Summary: They're both haunted by ghosts, one foot with the living and the other in the grave. Maybe they can find a reason to help save each other.
A/N: Thank you Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews! Laureleaf, your comment about Constance and Athos knowing each other pre-series got my muse going and now I'm working on a nice little multi-chapter fic about that. XD (Uia, I'll have to come up with something else for Porthos, as he won't get much time with her in it.)
Song fic for 29Pieces.
"Nobody Can Save Me" - Linkin Park
I'm dancing with my demons
I'm hanging off the edge
Storm clouds gather beneath me
Waves break above my head
Head-first hallucination
At first he sees her everywhere—on the street corner, a reflection in a shop window. Porcelain white skin, lush lips, and dark cascading curls. But she vanishes the moment he looks more closely, an apparition of his plagued mind's own conjuring. He drowns himself in wine to banish the trailing visage, but it only makes her face waver like smoke before his eyes, her smile melting into mist.
He joins the Musketeers, seeking redemption in an honorable occupation. He's barely sober during the day but he's functional enough. Athos ignores the looks of derision he receives from the other musketeers, doesn't heed the whispers that say he purchased his commission as the son of some wealthy noble.
He hasn't. He'd met with Captain Treville, had his abilities tested, and won the approval to join their ranks. He doesn't need said approval from the others, nor friendship. Only enough respect they can trust each other to do their duty. Duty is all he has left to live for. It's what he sacrificed everything to uphold.
But it's a more tenuous rope than he gives it credit for, barely enough to pull him from the floor of his apartments in the morning and dunk his head in a bucket of water to revive himself. But rise he does, and duty he performs in service of king and country. It's a tether to life he can't say he doesn't secretly hope he hangs himself with at some point.
Because he still sees her.
I wanna fall wide awake now
You tell me it's alright
Tell me I'm forgiven, tonight
But nobody can save me now
I'm holding up a light
Chasing out the darkness inside
'Cause nobody can save me
Athos gets knocked into the door jamb, but he barely feels it.
"Sorry," Porthos mutters, adjusting his hold as he half carries Athos over the threshold. Athos recognizes the simple furnishings of Porthos's room at the garrison. He's been there several times when the large musketeer has dragged him home after finding him in a drunken stupor in a tavern. It's not something Athos has ever asked him to do; Porthos has just taken it upon himself. And once Athos is that deep in his cup, it's not like he can put up much of a protest.
"Don' know why you keep drinkin' like this," Porthos rumbles as he hefts Athos bodily onto his bed. "Seems more like punishment than revel."
Athos doesn't respond. It is both refuge and punishment.
Heavy footsteps retreat, and Athos thinks Porthos has left him alone to sleep it off. But a few minutes later the door opens again and another set of footfalls joins the first. Athos blinks blearily through the wavering candlelight as he makes out Aramis, whose eyes are as red-rimmed as Athos's must be. The man looks haggard as usual but nevertheless approaches the bed and begins to check Athos over. Aramis has an interest in battlefield medicine, which somehow makes him qualified to do this in Porthos's eyes. But he's not a physician, not that Athos would submit to one of those either.
He weakly pushes away Aramis's offending hands, but his efforts are pathetic and unsuccessful, limbs too uncoordinated to do anything but flap petulantly.
Aramis finishes his examination and steps back. "Keep him on his side so he doesn't drown in his own sick during the night," he tells Porthos. "And give him watered down wine in the morning to take the edge off the beast of a headache he'll have."
Athos wants to say he'll take more wine now, but his tongue is too heavy. He feels large hands grip his shoulders and roll him onto his side. He should feel mortified at being handled like a child's doll, but he is the one who drank himself into this state.
"What about you?" Porthos asks quietly.
"What about me?" Aramis replies in an equally subdued voice. Somewhere in Athos's addled mind he knows it's not out of deference to him.
Porthos makes an abortive noise, the hands on Athos's shoulder taut.
"I'll be fine, Porthos," Aramis says. "I'm not the one who's poisoned himself. Prop him up with something so you can get some sleep too."
There's a snick of a door opening and closing, and then silence. The presence above him moves away, followed by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Then Porthos is back, nothing more than a blurred shape through Athos's half-lidded eyes.
The large man sighs and leans his arms on his legs. "Whatever it is, it can't be so bad to go searchin' for death in a bottle."
Athos doesn't know whether Porthos expects him to rouse enough to answer, but he doesn't even try. He knows the man means well, though Athos doesn't see why. It doesn't matter anyway. He doesn't need nor want anyone's help.
Not that anyone could help him if he did.
Stared into this illusion
For answers yet to come
I chose a false solution
But nobody proved me wrong
Head-first hallucination
Aramis stares at the candle flame, watching the wax around the wick pool and drip down the sides as the night wears on. He won't sleep, won't dare to try. The nightmares are constant and leave him feeling more exhausted and wrung out than if he just doesn't sleep at all. So many times he's woken to Porthos at his side, drawing him away from the clutches of those harrowing dreams.
But Porthos won't be by his side tonight; he's taken up vigil elsewhere. Aramis doesn't begrudge him that. The man seems to have a penchant for adopting wounded animals. Aramis just wishes he'd chosen something other than a pair of lost causes. He doesn't know what darkness Athos carries inside and drinks to excess to forget, but it's obvious the man has little self-preservation in that regard. As for Aramis, it's been three months since Savoy. His physical wounds have healed but he can still feel the pain in his head and hear the screams.
Why had he survived? Marsac had left him in the woods to die; he should have died with the rest of his brothers. The priest said God had mercy on him; it feels more like he's been cursed.
The candle wears down and the shadows deepen. Aramis sees the flicker of ghosts along the edges of his vision, frozen soldiers silently asking why he left them behind. It's another paradox, for they're the ones who left him behind, a half dead man walking among the living.
I wanna fall wide awake
Watch the ground giving way now
You tell me it's alright
Tell me I'm forgiven, tonight
But nobody can save me now
I'm holding up a light
I'm chasing out the darkness inside
'Cause nobody can save me
"Oh, Aramis," sighs into the room.
He starts at the sudden proximity of the voice and blinks up at Porthos. He hadn't heard him come in. The shadows retreat, the snowflakes dissipate, and Aramis is left trying to figure out when the sun had risen so far without his knowing.
"Captain's gonna call muster soon," Porthos says and reaches down to take his arm and help him up from the bed where he's been pressed against the wall with knees drawn up all night.
Aramis lets himself be manipulated. His world is crumbling around him and the only thing that holds steady is Porthos's sure movements.
"You shoulda stayed in my room," Porthos mutters almost to himself.
Aramis swallows before finding his voice. "You had a charge."
"Yeah, well, you both need lookin' after."
Aramis jerks away at that. He can't continue to be this weak. If he can't get a hold of himself soon then he has no business being a musketeer.
Athos has no such qualms.
The thought is bitter and out of the blue, but it burns like acid in Aramis's heart. He knows better than to judge a man for the ghosts he carries. Aramis has twenty of them.
No, he'll pull himself together. If Athos can find a way to do his duty, then so can Aramis, who has been a soldier a lot longer.
"It's all right, you know," Porthos says sympathetically. "It's okay to need help after what you went through. It's not yer fault."
Porthos has been telling Aramis this since the day he woke up lucid after being rescued from the snow-covered forest. And on some level he can accept the truth and rationality behind the words.
But the voices of the dead tell him differently. Aramis has been fighting them ever since that fateful night, and he wonders if a time will come when they finally win.
He feels so cold.
Been searching somewhere out there
For what's been missing right here (I wanna fall wide awake now)
I've been searching somewhere out there
For what's been missing right here
Athos slakes his thirst with a swig from his flask. They've been on the road for a few days now, having been sent on a mission to capture a wanted criminal and return him to Paris. He's with Porthos, Aramis, and a newly commissioned musketeer named Jaquot. The regiment is still trying to rebuild their ranks and a lot of the new men are younger than most, skilled, yes, but untested. It's Jaquot's first mission, but it's also Aramis's first outside the city since healing from Savoy, and Porthos has been watching him with poorly concealed concern. Athos can tell it's beginning to grate on the marksman, especially since they apprehended their fugitive without problems and are a day away from Paris.
Athos takes another small sip. Being on this mission has meant that he can't drink himself into his customary oblivion every night and his body craves the wine. He has to keep himself going with smaller doses at regular intervals, but it's not enough to fill the void he's been desperately trying to stopper since that fateful day he lost his brother and wife.
Whether the lack of wine, haunting memories, or complacency makes him inattentive, he doesn't know. But that, combined with Jaquot's lack of experience and the fact that Aramis has just gotten into a quiet argument with Porthos a little ways away creates the perfect storm. The criminal in their custody is sitting on the ground as they take a rest, his hands bound with rope in front of him. He's pawing through the underbrush beside him as Jaquot stands nearby, tending his horse. Athos sees the splintered branch between the prisoner's hands just as he thrusts it up through Jaquot's sternum. The boy lets out a sharp gasp, eyes blowing wide.
Athos surges forward, but the man turns and body slams him to the ground. The impact knocks the wind from him. His flask spills his wine across the leaves like blood. As he lays there, stunned, hands grab at his main gauche and cut the ropes. For a split second, the blade glints in the air. This could be Athos's end right here. But Porthos has shouted and is charging their direction, so the man leaps onto Jaquot's horse and takes off. Porthos runs to his steed and mounts up to give chase.
Aramis rushes straight to Jaquot. "No, no, no," he utters, hands pressing frantically to the stab wound that's spurting blood. Red flecks splatter Jaquot's lips as he coughs.
Athos pulls himself upright and stares, too dazed to think of what should be done. The wound is severe and the internal bleeding is a bad sign.
"Stay with me," Aramis urges as he presses harder.
Jaquot makes a choked sound, and then lets out a long, slow sigh. He falls unnaturally still at the end of the exhalation, eyes staring out vacantly. Aramis freezes. His gaze is locked on Jaquot's face, his hands still firmly pressing against the wound. The flow of blood has slowed.
Aramis murmurs something in Latin that Athos can't catch, makes the sign of the cross on Jaquot's forehead, and closes the boy's eyes. Then he lurches to his feet and stumbles away into the trees.
Athos just sits on the ground next to the body and can't help but think of Thomas. A life unnecessarily extinguished, and for what?
He doesn't know how much time passes before Porthos returns with their prisoner recaptured. The large musketeer's expression twists at the sight of Jaquot, but then he's sweeping his gaze around the area.
"Where's Aramis?" he asks in alarm.
Athos looks up and realizes he's been alone this whole time. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Porthos snarls. He drags their prisoner over and shoves him to the ground, then bends to tie his hands and feet together like a trussed up hog. "Which direction did he go?"
Athos frowns when he can't give a precise answer. He can only gesture to the woods.
Porthos lets out a string of curses and storms off.
After a moment, Athos drags himself to his feet and goes off in search too.
I wanna fall wide awake now
So tell me it's alright
Tell me I'm forgiven, tonight
And only I can save me now
I'm holding up a light
Chasing out the darkness inside
And I don't wanna let you down
But only I can save me!
Aramis stumbles through the woods. It's the middle of summer, a warm breeze wafting through the trees, but he's shaking with cold. He catches himself against a trunk, shoulders heaving from his ragged breaths. He stares at his hands, slick with crimson. The weight of failure is crushing his chest. Another musketeer dead and him to walk away. It's not right. Jaquot was so young, just starting out as a musketeer. Aramis was supposed to watch out for him.
He sinks to the ground and clutches fistfuls of his hair, pressing a palm to the scar underneath, trying to ignite a physical kind of pain to serve as an outlet for the devastating emotions roiling inside.
The snap of a twig has him jerking up and reaching for his pistol.
Athos puts his hands up, quirking a confused look as to why he's being drawn on. "Aramis?"
"Go away." He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will the snow-covered corpses to disappear.
Athos is silent for a moment. "Porthos is worried. I'm surprised you haven't heard him stomping all over these woods looking for you."
Aramis feels a flash of bitterness. If Porthos hadn't been shadowing him so closely, one of them could have been watching more carefully. They could have stopped their prisoner from escaping. From killing Jaquot.
"It wasn't your fault," Athos says.
Aramis snorts derisively. "Was it yours?" he lashes out. "How much from your flask have you had today? Enough to dull your senses?"
Athos reels back. The accusation is unfair but Aramis can't retract it. If he pushes hard enough, maybe the man will snap and rage at him like he wants. He's tired of being treated like brittle glass.
"Where were you?" he demands, getting to his feet. His weapon hangs loosely in his hand as he closes the distance.
Athos narrows his eyes at him. "You're right," he says. "I wasn't watching carefully enough. Jaquot's death is on me."
Aramis blinks, unbalanced by the admission. He shakes his head and spins away. "No. I'm the senior musketeer. It was my responsibility." Just like it was in Savoy. He should have set watch. It didn't matter that they weren't expecting trouble. A good soldier should always be on guard for danger. He'd learned that the hard way. He should know better.
"Savoy was not your fault either."
Aramis whirls with a snarl. "What would you know about it? You weren't there!"
Athos stands firm in the face of Aramis's storm. "I know what it's like to be haunted by the demons of one's past."
"Oh, yes, the demons you drink to forget," he replies scornfully. "But they're always there, waiting. And they always will be until the night you finally drink one bottle too much or end up face first drowning in your own sick." He sags back against a tree trunk. "There's no escape," he whispers.
"You're right," Athos says simply. "Porthos thinks whatever it is can't be that bad. He doesn't know. Just like he can't know what Savoy was like. He thinks he can save us but he can't."
Aramis recoils like he's been slapped. He's known it, deep down, but to have the truth thrown at him is devastating. He is irredeemable.
Athos takes one step closer. "You have to let it go, Aramis."
"Like you have?" he retorts.
Athos doesn't have anything to say to that. Aramis thinks he'll walk away. Like Marsac did. Aramis would deserve that.
Athos lowers his head. "My ghosts are of my own making. You have too much to live for. Do it for Porthos's sake as much as your own."
The visage of dead bodies is momentarily replaced with Porthos's face, the dark-skinned man's kind eyes and worried expression, the one whom Aramis had extended a branch of friendship to before that fateful training exercise and who had grasped it almost desperately, because few in his life had ever treated him with such sincerity. Aramis knows these past few months have been hard on Porthos, but the man has not abandoned him. Aramis doesn't want to let him down. But Athos is right; Porthos can't save him.
He sinks to the ground and closes his eyes in defeat. "I don't think I can."
Been searching somewhere out there
For what's been missing right here
Athos's heart clenches with commiserating pain at the confession. He knows what Aramis means all too well. He stands for several long moments and watches the man crumple in on himself. He's out of his depth…only, he hadn't always been this way. He used to be able to offer comfort to Thomas when they were younger. And once again in the space of an hour, Athos is reminded of his little brother.
He doesn't know if he has room in his heart to grow fond of anyone ever again, nor is he sure he can risk it, the crushing loss. But this young man's anguish resonates with him. He doesn't know the details of Savoy, can't imagine the horrors that happened there. He only knows what it's like to live with horror. He brought his upon himself, but Aramis did not incite the massacre of twenty of his friends.
And so Athos finds himself contemplating the potential of a new purpose, something else to tether him to this world aside from duty alone. A task, to watch over this man who's tended to Athos more than once in his drunken stupors, despite the fact he needed rest more. Selfless, even in the midst of his darkest hours. Athos could not make that same claim, but he could try to do better. If he anchored someone else, perhaps they could in turn anchor him.
"You can, Aramis," Athos finds himself saying and kneels before him. "You survived thus far. The only way left is up. And you are not alone."
Aramis shakes his head and lets out a strangled sounding laugh. "No, I'm never alone. I see them everywhere. Dead eyes accusing me of being a fraud. The living accusing the same. I am only half alive."
Athos grips his shoulder then, stiffening at the chilling accuracy of the description. "We cannot change the past. We can only try to do better from here on out," he repeats aloud.
Aramis finally lifts his head. "And you?" he challenges.
Athos's eyes narrow a fraction. He is not used to being called on things, of even tolerating it. But if he's going to take on this task, he knows some things will have to change. Not full sobriety, but what happened here today cannot happen again.
"I suppose the first step is choosing to let ourselves be saved. Will you try with me?"
Aramis's eyes swim with the same doubt Athos feels. They are both drowning and Athos is right: the only way left is up or the grave. And he is not ready to embrace the latter, despite his apathy otherwise lately. He is also, strangely, not ready to let this young man do so either.
Aramis closes his eyes. "For Porthos's sake," he whispers.
And mine, Athos thinks.
There's a snap of a twig and Athos looks over to find Porthos gaping at them, expression shifting from surprise to wariness to confusion. Aramis hasn't looked up, his eyes still closed and head bowed as though in prayer.
Athos gives Porthos a silent look he hopes conveys his newfound resolve. They two will be a united front in this: bringing Aramis back from the ledge. And, he suspects, those two will be united in their quest to drag Athos back from his own abyss.
They all have their work cut out for them, he thinks wryly.
Yet, somehow, Athos for once feels up to the challenge. He has found something worth fighting for again.