Summary: There are places a man may go that a brother cannot follow, but that doesn't mean he is alone.
A/N: Thank you guests Julie, Laureleaf, and Uia for your reviews of the last chapter! (And Laureleaf for your other reviews; glad to see you back! Getting wisdom teeth out sucks. I hope the chapters to binge read help distract you during recovery.)
"Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death"
Aramis hates the cold with a bitter passion. It's not yet been a full year since that godforsaken forest far from home, but there's a subtle chill that's never really left him. Winter makes it worse.
Sitting in a dank cellar chained to a frigid stone wall makes it unbearable.
He can't move; his wrists set in manacles bolted into the wall force his arms up on either side of his head. His gloves are gone and his hands are frozen. He's long since lost feeling in his digits. But his limbs shake, chafing his exposed skin against the iron shackles.
"Why do you think they left?" Athos asks.
Aramis slides his gaze over to where Athos sits casually beneath the tiny barred window. There's hoarfrost on the metal. It might as well be snow.
"Claude was injured," he replies, a slight chatter to his teeth. "And I saw Herbert fall. I was cut off where I was providing cover fire. They had no choice."
Athos lolls a dry look at him. "Are you sure that's the reason?"
Aramis frowns. "Why would you ask that?"
Athos just shrugs and Aramis looks away. Marsac is standing in the opposite corner, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. He doesn't say anything.
Aramis shivers.
… …
"You should sleep," Porthos suggests.
Aramis huffs out a distraught sound. He is too cold, his body wracked with tremors that prevent him from finding any rest in this prison. He shifts his legs, trying to alleviate the pain in his back from sitting in the same position for God knows how long, but it doesn't work.
He hasn't seen his captors since they gave him an initial beating and locked him in here. He hadn't any information to give the rebel forces; he's just a marksman.
Once, in what feels like a lifetime ago, he kept counsel with Treville, was involved in strategies and campaigns. Not now though, not since Savoy. His recovery had taken months and afterwards he did not resume his place as Treville's second in command, nor did the Captain seek him out for it. He is just a musketeer now.
Marsac scratches a fingernail at some moss on the stone wall.
"Hey," Porthos pushes. "What are some of those prayers yer always recitin'?"
Aramis closes his eyes. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…"
… …
It's quiet. No sounds drift down through the barred window, haven't for some time. Aramis wonders if his captors have moved on. Did they leave him here because they intend to return? Or did they just not care? The cold will take him eventually unless a rescue comes soon.
"It will," Porthos assures him.
"Not unless the rebel forces lead us north," Athos rejoins pragmatically. "Stopping them is the mission after all."
Porthos scowls.
Aramis coughs. A congestion is building in his lungs, he can feel it. He recites all the known treatments, for all the good it does, since none are available to him. His mind starts going over the progression of illness instead. He muses over which malady will take him first.
"We should go," Athos says.
Aramis catches his eye, silently pleading. Athos's expression is unreadable. Porthos won't look at him, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Marsac opens the cellar door and walks out.
"You knew this was coming."
… …
Aramis has finally stopped shivering and is granted a reprieve from his torment. His head hangs low against his chest and he dozes. Ghosts continue to visit him, pale, silent apparitions of friends lost in Savoy. They're waiting. Waiting for the one who shouldn't have escaped. Aramis thinks about going to them, but he's so heavy and he can't feel his arms. He thinks they've petrified into the stone wall at his back and suddenly he's terrified that will be his fate, to be forever entombed, a living embodiment of death preserved forever in a dark dungeon forgotten by the world.
"Aramis!"
He slits his eyes open and his vision shifts as his head is lifted. He can see but not feel the thick gloved hands on his face.
There's a clink of metal and one of his arms drops. He stares at it numbly like it's some detached appendage held together only by a few frozen sinews. The second one falls a few moments later.
"Aramis," someone urges. They have Porthos's timbre. "Athos, he's frozen through."
Another set of gloved hands take his between them and rub. He still doesn't feel it. They're just hallucinations but part of Aramis is glad they're back. He hates being alone. Yet another part of him is afraid of when they'll inevitably leave again and he's not sure which is worse to endure—the isolation or the abandonment.
"Get him upstairs. Start a fire!"
The hands let go of his face and his head drops. Something shifts behind his back and under his legs and then he's being lifted and carried, out of the cellar and upstairs to the receiving room he'd first been questioned in. Aramis wonders if his captors finally returned and are going to try interrogating him again. The thought amuses him because he can't feel any pain anymore and therefore has no incentive to talk.
Men in blue cloaks are hastily tossing wood into the hearth. Athos gives orders to find bedding or, if there is none, to get saddle blankets. There's a sea of movement around Aramis and it makes his head spin for his body feels stuck in a mire.
"Hang in there," someone grunts in his ear. "We'll get you warm soon. You'll be alright."
Aramis points out that he isn't that cold but is ignored. Then he's being laid on the floor next to a crackling fire. Perhaps flames will be the instrument of questioning.
"Dear God," someone breathes. "Is he…?"
"He's alive," Porthos growls.
"Athos…" someone else says tentatively. "He looks…"
"He opened his eyes," Porthos insists.
"He did," Athos confirms. "But he is very near the edge. Joubert, get a fresh shirt. Brutus, warm one of the blankets near the fire."
Aramis feels his leaden limbs being manipulated then, his frozen leathers being tugged off. Gooseflesh ripples across his exposed skin. It's covered with softer fabric a moment later that's tugged down over his head. Someone with broad shoulders scoots behind him, keeping him propped up, and arms encircle his chest. A blanket is tucked over him.
Aramis observes it all with a strange detachment. He's afraid to move, to even breathe, lest the dream melt away and he find himself alone once more. So he drifts and lets the burble of familiar voices continue the facade because it's better than reality. They carry him away to quieter pastures.
o.0.o
Porthos's back aches and his rump is numb but he doesn't move. It seemed to take ages before Aramis started shivering and only now has it abated. Instead of a block of ice, Porthos now holds a limp rag doll in his arms.
Athos crouches beside him. "Aramis?" he calls, trying to coax their friend into waking so they can ply him with warm broth. He places a hand on a pale cheek and tilts his head up. "Aramis."
Aramis's eyes crack open and he gazes blearily at Athos, who gives him the softest smile Porthos has ever witnessed from the stoic man.
"Drink this," Athos commands, because that's his default disposition, and tips the rim of a cup against Aramis's mouth.
Aramis parts his lips and takes a few small swallows until a cough interrupts him.
"Easy," Porthos soothes. "That's it."
Aramis doesn't say anything, just continues staring with a dull look in his eyes.
Porthos frowns. "Aramis? Hey, how you feelin'?"
He doesn't get an answer.
Athos's mouth turns down as well. "Aramis, can you hear us?"
Their friend doesn't respond. He coughs again, this time with a wet sound. Alarmed, Porthos maneuvers an arm free to place the back of his hand to Aramis's forehead. They'd been so concerned with making him warm that Porthos paid little heed to whether there was too much heat. Aramis doesn't react to the touch or jostling, and that frightens Porthos even more. He shoots an imploring look at Athos.
Athos's expression is tightly controlled yet grim and he gently runs his fingers through Aramis's hair, searching for a head wound that might explain this lethargy. He purses his mouth when done, implying he didn't find anything.
"We'll keep him warm," Athos decides. "And wait for Treville."
There's no telling how long it will take the Captain to deal with the rebels they captured three leagues from this abandoned chateau, the rest of their forces slain in a final skirmish. When they'd gotten this location from one of the prisoners, Treville had sent four after Aramis, thinking at least a guard would have been left behind. None had. They'd left Aramis to die.
Athos gets him to drink more broth without trouble, which should be encouraging. But it's not because this Aramis is like a wraith. He has a beating heart but no life in it.
Porthos runs a thumb down the bristled jaw line and silently begs for him to come back. Aramis simply stares out at nothing until he falls asleep again.
o.0.o
"How long has he been like this?" Treville asks once he and the rest of the Musketeer troop arrives.
"Since yesterday afternoon," Athos answers, standing behind the captain where he kneels next to the fireside pallet Aramis lies on. The marksman is awake at present, if it can be called that. He periodically opens his eyes as though conscious but remains wholly unaware of anything around him, even his own condition. His breathing comes in wheezes now and his chest stutters with the effort but he shows no outward signs of distress.
Treville lays a hand on Aramis's shoulder and bows his head. Athos does not like the finality in the gesture.
"He wasn't tortured?" the captain asks.
"Some bruises, but no, nothing severe."
Treville looks troubled. "I've seen this before when men are pushed past the mind's ability to endure extreme torment. The spirit dies before the body does. I admit I never thought to see Aramis succumb to such an end, especially after Savoy…" He trails off. Nearly a year later, the subject is still too raw a wound.
Athos regards his lifeless friend for a long moment. "He was left alone in the cold for days with no water or rest. I imagine there was nothing those monsters could have done to him that would be worse than the demons he already carries."
Treville stands. "You're probably right." He sighs and shakes his head. "The sickness will take him before long. We'll bring him back to the garrison—"
"With all due respect," Athos interrupts. "But I am not ready to give up, and Porthos will fight any man who suggests otherwise." It is fortunate the large musketeer is currently out looking for herbs to combat the chest infection lest Treville find himself laid out on the floor with a broken jaw.
The captain gives him a sympathetic look. "I know you care for him—"
"I also believe in him," Athos cuts his commanding officer off again. He has never exercised such lack of restraint but in this he will not yield. "I believe he can come back from this. He only needs time to find his way."
Treville heaves an impatient sigh but doesn't argue. "We've successfully squashed the rebellion and will be returning to Paris victorious, which will please the King. I'll give you and Porthos leave to stay here, if you wish, until this matter runs its course."
It's clear what ending the captain is expecting, but Athos inclines his head in gratitude for the leeway.
Treville walks out just as Porthos returns with a handkerchief full of plucked plants.
"What'd the captain say?" he asks.
"You and I will stay with Aramis," Athos replies. He doesn't elaborate on the rest.
Treville has the men leave as many supplies as they can spare and then the company is off, leaving the three Inseparables to themselves. The moniker has always been given in jest before, but now Athos feels there's a poignant purpose behind it and he hopes it will be enough to draw Aramis's soul back to them. For he knows that if the marksman passes from this world, Porthos's heart will be rent asunder. And Athos will be broken for double the loss.
They settle into a routine of watching over Aramis as he sleeps and plying him with herbs and broth when he wakes. His docility disturbs Athos, and a treacherous part of him whispers doubt over the conviction he'd held before Treville.
"He's dyin', ain't he?" Porthos whispers late into the night when the fire and candles cast orange luminescence and flickering shadows in a twisting dance around the chamber and reflect in the glassy sheen of Aramis's vacant eyes.
Athos looks over and meets his gaze squarely. "No," he says staunchly, as though he holds command over the Fates. If only this were some Greek tale so he could summon them and lay challenge to his friend's soul.
Porthos's eyes gleam mournfully as they rest on Aramis's lax face. "He's always goin' where I can't follow."
Athos swallows around an uncomfortable lump in his throat. "Then we will have to find a way to draw him back, as we've done before."
"How?" There is misery and desperation in that plea, and Athos finds himself ill-equipped to fulfill this mission he's undertaken. But he will not waver from it.
He scoots closer to the pallet and lays a hand on Aramis's head. "Aramis, your brothers are here, and we will not leave your side. You're safe now. The battle is won and we were victorious." Athos falters. He is not accustomed to talking at length. "Claude and Herbert were wounded but they will recover, thanks to you providing cover during the escape." He huffs in consternation when words fail him again. "I'm sure Porthos can recount the battle for you."
Porthos looks hesitant but clears his throat and picks up the tale, providing a much more thorough—and somewhat embellished—telling of events. Aramis gazes at him but they can't tell if he's hearing them. They keep at it though, going for normalcy, for camaraderie, for a sense of security that might tempt their brother from wherever he's locked himself away.
Porthos wears his voice out from talking so much and Athos knows he needs to pull his weight but he doesn't know how to give idle prattle.
"You know Scriptures, right?" Porthos says. "Those 'ave always given him comfort."
Of course. Athos may not hold the sacred text in any regard but he was schooled in it.
He leans against the mantle and absently cards his fingers through Aramis's hair. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…"
o.0.o
Aramis hears the voices of his brothers from far away. They pierce the shroud of darkness encasing him and waken him from slumber. He doesn't move though, content to simply doze and listen. He is safe here, though he can't quite remember what exactly there is to be unsafe from. But his brothers are near, so obviously everything is well.
Porthos rumbles about boisterous nights spent in the tavern and how they will go again soon; Aramis wouldn't want to disappoint the ladies, after all. Aramis smirks at that and thinks about responding, but when the dark fog shifts he remembers a glacial chill burrowing its way into his bones and hooking barbs into his marrow. He stops, suddenly, inexplicably sure that he cannot go out there. There is cold and death and the ghosts.
Athos's voice recites Scripture, and dear Lord when did angels don such a guise in order to minister to him? Aramis is sure Athos would be offended if he knew. He's tempted to wake just so he can see the look on Athos's face when he tells him, but again something holds him back.
Now he feels irritated. He can hear his brothers but they are not here. He looks around the inky darkness; he is alone. Being alone is exactly what he doesn't want. Yet he feels safer here than anywhere else and now he's getting all turned around and confused. He shouts for Athos and Porthos, but their names reverberate through the fog and are swallowed up. Aramis's heart starts to pound.
"You are chasing ghosts," part of him whispers.
Ghosts and waking dreams and watching them vanish into smoke.
He turns in a frantic circle before tripping and crashing to his knees. "Father in Heaven, have mercy upon my soul," he gasps.
"…to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace."
A light breaks through the void and Aramis looks up. Athos's voice is louder now. Aramis thinks he can feel someone grasping his hand. He looks down and flexes his empty fingers, but the sensation remains. He takes a step forward.
Something inside him urges him to stop, to not go out there. But he knows now beyond a shadow of doubt that's where Porthos and Athos are. They're calling to him, and no matter what he may fear lies beyond, he will never refuse that call.
Clenching his fists, he walks into the light.
… …
Aramis blinks at a moulded ceiling he does not recognize. He is suddenly weighted down and very heavy but he is warm. He feels the scratchiness of a saddle blanket against his neck and one hand. The other hand is overly warm and he turns his head toward it.
The voice that had been droning on abruptly stops.
"Aramis?" someone else says tentatively, hopefully.
He recognizes Porthos, connects the voice to the large hand folded over his own. He tries to move it in response but only manages to twitch his fingers. Porthos squeezes startlingly hard.
"Aramis? Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand again."
Aramis tries and must achieve something because Porthos lets out a wet sort of laugh.
"That's it."
Athos leans over and Aramis shifts his gaze to him.
"Are you…really here?" he asks, voice wafer thin.
"Yes," Athos says and it rings like truth. He slips a hand under Aramis and clasps the side of his neck. "Feel that?"
He closes his eyes as his body releases a shudder and nods. "Wh-what happened?" he asks nervously and looks around the room for Marsac. He's mildly encouraged when he doesn't spot him.
"We defeated the rebel forces and forced one of them to tell us where you were being held," Athos explains. "You were nearly frozen when we arrived. That was two days ago. Treville and the rest of the regiment had to return to Paris with the prisoners."
"How are you feelin' now?" Porthos asks.
Aramis's brow furrows as he considers it. "My chest hurts."
"You have some bruises and are ill," Athos says, but there's an indecipherable thread in his tone that speaks of something more. Aramis looks back at Porthos and sees the same reflected in his eyes.
"That dire, was it?" he quips, attempting his normal levity. The weak rasp in his voice spoils it, as does the harrowing look Porthos and Athos exchange.
Porthos plasters on a smile for him. "We're jus' glad yer back."
Aramis frowns and vaguely remembers a shadowed curtain draped across everything around him. A cough distracts him from the thought, however. Porthos pulls him upright and braces him as he wheezes to catch his breath. Athos moves away but returns a moment later with a cup of water that smells of herbs. Aramis wrinkles his nose at it, which for some reason elicits an amused smirk from his friends rather than a chiding threat to "just drink it."
He takes the remedy without protest because he's a medic and he knows it will help. The bitter taste serves as another reminder that this is real, and he slowly feels his grasp on reality solidifying. It feels strange to ever have doubted it.
Aramis snags Athos's sleeve before he can move away again. His other hand clutches at Porthos's doublet. "Thank you," he says, filled with a gratitude he cannot possibly convey or fully comprehend himself.
Porthos pulls him into a hug and Athos settles a hand in the center of his back.
"Jus' don't go leavin' us again," Porthos says, voice gruff with emotion.
Aramis thinks of the hallucinations that left him in that cold cellar.
No. His friends, even when absent, had still been with him, had given him solace and helped him hold on as long as he could. And when his strength finally failed and he'd lost all hope, they had come for him. They tethered his soul and brought him through the valley to where they waited on the other side. The shadow of death held no sway in the face of such loyalty and brotherhood. Aramis had let himself forget that for a short while but never would again. Porthos and Athos were not Marsac. They would never leave him.
Nor he them.