Summary: Tag to 3x8, because one does not hang from the arms for over a day without repercussions. And old hurts have repercussions too.
A/N: Thank you guests Uia, Guest, Laureleaf, and another Guest for reviewing! More angst with this one.
"Prisoners of Regret"
D'Artagnan was up with the dawn. After the events of yesterday and Grimaud escaping yet again, he'd been hard pressed to find much sleep. He headed down to the courtyard in search of breakfast. To his surprise, Porthos was already sitting at the table with a bowl of porridge. The larger man's sullen body language suggested he was stewing, and d'Artagnan had a good guess as to what it was over. His eyes automatically glanced up toward Aramis's room, still dark in the gray light of morning.
He suppressed a sigh and went to get his own breakfast from the kitchen. He was glad to have Aramis back, but things were…different. It was only natural. Four years was a long time. They'd all changed. Perhaps it was naive of him to wish for them to simply go back to how they were, before the war. Or, really, before Aramis and the Queen, because that had been the catalyst that had eventually led to the sundering of their brotherhood.
But despite the tensions they all fumbled to navigate between them, d'Artagnan still considered Aramis his brother, and so he would act like it. When he'd finished his porridge and the rest of the garrison had begun to emerge but Aramis hadn't, d'Artagnan decided to seek him out. After all, yesterday had been rough on him too.
He headed up to the marksman's room and rapped on the door. He thought he heard a muffled sound from within, but that was all. After a moment, he knocked a little harder. "Aramis? It's d'Artagnan."
"Come in."
That was clearer though still softer than he would have expected. He cracked the door open and poked his head inside. To his surprise, Aramis wasn't up but still lying in bed. "Aramis?"
"D'Artagnan," an exhausted voice replied. "You're a welcome sight."
He quirked a brow. "Are you drunk?"
Aramis let out what might have been a stifled laugh. "If only. I'm afraid I have a problem."
D'Artagnan came the rest of the way into the room, frowning when Aramis made no attempt to get up. His gut pinged. "What's wrong with you? Are you ill?"
Aramis sighed. "I can't move."
D'Artagnan's brows shot upward and he surged toward the edge of the bed. "What?" He roved his gaze over his friend's supine form, noting the creased lines of pain in his face and the way his breathing was restricted to shallow intakes.
Aramis made a frustrated sound that morphed into a pained grunt. His hand twitched but barely shifted from where it lay limply on the coverlet. "Muscles…seized." He squeezed his eyes shut and took several sharp breaths through his nose.
D'Artagnan gaped at him in bewilderment. "What?" he repeated dumbly. "How did that happen?"
"Grimaud had me…strung up on a beam. Hung for over a day. I thought rest would be enough, but I woke up and couldn't feel my hands, and my shoulders and back are…well, as I said, I can't move." His chest hitched and he choked on another sound of pain.
D'Artagnan mentally reeled back. He'd gotten a glimpse of Aramis through the window of the ruins when Athos had spotted him, but it'd never occurred to him his friend would have been held in that position the entire time he was Grimaud's captive.
But why not? The man was a cruel sadist. D'Artagnan silently chastised himself for not thinking to check Aramis over more carefully yesterday. He'd seemed fine when they'd rescued him, certainly better in comparison to their own previous encounters with the madman. And then there'd been that urgent dash to get to the Queen and what happened to Sylvie…but that was no excuse.
"Okay, let me see," d'Artagnan said, reaching for the collar of Aramis's shirt to tug it down. Even that small nudging elicited a grunt, and he froze at the purplish swelling he found. He quickly shifted to run careful fingers over Aramis's shoulder and under his neck, feeling much of the same. And heat. Every touch made the marksman wince. If his entire back looked like this… "My god, Aramis."
He snorted. "God had nothing to do with it."
"I'll send for a physician." D'Artagnan hesitated. "Will you be all right for a few minutes?"
"I'm not going anywhere," he replied dryly.
D'Artagnan swallowed and tore himself away from his injured friend. The yard was bustling with activity now, and he called down to the nearest cadet to order him to fetch a doctor. That got Porthos on his feet in an instant from where he'd still been sitting at the table.
"Is it Sylvie?" he asked.
D'Artagnan shook his head. "Aramis. His treatment at Grimaud's hands was more severe than we realized."
Porthos stormed up the steps. "Fool. Keepin' more secrets, is 'e?"
D'Artagnan blinked, utterly taken aback by the unexpected vitriol. "He didn't keep it a secret. And we didn't ask." He crossed his arms, blocking the path to Aramis's room. "He's in pain, so if you can't keep your anger in check, I'd just as soon you stay away. I'll see he's taken care of."
For a moment, Porthos looked suspended between shock and the urge to barrel right through him. But he tightened his jaw and lowered his voice. "How bad is it?"
"He said he can't feel his hands, and he can't move."
Portho's eyes widened in alarm. "Does Athos know?"
"I'll tell him. And, Porthos…he woke up like this. If I hadn't gone to check on him…" He shook his head at the thought that they all could have gone about their morning none the wiser. It didn't bear dwelling on. "He wasn't hiding it."
D'Artagnan waited for a stilted nod of acknowledgement before stepping aside and letting him pass. He dearly hoped Porthos's worry would override his anger right now.
D'Artagnan crossed the balcony to the captain's office and rapped softly on the door in deference to Sylvie resting within. It was a few moments before it finally opened and Athos poked his head out.
"You can handle morning muster," the captain said in a low voice.
D'Artagnan straightened. "How's Sylvie?" he asked worriedly.
"Fine." Athos immediately sighed at his clipped response. "Her wounds are no worse. I just…I can't right now. I trust you to oversee things." He paused. "Just don't send Aramis on anything related to palace duty."
D'Artagnan grimaced. So Athos was still angry like Porthos. D'Artagnan didn't blame them, but he also didn't blame Aramis for following the Queen's orders, for seeking an end to this appalling war. "Um, actually, I was coming to inform you that Aramis can't report for duty today."
Athos visibly stiffened. "Has the Queen required his presence?"
"No. He's injured from yesterday. I found him in his room this morning. He can't move." Saying it repeatedly was not making it any easier.
The door widened abruptly. "What are you talking about?"
"I'll take care of it," d'Artagnan rushed to assure his captain. "And I'll get the duties assigned. I just wanted to keep you informed."
Athos stepped out and closed the door behind him. "Then inform me as to what exactly is wrong with Aramis."
D'Artagnan hesitated, unsure for a moment whether the truth would douse Athos's anger or if d'Artagnan needed to be prepared to protect the vulnerable marksman from more wrath, especially when Aramis wasn't in any condition to defend himself. But he quickly quashed such doubts. Despite the tensions that had lingered between them after Aramis's four-year absence and then his unexpected return, they were brothers. D'Artagnan believed that mattered more than anything else.
"The muscles in his shoulders and back have all spasmed. He said- he said Grimaud had him hanging from that beam the entire time."
Understanding dawned on Athos's face with a shade of horror. "Have you sent for a physician?"
"Yes." D'Artagnan half turned to walk beside Athos as his captain headed for Aramis's room.
There, they found Porthos inside and standing over their friend's bed, gaze no less thunderous than before. D'Artagnan flicked a concerned look at Aramis, hoping Porthos hadn't been reaming him out for this.
"No need to make this a spectacle," Aramis spoke up, voice tight with barely controlled pain.
"Why didn't you say anything yesterday?" Athos demanded.
"Yesterday I was mobile." His face scrunched up and he sucked in a breath. "It was just…bruises. Strained muscles. I didn't expect…this."
"The physician is on his way," d'Artagnan reassured him.
"Thank you," was the whispered response.
A tense silence settled among them. D'Artagnan didn't know what to do. He'd learned some battlefield medicine in regards to sword and musket wounds, but he was at a loss as to how to handle this.
"You all don't have to stand around waiting," Aramis said softly. "You have, ungh, more important places to be. Athos…"
"Sylvie is resting, and a friend came to see her last night. She's not alone."
"We're where we're supposed to be, Aramis," d'Artagnan added. "Although, I do have to go deal with morning muster. I'll be back as soon as I'm done."
He gave both Porthos and Athos pointed looks on his way out, making it clear he expected them to be civil while he was gone.
He made quick work of handing out duties by telling everyone they were to simply see to what they'd been assigned yesterday. There were several grumblings, and d'Artagnan barked out that if they had a problem, they could take it up with the captain. That effectively silenced any discontent, as word would have spread to all of them by now about what had happened to Sylvie. D'Artagnan wasn't sure about the rumors surrounding Aramis, but it was only a matter of time for that too.
He made a detour to the kitchen to get boiled water, knowing that at least would likely be required. As he was returning, the physician arrived, a Doctor Gallaudet, and d'Artagnan escorted him up to Aramis's room.
"What is the nature of the ailment?" the wiry man inquired.
"He was strung up by the arms fer over a day. Now 'e can't move 'em," Porthos answered.
"Has the patient any feeling in his extremities?"
"The patient is right here," Aramis interjected tetchily. "And yes, I feel pain."
"But you said you couldn't feel your hands," d'Artagnan countered.
Aramis's jaw ticked. "Not when I woke, no. Now…there's tingling. Like wasp stings."
The doctor folded the coverlet down to Aramis's knees and picked up a lax hand. Aramis sucked in a sharp breath as his arm was elevated.
"Oi," Porthos snapped at the physician in warning.
"I have to do an assessment," the man replied unapologetically. He pressed his thumb into Aramis's palm. "Can you feel that?"
Aramis hissed. "Yes."
Gallaudet pushed the shirt sleeve up, revealing dark bruising around the wrist. D'Artagnan could have kicked himself. From hanging by the manacles, of course.
The doctor continued his probing up the arm to the shoulder but then stopped. "I need his shirt removed."
"That's going to be difficult," Athos put in.
Gallaudet waved impatiently. "I need him sitting up to see his back anyway."
D'Artagnan approached the bed. "Aramis?" he asked.
The marksman gave a clipped nod in response, and d'Artagnan looked to Porthos for help. Without a word, the two of them took up positions on either side and slipped an arm underneath Aramis's shoulders. A garbled sound stuck in his throat as they lifted him. Porthos started to raise his arm to remove his shirt, but that brought forth a full cry of agony and Porthos jerked back in alarm.
"Let me," d'Artagnan said hurriedly. He reached for the back of the shirt and rolled it up to his shoulders, then tugged it over Aramis's bowed head. "Sorry," he said at the muffled moans. But he got the article over his head and from there it was easy to slide the sleeves down his arms.
Gallaudet made a clucking sound as he looked at the damage, and d'Artagnan found himself leaning over to see as well. He wished he hadn't.
The bruising was livid all up and down Aramis's back, but it was his shoulders that made d'Artagnan's stomach clench. They looked disfigured from the swelling.
"Are they dislocated?" d'Artagnan asked in horror. They couldn't have been yesterday… He stepped back to give the doctor room, leaving Porthos to fully support Aramis's weight.
Gallaudet poked and prodded at the misshapen muscles. Aramis was barely able to bite back gasped cries with each touch, which ignited d'Artagnan's indignation. But the doctor paid no heed, keeping to a terse and methodical examination.
"Not dislocated," he finally concluded. "But the muscles are strained, possibly torn in places, and the swelling has caused them to seize." He continued to work his hands over the abused muscles, expression taking on a curious mien. "I've only read of cases this severe from victims of the rack."
Aramis let out a choked cry. "Stop," he rasped, body shaking from the pain.
"That's enough," Athos said in a low tone of steel that gave the doctor pause. "What can be done for him?"
Gallaudet stepped back. "I can make a poultice of comfrey…" He glanced back with a frown. "I'll need to make quite a lot. And I can give him something for the pain."
"What about his hands?" d'Artagnan asked.
"The blood flow has been restricted from the inflammation. It should improve as the latter does." Gallaudet opened his bag and began to unpack his supplies.
"Porthos, please, put me down," Aramis said breathlessly.
"Wait a moment while I make the pain draught," Gallaudet said.
Aramis's eyes were squeezed shut and every breath came in short, painful stutters. D'Artagnan wanted to reach out to offer comfort, but there was no place to touch that wouldn't cause extreme pain. As it was, holding him up had to be excruciating. It was only after the doctor had pressed a cup to Aramis's lips and he drank that d'Artagnan realized he hadn't even asked what was in it.
"You can lay him down," Gallaudet said once the draught was administered. "It will take me a few minutes to prepare the poultices."
D'Artagnan moved forward to help Porthos carefully lower Aramis back. Now that he was lying down, d'Artagnan noticed an even darker splotch of bruising on his ribs. Rather than distract the doctor from his medicine making, d'Artagnan proceeded to gently palpate the spot himself.
Aramis grunted. "No more. Please."
"Sorry. Just wanted to make sure nothing was broken."
"Miraculously, no," he said hoarsely, closing his eyes.
"What caused it?" Athos asked, moving closer to see for himself.
"Pistol butt. Grimaud…didn't appreciate me…divulging his numbers."
"Thank you for that," Athos replied mildly.
"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered, eyes still closed. "I never wanted to keep things from you. But I knew you would not…agree with it. And I had no right…to ask for your support." The words spilled forth, having been apparently loosened by the pain draught.
"But you 'ad no problem askin' me to shoot you," Porthos growled.
"To stop Grimaud."
"Not at the cost of your life, Aramis," d'Artagnan put in.
"My life was forfeit years ago," he whispered, voice laden with remorse, and d'Artagnan couldn't tell whether he was referring to almost being executed for treason or something else.
The silence thickened, broken only by the doctor's shuffling at the table and Aramis's harsh breathing. This was not a conversation to be had in front of Gallaudet, and so they all stood like statues and waited until the poultices were finally ready. Then d'Artagnan and Porthos again took up the regretful task of pulling Aramis upright so the comfrey could be packed over every inch of his back. The strangled sounds choking in his throat made d'Artagnan's heart constrict. Finally the doctor was done and they laid Aramis down again.
Gallaudet left a bottle for the pain draught and instructions on the dosage, along with how often to change the poultices. They would have to send someone to purchase some more comfrey, as he'd exhausted his supply on hand trying to cover the sheer extent of damage.
The man packed up his bag. "I will return tomorrow to check on him, though I expect he'll be much the same. He likely won't regain mobility for several days, and that's assuming some of the muscle tears aren't too extensive."
D'Artagnan's stomach dropped at the news. "He was fine yesterday though."
Well, not fine, but not like this.
"I'm still right here," Aramis muttered.
"And that is a miracle from God," Gallaudet said, turning to address him. "You're lucky you didn't suffocate while hanging in that position for so long. It would not surprise me if you had bruising on your lungs as well. But if you truly had range of mobility yesterday, then that is a good sign for your recovery."
That latter part should have filled d'Artagnan with a wash of relief, but mostly he was doused in a cold horror at the previous statement.
Athos thanked the doctor and saw him to the door, then turned back. "When was the last time you ate or drank something?"
"Last night," Aramis replied tiredly. "I had a little bread and water before retiring to bed."
"Had you had anything while with Grimaud?" d'Artagnan asked, because now he was thinking of all the things he should have thought of yesterday.
"A little water. Apparently he needed me alive." Aramis winced. "But not intact."
No, not if the madman was content to let him hang like a slab of meat.
"Do you think you can eat solid food?" Athos picked up again. "Or would soup be better?"
"I'm not exactly in a condition for either."
"Aramis," d'Artagnan chided. "You have to eat." He didn't voice the obvious, that Aramis would have to be assisted.
"Fine," he bit out bitterly. "Soup it is then. Find a new recruit due for grunt work and let him see to it over the next several days. I won't burden you any further."
D'Artagnan blinked. "You're not a burden, Aramis. Of course we'll help you."
Aramis closed his eyes and whispered, "I would not ask that of any of you."
Porthos scowled and started shaking his head, which somehow caught Aramis's attention, as he opened his eyes again.
"I know you're angry, Porthos," he said. "If I could find a way to appease you, I would. But since it seems that everything I do is wrong in your eyes, I'm afraid I'm at a loss. My desire to protect you all is wrong; my decision to leave to secure that protection and my decision to return have brought nothing but contempt from you, and I am sorry that I cannot fix it. Why couldn't you have just taken the shot?"
"You wanna die, is that it?" Porthos snarled, whirling toward the bed and bumping the edge.
"What I want can never be. I've broken the most precious thing I have ever held dear. I could not stay at the monastery, and I cannot stay here. What other course is open to me save to die in service to those I love?"
"Yer a selfish bastard, ya know that?"
Aramis sighed. "Yes, I know."
D'Artagnan's heart had jumped at Aramis's words. "You're not thinking of leaving?" he blurted.
Porthos snorted. "That's what 'e does."
"What do you want from me?" Aramis demanded desperately.
"I wanted you wiv us."
"But I cannot change the past, so what do you want from me now?"
Porthos didn't seem to have an answer for that.
Neither did d'Artagnan. The fractures had been there all along but he'd stubbornly been ignoring them, determined to regain a semblance of the brotherhood he had cherished before the war. He could feel the last of it slipping away now, crumbling through his fingers as he frantically tried to hold tight.
No, he refused to let it. He did not survive four years of war and regain a lost brother to lose him now.
"I want you to trust us," he said. "I want you to let go of this idea that you have to protect us with your silence or absence. If you commit treason again, I want to know about it. I want to be prepared to protect you. I want you to tell me about secret dealings so I can have your back."
Aramis's stared at him in stupefaction, but then his expression became shielded. "I cannot be responsible for bringing you harm…"
"We are soldiers, Aramis. We face the risk of harm every day. I just lived through four years of war. And you know what I've found on the other side of it? Not duty or country or even honor. Just brotherhood. That is what I choose to fight for. Out there on the frontline or here in service to the King, we fight together. And if we die, we'll do that together too."
Aramis's eyes took on a watery sheen. "Except I didn't. I betrayed that vow." He flicked a pained look at Porthos.
"Take it up again," d'Artagnan said. "Right now. Swear to me you will trust us again and I will trust you to uphold it."
Aramis turned his gaze back to him. "That simple, hm?"
"For me, yes." He could not speak for Athos and Porthos, and he knew that if he did not secure their vows along with his own, it would all be for naught, because Aramis needed the two of them more than anything. He always had.
"D'Artagnan's right," Athos spoke up. "I understand your reasons for leaving and do not fault you for them, though I have always disagreed with their validity. You sought penance and punishment and you deserved neither."
"My actions nearly destroyed us all—"
"That was Rochefort. He found a means in you, but if it hadn't been you, he would have contrived another way." Athos took a step closer. "And you're wrong, Aramis. It is and always has been your right to ask for our support." His expression turned remorseful. "I'm sorry you were ever made to doubt that."
Aramis sighed. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted us to tell the King. The Queen…she thought the less who knew until there was real progress, the better."
"And you always do whatever she wants," Porthos grumbled.
D'Artagnan shot him a dark look. This rift needed mending, now, or he feared it would be torn forever.
"Would you have denied Her Majesty's wishes had she asked you?" Aramis said softly.
Porthos shook his head in frustration, mouth pressed into a tight line.
"Is a renewed vow enough for you, my friend?" Aramis asked, voice laden with weariness. "Or would you demand more penance from me? Either way I will oblige, just tell me what to expect."
Both d'Artagnan and Athos were looking at Porthos pointedly now. They had spoken their forgiveness and absolution and now everything hung on Porthos's next words.
His shoulders sagged. "They make it sound so easy."
Aramis gave him a sad smile. "I know it is not."
"Simple does not mean easy," Athos said.
"No," Aramis agreed.
Porthos ran a hand down his beard. "A'right, you want to know what I want? I want you ta stop throwin' your life away. Stop throwin' us away. And…I'll stop givin' ya a reason to keep doin' it."
"Porthos…"
"No, I was punishin' you. I wanted you ta feel the kind of hurt I did after you left."
"I felt it every single day since I left as well." Aramis closed his eyes. "Athos is right; it was my punishment. I was never trying to punish you. But I see that I did anyway."
Porthos was silent for a moment. "So are you ready to stop then?"
Aramis quirked a confused look at him.
"Stop punishin' yerself for things you think you deserve," Porthos clarified.
Aramis sighed. "I will try. And I will stand by your sides from this day forward."
"That was never in question, Aramis," Athos interjected. "The question is whether you will let us stand by yours."
His eyes wavered for a long moment, but he finally gave a jerky nod, followed by a grimace. "Although, on second thought, it seems I won't be standing for a while…"
D'Artagnan huffed. "No, you won't. But we'll be here." He reached out to tentatively touch Aramis's lax hand, cautious of causing any pain but wanting to offer a tangible sign of the promise. Aramis's fingers twitched in response. D'Artagnan lightly cupped the bruised wrist. "Where's that salve you have for contusions?"
"Top shelf."
"I'll get it," Porthos said.
"And I'll ask Serge to make some soup," Athos chimed in before heading for the door.
D'Artagnan took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Porthos offered him the tin of ointment, which he dipped his fingers in and began to gently massage into the battered flesh.
Aramis watched for a long moment before his mouth quirked. "So, you expect me to commit treason again?"
D'Artagnan smirked. "If it was out of love? Yes."
Aramis's eyes darkened.
"But love will follow you," he added sincerely.
"I don't deserve it," Aramis whispered.
"That ain't for you to decide," Porthos said a tad gruffly. "'Sides, what's that yer always sayin' about God's forgiveness? It ain't earned by sinners but given—"
"In grace," Aramis finished. "I didn't think you paid that much attention to matters of faith."
Porthos shrugged. "Some of it makes sense, I guess. The parts you talk about. And ain't that what we're all askin' of each other here? Ta grant grace?"
Aramis smiled. "Indeed it is, my friend."
D'Artagnan beamed on the inside, the last piece finally settling back into place. It would not be easy moving forward, he knew that. But they were nothing if not determined, stubborn men. Perhaps now they could at last begin to leave the regrets of the past behind and reforge their brotherhood.
Because that was worth fighting for.