Summary: D'Artagnan's heart raced faster, battering against his rib cage. Aramis was going to die in a muddy and watery grave, just like his father had, and he was helpless to do anything. Again.
A/N: Thank you Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews! Here's some d'Artagnan for Jade.
"When the Rain Comes"
The rain was relentless. It had been pouring for the past two hours, pounding into the ground with the staccato ferocity of war drums. D'Artagnan's and Aramis's cloaks had long since lost the ability to shield them and they were soaked through, with the nearest inn still a few miles away.
D'Artagnan shifted in his saddle. He was on edge and restless. They had delivered some missives to a Baron without a problem and were on their way back to Paris, so he blamed his agitation on the weather; he hadn't felt right since it started. Aramis had given up trying to occupy him with trivial prattle and they had ridden in silence for the past half hour, focusing instead on trudging through the muck.
The bandits that suddenly surged from the tree line were like grey phantoms, silent in their attack or at least drowned out by the incessant rain. D'Artagnan swung his leg over his saddle to dismount, his damp trousers sticking to the wet leather and causing an ungainly landing. He drew his sword as the first bandit reached him and flung it up to block the ax being swung at his head. His feet slid in the mud, upsetting his balance, but the same went for his opponent. D'Artagnan thrust his blade forward, running the bandit through.
Aramis cut down another. Then a shot cracked the air and he jerked in a spiraled fall.
D'Artagnan's shout died in his throat. For a moment, he was paralyzed, rain water running into his eyes and blurring the scene in a wash of muted greys and browns. A flash of steel glinted out of the corner of his eye and he barely got his sword up in time to block it. Steel screeched and grated. D'Artagnan shook himself out of his stupor enough to fight back, and within a few quick moves he'd slain the bandit.
The one who'd shot Aramis was already leaping onto the marksman's horse and attempting to flee. D'Artagnan pulled his pistol and fired. The bandit let out a cry and went flying from the saddle. The horse whinnied and pulled up short, prancing in place in agitation.
D'Artagnan rushed to Aramis, only to freeze yet again as he took in his friend lying in the mud as diluted red mixed with murky brown. His chest constricted and he suddenly couldn't breathe. Aramis's features wavered to be replaced with the visage of d'Artagnan's father, lying in the mud and dying in his son's arms. The rain pounded mercilessly to match the roaring in his ears.
Aramis moaned and lolled his head to the side, his hat a sodden mess sinking into the mire. The spell broke, and d'Artagnan dropped down next to him, his knees squelching in the sucking muck. Streams of water were washing away the blood but he could see the hole in Aramis's doublet, up near his shoulder but under the collar bone. D'Artagnan gathered up the marksman's cloak and pressed it to the wound, but everything was already soaked and covered in mud.
D'Artagnan's heart raced faster, battering against his rib cage. Aramis was going to die in a muddy and watery grave, just like his father had, and he was helpless to do anything. Again.
He gave himself a sharp shake. No, he was a musketeer now, and he was not helpless.
D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and lurched toward the horses. He tied the reins of Aramis's to the saddle of his own and guided them back to the fallen marksman. He then slid his arms under his friend and tried to haul him up, but the mud was too slippery and he couldn't maintain his grip or balance. Aramis slid back toward the ground and d'Artagnan went with him, collapsing with a splat and bowing his head as tears burned at the corners of his eyes.
"Aramis," he choked, grasping at the man's lapels and jostling him. He didn't get a response.
Gritting his teeth, d'Artagnan forced himself to his feet again. He grabbed his horse's reins and whispered soothing pleas to her as he coaxed her into kneeling her front legs. Only his experience growing up on a farm gave him the patience to see it through. A part of him liked to think the beast sensed his need and wanted to help, despite the awkwardness for her.
D'Artagnan grabbed Aramis by his coat and dragged him over, then hauled him across the saddle. He climbed up behind him and took a moment to right him, then clicked his tongue at the horse and tugged the reins, beckoning her to straighten. Her hooves slipped in the mud as she did so, but d'Artagnan managed to keep himself and Aramis in the saddle. Once upright again, he squeezed his thighs to signal the horse to move, continuing down the road in search of shelter.
Even with a cantering pace, it took them nearly an hour to reach the first inn. D'Artagnan dragged Aramis down from the saddle and left the horses outside as he frantically staggered into the inn.
"Help!" he called, drawing startled looks from the proprietor and his wife. "We're King's Musketeers. This man is wounded and needs a physician."
"Doctor Courbis resides in town," the innkeeper replied. "I'll send for 'im."
"An' we have a room upstairs," his wife added hurriedly. "I'll show you."
D'Artagnan gave a clipped nod of gratitude. "We'll need towels and hot water. Please," he remembered to add.
He followed the woman up the stairs, struggling to keep Aramis from sliding back down them, and finally came to a room where he promptly dropped his friend on the bed before the last of his strength finally failed. He then quickly set to divesting the man of his wet and filthy doublet and shirt. Aramis's skin was white and chilled, the bullet wound oozing blood only sluggishly. D'Artagnan rolled him to get a look at his back—there was no exit wound.
The door opened and the innkeeper entered bearing towels and a bowl of steaming water. "I sent the stableboy for the doctor."
D'Artagnan was only able to manage a nod. His gaze drifted down to his hands. They were shaking, and he clenched his fists to make them stop.
He took one of the towels and used it to wipe the mud from Aramis's neck and face, keeping one eye on the bullet wound and one on the door, waiting for the physician. It seemed to take forever for Doctor Courbis to arrive, but finally he did, sopping wet and dripping like the two musketeers.
The man immediately went to his patient, and d'Artagnan stood off to the side, arms folded tightly with his hands tucked up under his armpits and biting his lip as he watched. The physician was methodical and efficient in his examination, opening up his bag of instruments so he could dig the ball out. D'Artagnan intended to watch his every move, but the innkeeper's wife came over and managed to convince him to change out of his own wet things.
"Catchin' your death won't help your friend."
D'Artagnan peeled off his coat and shirt, letting the water-logged items drop on the floor with a wet slap. The innkeeper's wife grabbed a blanket and held it up like a drape between her and him. D'Artagnan faltered for a moment but knew he needed to get dry. So he shucked off his trousers as quickly as possible and then took the blanket to wrap around himself modestly. His braes were damp but they would dry more quickly and he wasn't about to completely strip in front of company. The innkeeper's wife still averted her eyes and moved over to assist the doctor.
D'Artagnan turned his attention back to the physician who was digging the ball out of Aramis's shoulder. His hands were steady, while d'Artagnan felt like he was going to shake apart. Once the ball was removed, Doctor Courbis stitched the hole and finished up by wrapping Aramis's upper torso in linen.
"That's all I can do for now," he said.
D'Artagnan didn't respond. He couldn't seem to form words at the moment.
"Come," the innkeeper's wife said to the doctor. "You could use some hot stew and a seat by the fire yourself."
Courbis thanked her and they headed downstairs, leaving the musketeers alone.
D'Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed and watched Aramis's chest rise and fall with steady breathing. He couldn't imagine what Athos or Porthos might say were they here. In fact, all he could hear was the rain battering the rooftop and his father's raspy final words eking out with his last breath.
"Athos. Athos."
What had been a dying declaration now rang as a personal accusation. If Athos were here, he wouldn't have let this happen.
At some point the innkeeper came back up with their saddlebags and set them inside the door before bowing out again. D'Artagnan dragged himself from Aramis's side and fished out a change of dry clothes. He finally noticed the mud all over the floor and the bedsheets, but he couldn't think of how he might clean it up at the moment.
Resigned to the mess, he tugged Aramis's boots off and removed his trousers, then wrapped him in a blanket, pausing to rest the back of his hand on the man's forehead. He still wasn't warm. Neither was d'Artagnan. Outside, the rain wouldn't stop.
He took a seat in the room's single chair and stared at the water streaming down the window. He had never felt such hatred for it as he did now.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed before a low moan issued from the bed, followed by a grunt. D'Artagnan tore his gaze away from the pewter world outside and refocused on Aramis.
"Mmph, what happened?"
"We were attacked by bandits," d'Artagnan replied, surprised by how hoarse his voice came out. "You were shot."
"Mm, that explains the throbbing in my shoulder."
"A doctor dug the ball out and stitched you up. We're at an inn."
Aramis turned his head to the side, squinting. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
Aramis frowned at him. "You look pale. Did the doctor check you over?"
D'Artagnan scowled. "I wasn't the one injured."
"What's wrong then?"
He shook his head in irritation and went back to staring out the window. "When's it going to stop?" he snapped.
"D'Artagnan," Aramis said softly.
He surged up from his chair. "You almost died. That's what's wrong."
"But I didn't. You got us out of there and found help. So what's really bothering you?"
D'Artagnan pressed his lips together in mounting aggravation. "I almost didn't. I got distracted by…" He clamped his jaw shut and looked away.
"By what?" Aramis prompted.
He felt his cheeks burning, and still it didn't thaw the ice cold feeling deep inside him.
"When you were bleeding in the mud…and the rain." D'Artagnan sucked in a harsh breath. "It was just like when my father was murdered."
"And it brought those memories back as if they were happening right then," Aramis said with understanding. His brow pinched thoughtfully. "How long ago was it now?"
D'Artagnan thought back through the months. "It's been a year," he said in stunned realization. "In two weeks, it will be a year. I…I hadn't remembered yet."
"Not consciously. The mind knows though," Aramis said solemnly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"It could have cost us both our lives."
"Maybe. But I've found that could-have's are useless. You overcame it, d'Artagnan; that's what matters." He closed his eyes and focused on breathing for a moment. "I of all people know what it's like. Those first few years after Savoy, it was snow. And if it was blood on snow?" Aramis exhaled slowly. "It gets better though."
D'Artagnan wanted to scoff at the platitude, but he managed to hold his tongue. Aramis was right; he of all people did understand. "I just need the rain to stop," he murmured.
"It will eventually." Aramis shifted and stifled a grunt. "I could use a distraction, to take my mind off the fire currently searing my shoulder. Will you tell me about your father?"
D'Artagnan hesitated at the request, unsure whether he could bear the heartache. But Aramis was in obvious pain and d'Artagnan didn't want to go back to staring at the rain. So he dragged the chair next to the bed and sat again, away from the window. He wracked his mind for something to talk about and perked up when he remembered a humorous tale from when he was a boy involving a badger and a honey trap.
Aramis smiled as he relaxed and listened, and d'Artagnan found himself getting lost in better memories not tainted by raindrops and drums of deluge.