh unstoppable.
Aramis roved his gaze around the tent as everyone settled. Lorenço made his way out to the center of the ring to introduce the company. His presence must have meant that Athos and Porthos hadn't found anything incriminating in his tent.
Gutierre went out first, his juggling drawing appreciative nods and small smiles from the audience, who applaud at the conclusion of his act.
When it was Sabastian's turn, Aramis stood rigid as stone, hand on his pistol and ready to draw if the man even turned a quarter away from his target mat. But Sabastian didn't until all his knives were spent and then he bowed to the guests before leaving the ring. Aramis let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For the first time he began to wonder if the plot afoot was not what they'd initially suspected.
He had to suspend his concerns for the moment as Lorenço went out and announced him next. El Francotirador.
Aramis turned to catch Estrella's eye and gave her a dashing smile before slipping a burlap sack over his head. The material was thin and allowed him to see just a little. Cheating, in any other case, but not when he needed to be ready to detect the minutest threat to his sovereigns.
Estrella came over and took his arm to guide him out to the middle of the ring and positioning him so he was facing right toward the targets. He drew his pistol and held it up. Someone put a coin in a bottle and tossed it into the air. Aramis closed his eyes to make the shot—he did have some pride.
He heard glass shatter, followed by gasps and "ah's" through the audience. A second bottle was thrown and he took the shot with his secondary pistol, hitting the target once again. Applause sounded and Estrella came to lead him out of the ring. Once on the edge, he yanked the hood off and quickly reloaded his pistols as surreptitiously as he could.
Fortunately, everyone's attention was on Estrella, who had taken the floor with her dance routine. The rings on her skirts jangled as she sashayed her hips back and forth to the music being played off to the sides. Aramis was almost tempted to watch, but he spared her not a glance, still too tense by the inaction surrounding the performance. He should have been glad the plot seemed to be proving nothing more than a rumor, and yet his instinct told him that wasn't the case.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos and Porthos flanking Lorenço watchfully on the other end of the tent, but the man wasn't making a move.
Beltrán, the fire performer, walked out into the ring without introduction and began blowing great bursts of flame up and around Estrella as she danced.
Aramis frowned; that hadn't been part of their normal routine before. And yet Estrella didn't seem surprised by it, never missing a step as she continued to dance, the firelight glinting off her dark hair and reflecting in her eyes.
Smoke from the torch stick left a haze in the middle of the performance, and it took Aramis a moment to notice that it was inexplicably thickening. Confusion leaped to alarm right before Beltrán unclipped two small devices from his belt and tossed them to either end of the tent. More smoke oozed forth, swiftly obscuring visibility. Murmurs went through the crowd, the audience uncertain as to whether this was part of the show.
Aramis whipped his gaze to where Athos and Porthos had seized Lorenço, but the man wasn't armed and he was standing too far away. Beltrán, also, was heading the other direction, away from the audience.
What in the bloody hell were they trying to do?
And then it hit with sinking clarity who the intended assassin was. Aramis caught a glimpse of Estrella and the glint of a knife being unsheathed from under her skirt before the smoke devoured her.
People were finally beginning to panic, but by the rising clamor, no one could find their way to the exit.
Aramis pushed his way through the smoke but was unable to see what was happening. The cloying brume clogged his nose and throat and made his eyes water, and a cough punched from his chest in an attempt to expel the invading particles. His heart was pounding against his rib cage. He was going to fail. The King's death would be on him…
Aramis closed his eyes and focused all of his concentration on parsing out the harried sounds. He lifted his pistol, narrowing his senses on the jangle of Estrella's skirts. Aramis pointed his gun and squeezed the trigger.
The shot sent everyone screaming and tripping over each other in a mad dash to escape. Aramis started forward, trying to make his way to where his musket ball had landed, but a flash of red emerged from the smoke and Aramis barely had time to throw up his spent pistol to block the swing of a sword. The blade caught the back of his wrist and drew a hiss from his mouth.
The red guard let out a raging bellow and lunged again. Aramis tossed the gun to his other hand as he spun around and clobbered the guard in the side of the head. He didn't see the second coming through the smoke until the point of a main gauche pierced his shoulder. The breath stole from his lungs as he staggered back, tripping over the first guard and landing on his back. Aramis knew the red guard looming over him, knew Claude knew him. But there was no small amount of bad blood between many of the Red Guard and the Musketeers over duels fought in the streets, and there was no hesitation as Claude went in for the kill.
A roar that could only come from Porthos heralded the large musketeer's arrival as he leaped forward, parrying the death blow with his larger blade. Then he body slammed Claude to the floor.
Athos appeared a split second later, eyes blazing. "Stand down," he commanded. "You know a King's Musketeer when you see one."
Claude seethed up at them. "That traitorous dog tried to kill the King!"
"I did not," Aramis gasped, lungs spasming between the smoke and the pain of the stab wound. "I hit the woman trying to kill him."
He knew his aim was true. It had to be. Because there would be no living with the alternative.
The smoke was beginning to clear. Someone had slit open one side of the tent's canvas and the frightened cries had faded as people had escaped. Aramis levered himself up and looked to the side. Purple skirts were spread across the ground. He closed his eyes at the confirmation, both in relief and regret. He took solace that his actions had saved the Crown, but also mourned the vivacious young life he had snuffed out.
He opened his eyes again at the sound of pounding footsteps, but it was only Captain Treville.
"The King and Queen?" Aramis gritted out.
"Unharmed." Treville glanced at the red guard getting to his feet, his gauche stained in bright red. "Go help round up actual suspects," Treville barked.
Claude glowered, but turned on his heel and left.
Aramis curled forward as he stayed sitting on the ground and clutched at his bleeding shoulder. "That was way too close."
"Indeed," Treville agreed. "Richelieu is furious, as is the Duke. This whole thing is a bloody mess."
"But Aramis did save the King 'n Queen," Porthos put in.
Treville made a thoughtful noise as he turned to gaze at Estrella's body. "How did you even make that shot?"
Aramis shot him an affronted look, pressing his other hand to his chest. "Captain, please. Your lack of faith hurts."
"I believe that's the stab wound in your shoulder," Athos contradicted, holding out a hand to help him up.
Aramis eyed it reluctantly for a split moment before giving in and accepting it. He'd have to get off the ground eventually. Of course rising to his feet sent hot flares of pain through his shoulder and when he sucked in a gasp to swallow it, that action ignited a coughing fit that brutalized his shoulder even more.
An arm slid around his lower back to brace him.
"Captain?" Athos queried.
"Take him back to the garrison," Treville replied. "I'll deal with…this."
Aramis did not envy the man the task of sorting through this mess, and he let Athos lead him away without protest.
Outside, other musketeers had already rounded up several of the troupe performers, some of whom gaped at Aramis in flabbergasted dismay; perhaps they'd been witness to his heroic feat.
"I'll probably get to keep my nickname," he mused. "Word will spread among the Spanish of El Francotirador, the best marksman in all of France and Spain."
"I'd be more concerned with keeping what blood you have left inside your body," Athos rejoined.
Aramis huffed scornfully, then regretted it. "You know that bastard recognized me when he tried to run me through?"
"We'll have to teach him a lesson when things settle down," Athos replied.
"Do we have to wait that long?" Porthos grumbled, then coughed into his fist.
Aramis straightened. "How much smoke did you two inhale? You should drink plenty of water over the next few days."
"We got the same amount as you," Athos said drolly.
"I say we drink plenty of wine over the next few days," Porthos countered.
"Mm." Aramis didn't want to admit he was flagging, but the exertion of the afternoon and his injuries were taking their toll.
"Porthos," Athos said quietly, and then there was another presence pressed close on Aramis's other side.
Somehow he made it back to the garrison with his brothers bolstering him between them. Once he was in his room, water, bandages, and medical supplies were fetched.
"Should we send for a physician?" Porthos asked uncertainly.
Aramis tugged the edge of his shirt down to expose the wound and examined it. He gave his shoulder a tentative roll, and while the movement hurt severely, he did have range of motion.
"No. Just clean and stitch it." He lay back on the bed and steeled himself for the disinfecting.
Athos uncapped a flask of spirits and moved to stand over him. "Ready?"
Aramis gave a jerky nod, clenching his teeth in preparation.
Athos tipped the flask of alcohol over the wound and Aramis fisted his hands in the sheets and grunted against the burn. He nearly choked when Athos began wiping it dry, which triggered another coughing fit.
"Water," Athos commanded sharply, and Porthos leaped to get a cup.
Aramis gulped it down like a dying man, the water relieving some of the itch in his throat.
Athos was gazing at him warily. "Don't do that when I'm stitching."
"I shall endeavor to do my best," he replied breathlessly.
Athos still looked displeased and cocked his head at Porthos. "Hold him just in case."
"That is not necessary—"
Porthos maneuvered himself around to the other side of the bed and leaned over Aramis, one hand resting lightly on his chest, the other on his thigh. "Just in case," he replied with a quirked grin.
Aramis moaned. "Well, don't you start coughing in the middle of those stitches."
Athos gave him a dry look before threading the needle. But he did pause before starting to down his own cup of water and clear his throat. "It won't take long," he said and set to work.
Aramis focused on breathing through his nose sharply as each nip and tug against his skin sent shivers along the surrounding flesh and down into his stomach. It was always an unpleasant sensation.
True to his assessment, Athos finished in a matter of minutes and then proceeded to wrap Aramis's shoulder and bind his arm. He then wordlessly took a cloth damp with alcohol and began cleaning a cut on Aramis's wrist he hadn't even felt against the pain in his shoulder. But it was shallow and taken care of quickly.
The door opened and Treville entered. "Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes," Athos replied, standing to put the medical supplies away. "At the palace?"
Treville shook his head wearily. "Still a mess. The Duke denies any knowledge of the plot, and the troupe leader is refusing to answer any questions. We're interrogating the others."
"I don't think the entire company was in on it," Aramis murmured from the bed.
"We'll sort it out," Treville assured him. "In other news, once I told the King it was you who made the shot that saved his life, he was all too eager to proclaim you a hero. The best marksman in all of France."
Aramis tossed a faint smirk at Porthos and Athos. "Told you."
"Louis would like to honor you for your bravery and exceptional performance of duty," Treville went on.
Aramis grinned wanly. He wasn't in the fight to protect the King and France for glory, but it was nice to have sometimes.
"Can we do it tomorrow?" he asked tiredly. "I have been away from my bed and the company of true friends for far too long, and will happily trade all the praise in the country just to be home again."
Porthos settled a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Ya are home."
Athos, too, rested a hand on Aramis's arm.
"Tomorrow's fine," Treville answered. "The King is aware of the injuries you sustained and I'm sure will be understanding. Get some rest."
"Thank you." Aramis closed his eyes. The soft creak of wood as his brothers made themselves comfortable lulled him into sleep with the sounds and warm embrace of home.