Final snack of the year: a take on a classic theme. Shout-out to Greenlips24, whose comment on a similarly-themed story made me laugh so much, it inspired this, and to MountainCat, who had managed to read my mind twice while this was in the conception stage. If it makes you think 'have I read this one before?', you probably have - just not in my words. Happy new year, everyone.
(And thank you for being a part of my 2017 in this fandom. You've made it fun to reacquaint myself with story-writing.)
This takes place in early Series 1. So far as snacks go, it is spiced with silliness and contains a (very) good deal of cheese. Guilty pleasure, I'm afraid. Kindly excuse me.
V. The Tumble & Rescue
The day starts out as normal as it ever does for the Musketeers.
Stretches out as mundanely as one would expect...
... and takes a horribly perilous turn in a most unexpected manner.
They're setting up camp on the side of this rarely-used mountain road, on their way back to Paris after escorting a noblewoman to her country estate, and they're taking their time about it. There's about an hour until sunset; the view before them, beyond the narrow, thin copse of trees they've taken shelter under, is nothing short of breathtaking. Dark green hills covered with pine forests roll one after the other, stretching as far as the eye can see before fading into a misty horizon; on the other side of the road is a towering wall of rock, as if the mountain's been cut down by the blunt-edged sword of a giant. There's not much space for movement here, or, God forbid, for a fight. It's a good thing then that the road is deserted and there's no reason to anticipate an attack. They're with nature here, in the wild, safely alone.
None of them quite knows how it happens when it does.
d'Artagnan is digging the fire pit, Aramis is patting down his horse, Porthos fishing out stuff from saddlebags when they hear the sounds of a scuffle. It's the type of noise you don't realize you're hearing unless your eyes chance on the source – a wordless exclamation of surprise makes them turn to look. Athos's horse nighs and rears, spooked for no apparent reason, pulling on the rope tethering him to a tree at the edge of the cliff. Athos moves back, maneuvering to circle around the animal to get to safer ground but the horse is restless; it bumps into Athos before he can clear himself and the Musketeer stumbles – his hand shots out to grab the saddle – the saddle, undone, simply slides off the horse – Athos's arms flail as his body arches backwards, bending over empty air – his eyes widen - and he disappears out of sight.
Did that just-
Did it -
"ATHOS!"
d'Artagnan can't believe what he just witnessed.
His friend just took a tumble down into a cliff.
My God.
Before he knows what he's doing, he's on his knees and leaning over the edge, shouting Athos's name at the top of his lungs and not even hearing himself. He can't see Athos. He can't see anything. The tips of the pines below are pointed and sharp like rapiers; the leaves weave a thick, green wicker over the bottom of the ravine and hide all from sight. d'Artagnan's eyes frantically scan the area from one side to the other but he can't see a single sign that Athos is even down there and his breath begins to swell and expand in his chest as fear puts a block down at the base of his throat – the absolute stillness down below is spreading a cold sensation through his limbs, like melting snow seeping into his sleeves and for a single, terrifying moment, he's choking.
...then Aramis drops by his side, knees scraping so harshly the leather of his breeches should have ripped, and yanks him back with an iron clasp around his arm.
The bruising hold penetrates through the shock, and d'Artagnan releases a whooshing breath as his body jolts.
"Any sign of him?"
Any other time, the mastery over panic in Aramis's voice would have made a fascinating study.
"Can't see anything," d'Artagnan supplies distractedly with thinned breath, heart pulsing somewhere beneath his eyeballs as he leans over again – "Athos!"
"Here."
The single word is as sharp as their surroundings. d'Artagnan looks up to see Porthos handing Aramis a coil of rope, taking one end himself and moving towards the nearest tree even as Aramis finds the other end and begins to wound it rapidly around his waist. It's almost as if they're practised (is Athos in the habit of taking unannounced dives into cliffs?) – Before d'Artagnan knows what he's doing he's on his feet and holding out a hand.
"Don' take this the wrong way," Porthos says as deft hands knot intermittent loops on the rope, "but you don' have 'Mis's experience in climbin' down fourth-story windows." The words themselves are light. The anxiety they frame is anything but.
"Don't take this the wrong way but I can climb faster," d'Artagnan snaps. There's no way he's just going to sit here and wait.
Again, a jerk of his shoulder makes him desist and turn, only to bring him nose to nose with Aramis, whose normally kind eyes are flashing, caught in a storm; d'Artagnan draws himself up to hit back at whatever rebuke is coming - and is more than a little thrown-off when Aramis's voice, when he speaks, is as soft as a cushion.
"Athos is going to need medical help. I can't yell directions at you without seeing him myself."
It takes a good, long fall into that cushion.
Aramis drops his hand and turns.
"Look after the youngster?" he asks Porthos, positioning himself on the brink, "see to it he doesn't take a dive as well?"
d'Artagnan blinks. The man has the gall to quip — (he's running on adrenaline with mental faculties fully engaged on keeping panic at bay; Aramis's mercurial transitions from dead-serious to jesting are too much to handle – he doesn't catch the darkness lurking in either man's eyes and is too appalled to speak.)
"I worry about 'im, you worry 'bout Athos," Porthos cuts him a deal. The tautness of his voice matches the marksman's own.
Aramis nods.
"See you on the other side."
(There's a mixed overtone of "here goes nothing" and "Geronimo" in that, although, of course, the latter expression would mean nothing to him, but again, Aramis, a "romantic", is a man ahead of his time. He carefully begins to ease himself over the edge of the cliff.)
d'Artagnan - frustrated, frightened and helpless, watches him go. He's not at all accustomed to feeling like this, doesn't know what to do with such a potent combination – lowers himself down and starts shouting for Athos again. Perhaps the older man will hear and answer back - he will answer back, in one way or another, now or later, Athos didn't – he's not –
A hand pulls him back. Balances him until he's sat on his haunches, and when he turns to look, the thick layer of worry in Porthos's eyes calms him down a bit.
"d'Artagnan." Unexpectedly, that is Aramis. The kind timbre of his voice is oddly out of place because the man's head looks like it's floating in mid-air and it's a most bizarre sight. "Finish building that fire. Lay our blankets near it, and collect some stones to heat. Look for sticks to use as splinters; I fear we'll be in need of them as well."
d'Artagnan bobs his head, pushes himself to his feet and hurries to do as he's bid (something to do, something to do - he holds on to the instruction like Aramis is holding on to that rope – Athos will be fine, Athos will be fine.)
It's too early to -
It's too sudden and -
Athos will be fine.
/
Not three minutes into his climb down the rock-wall, Aramis understands this isn't going to be easy, or fast. (Well, has he forgotten to ask for a miracle? He's asking for one now: God please let Athos be alive.) The surface is not only jagged, razor-sharp outcroppings jutting out all over the place, but also littered with tufts of shrubs, making it difficult to spot the next foothold, brushing against his boots, catching on his belt, jostling his bag – he has to be very careful if he's to make it to the bottom in one piece. Thankfully, Porthos is doing a good job of reminding it to him where he's moderating the rope from above.
Thank God for the leather gloves, is what Aramis thinks; if it weren't for them he'd have no skin left on his palms by the time this is over.
"Any sign of Athos?" Porthos asks anxiously.
Aramis doesn't answer that. He's still too high up from the ground, hasn't yet reached the level of the top of the trees; the question is a mute one and he'd rather concentrate on finding his next footfall; besides please don't let me find Athos dead, please don't let me -
"Aramis?"
"Nothing yet," he returns. Soon, d'Artagnan finishes the tasks he's been given and comes over to join Porthos on the ledge. The two of them begin calling out Athos's name again (if Athos is conscious, he may be able to answer them, give some sign of his location; if he can't, he'd still know that his friends are coming for him - as if there'd ever be any doubt). Perhaps it's a bit futile, even a bit silly, but right now reality isn't exactly on its correct axis and nothing is really out of place when 'place' itself is shifting.
"Athos!" d'Artagnan bellows.
"Athos!" Porthos echoes.
Then they hear it.
A grunt. A faint rumble that just might be coming from a human being. Emboldened by hope, d'Artagnan and Porthos begin to call out even more loudly, inexplicably heedless of the fact that their hollering is unlikely to amplify the response they might receive from below, and without noticing, having heard the same sound, Aramis speeds up.
"Oi!" Porthos's voice snaps, "Aramis, slow down! I swear to God if you fall on your arse and break a bone I'll get on me horse and ride away!"
"No, you won't," the marksman returns with supreme confidence. The ones up above can't see the grin but the cheeky note is right there, in a corner, incorrigibly Aramis. "You're too soft-hearted to leave Athos down here."
"Who said anythin' about leavin' him? I'll come down and help 'im and leave you there alone."
"Are you two even serious? For God's sake Aramis, hurry up – Athos may be dying down there!"
The raw agitation in the lad's voice serves well to shut up the other two. If Aramis is thinking something about being given conflicting directives – slow down and hurry up! – he wisely bites his tongue, and a tense silence reigns over the proceedings in the next few minutes. At the very least, the sheer focus the marksman has to maintain on the precarious descent is helping to keep the terror of Athos's possible fate at bay.
They don't hear the grunt again. But relinquishing hope is not an option they will entertain.
"How's it lookin'? Do you see the bottom yet?" (It must be horrible to have to wait above; Aramis sympathises with the lad.) Very carefully, cranes his neck to look down. He's close, well, relatively, perhaps at the hight of a second-story window now, but from what he can make between the branches, it's no foliage-carpeted forest terrain down there (and Athos crashed down there – please don't let him be dead.)
"Aramis?"
"I see the bottom."
Then d'Artagnan must have said something Aramis doesn't catch because "Don' worry," Porthos says, (Aramis huffs out a breath of laughter - the amount of worry in Porthos's voice is enough to make him worried), "they'll be good. Aramis'll be down before you know it."
"You mean to say he's got experience in mountain-climbing too?" (Is that a note of sarcasm in the boy's voice? Bet they don't realize that the absolute stillness surrounding them allows Aramis to hear every word they're saying.)
"You'd be surprised," Porthos returns, sounding a bit smug.
"Whatever kind of acrobatics you think me capable of, I am flattered, but perhaps save your opinion until the descent it over," Aramis murmurs, not quite caring if his voice reaches up.
Not two seconds after he's said that, his hand slides on the rope. He doesn't know what happens - there's jostling and flailing and -flying?- and his heart disappears from his chest and his stomach does a flip-flop –and it stops with a terrible jerk on his leg and the overwhelming sense that something is just - wrong.
"Aramis!"
There's an incredibly loud roaring in his ears.
"Aramis, say something!"
He cracks open eye.
He's looking at... the sky? But he didn't -
Oh.
Oh.
He's dangling, back to the wall, upside-down from one ankle like meat hung-up to dry.
He thinks randomly of the Dutch as blood rushes to his head - of paintings he's seen in the Louvre's west-wing gallery, of dead game and dead flowers on crisp white tablecloths and wonders what a dashing picture he would make with some apples and oranges on the side.
"Aramis! Answer me, dammit!"
Aramis takes a long, laborious breath. Easing it out through his nose, he calms, and braces himself. Closes his eyes, says a prayer, and hauls himself up. Latches onto the rope with both hands, slides one foot down the length of it to get himself in an acceptable position again and squeezes his eyes close as the blood in his head gets momentarily confused as to which direction to go. One foot is tangled in a mess of rope, but the rest of him is upright again, he swallows down nausea and waits until some semblance of a sense of balance returns - the world stops spinning – he opens his eyes...
... and grins.
Now that was a feat of acrobatics he just performed and it's just his luck that there's no one around to see it.
"Aramis? Are you alright?" It's d'Artagnan and he sounds a little bit – well, awed. (Good, they did witness the feat.)
"I'm good," Aramis declares, slightly out of breath, feeling ridiculously relieved, "I'm good – it's fine."
Then they hear the moan again and Aramis's little scare is immediately forgotten by all.
"Athos? Athos, can you hear me? Athos!"
The other two join in from above with renewed vigour and Aramis resumes his climb down, now a touch frantic about it. He curses aloud, pulls out his dagger and begins hacking through the tangle around his one leg, then the groan comes again, unexpectedly near. Chancing another look below, he catches sight of what he thinks -wishes, prays- to be an arm, really close, really close - "Come on, Athos, we need you to answer us right now-"
"Ar'mis?"
"Yes! Yes, it's me - I'm just – above – I'm coming, my friend – how badly are you hurt? He's alive!" Aramis shouts upwards, nearly giddy with joy for a second (he's alive!– thank god, thank god thank god) "Athos? Talk to me, come now!"
"Ar'-mis?"
"Yes, I'm nearly there, hold on – "
It looked close enough but there's a good fifteen feet drop to the ground. Aramis stops before slicing through more rope and endangering himself further, and instead, focuses his attention on Athos.
"Talk to me, Athos, how are you doing down there?"
"It would - be good... if I could move."
Well, he's conscious, he's speaking, if very faintly - all excellent signs - Aramis curses the branches that are blocking Athos out of sight, but from the position of the arm he can see, he thinks Athos is probably lying on his side.
"What hurts?" he asks, "Athos, tell me what hurts."
There's a soft sigh and a long pause. "My side. I think...something... something in it." He sounds confused.
Aramis frowns, licks dry lips – perhaps Athos has landed on some jutting, pointed rocks that have punctured his side – worries about what bleeding he may find – then asks again, if only to keep Athos talking, "What else?" Works quickly to cut himself free again, now decidedly heedless of the drop he's facing because Athos's reluctance to answer is gaining on Aramis's dogged insistence –
"Ribs."
It's a mere whisper.
Aramis curses again.
It'd be a bloody miracle if the ribs were intact. (Obviously miracles don't come in packs, neither do they come in all-in-one packs when they come – the fact that Athos is not dead is a miracle itself, but for a moment Aramis can't help but think, exasperated, if it's a miracle anyway, couldn't he have survived fully intact?!)
Right. Perhaps he could have grown wings and flown away, too, while Aramis is at it.
"I'm coming," he says again. Takes a breath and cuts the last bit of rope and plunges down flat on his bottom like a stupid self-fulfilling prophecy – the crash jars his bones but did he land on something -
"Athos?"
He didn't just -
"Argh – ar'ms!" comes the confirmation, several seconds delayed because the impact forced the breath out of Athos's abused lungs -
"Good God - sorry – I'm sorry!"
"Je-sus-"
"Can you breathe? How is your breathing?"
"I can.. breathe...painful," Athos grinds out through clenched teeth, and throws such a terrifying glare at the marksman, Aramis knows he's only safe for the time being because Athos cannot move.
There will so be a reckoning...
He gets to his knees and reaches out, his hands hovering over Athos's body, hesitant to touch - he wants to embrace the man but is wary of touching him, frightened of inflicting more hurt. Although, he knows, that is inevitable.
"Athos, I need to turn you on your back," he says. He manages to sound both soft and calm, and is grateful for it. "It's going to hurt."
"Thank you," Athos wheezes, "for warning - this time."
"I learn quick," the marksman quips even as he leans forward (dear god, dear god, did he really fall on top of Athos?). Slides one hand between the hipbone and the ground; places the other hand on Athos's shoulder, and as gently as he can, straightens Athos to lie on his back. A whimper rumbles from deep within at the unavoidable jostling; Athos's eyes fall shut and Aramis can't remember sliding a hand between his friend's fingers but it's there and Athos is crushing it right now.
"Easy," Aramis mutters, "easy now.. I'm sorry."
The hitching breaths ease after a while. The blue eyes open again and stare blankly at the sky. Aramis brings a vial, and then the waterskin to Athos's lips.
"I've got you, my friend," he murmurs, shifting to carefully pull his friend up to his own chest to help with the laboured breathing. "I've got you now. Don't worry. You'll be fine."
It's become a mantra, a prayer, and a promise, when reality sings a different tale. A hundred different things may be wrong with Athos right now. The broken rib -the one Aramis broke, the one he fell on- may have punctured a lung. There may be internal damage - that is the most horrifying thought because even qualified physicians can do little if there's damage to the organs. Athos tenses in his arms and Aramis's hold instinctively tightens. He begins to undo the doublet buttons to look at the wound in Athos's side. At least there's no blood puddle where his friend initially lay.
When Aramis pulls the shirt up, the wound is ugly, the already forming bruising spectacularly large, but there's not much bleeding and the cuts, while more than a few, seem rather shallow. Athos gasps and moans as Aramis gently probes, eyes flying open but even his whimpers are weak and Aramis knows he's sliding out of consciousness. He lays a hand on Athos's arm and rubs soothingly, then looks up, locates the two fuzzy faces up on the ledge and gives a sign. Less than ten minutes later, Porthos has sent down the makeshift harness he's fashioned from a second coil of rope, Aramis has wrapped his sash around Athos's stuttering chest to stabilize those ribs as much as he could, and looped the harness around Athos's limbs with the minimum of fuss.
"Ready?" he asks tenderly. Lays one hand on Athos's cheek; Athos's eyes travel up and lingers on Aramis. There's a calm in them that somehow still remains there, and it makes Aramis want to laugh and weep at the same time because who's drawing strength from whom right now? The moment lasts three seconds; then the blue eyes close in resignation and Athos gives his nod of consent.
Tipping his head back, "We're ready!" Aramis shouts.
The slack rope tenses.
Strains...
And it's precious cargo moves.
The cry that rips from Athos's mouth is nothing short of whiplash.
So foreign is the sound that for a single, ghosting moment Aramis feels himself weaver, his own composure crack! - he grabs his crucifix but the next moment he drops it and takes Athos's hand instead.
"Easy," he murmurs, "Easy, I'm here, I'm right here. Breathe through it now."
He continues the litany until Athos finally begins to relax, and slowly uncoil from the throes of agony.
"There..." Aramis says gently, swiping a thumb through Athos's brow, "there.. Are you back with me?"
"Yes," Athos breathes, swallowing thickly, tears running down his face.
"Good. Good, we'll manage this, alright? We'll take our time and we'll do this together." (The fact is that they don't have much time. The sun is already too near the horizon and they have to get Athos up before darkness falls. There's no plan for if that comes to pass.)
"Ready to try again?"
"Get it... over with," Athos whispers. His eyes latch on to Aramis's. "Don't stop." He's nearly pleading.
Aramis runs a hand through his brother's hair.
"Okay," he promises soothingly, "Alright," he'll get Athos through this. It's his damn fault that rib has broken. He yanks the rope to signal Pothos and squeezes Athos's hand.
The harness moves again...
/
It is the single longest twenty minutes of their lives.
Athos's pained cries will echo in their memories for a long time. By the time d'Artagnan reaches forward and lifts Athos over safe ground and Porthos manoeuvres to help, the wounded man has long stopped responding to them. Athos is awash, lost in a sea of pain; every sense is blunted and out of tune, warped and stifled by torment; he doesn't hear the comforting, encouraging nonsense his brothers are speaking to him. The others lay him down, as gently as they can, and take in the heavily-lidded eyes, the dulled look behind the thick layer of moisture, tears of agony having long woven paths through the temples. His skin is near-grey in the twilight; he's unresponsive yet somehow still conscious (still alive).
"We've got ya," Porthos mutters, not quite aware of what he's doing as he softly smooths Athos's hair, "we've got ya, it's alrigh' now. You jus' breathe, alrigh'?" d'Artagnan pulls Aramis up, whose climb upwards is much faster than the descent, and breathing harshly, looking fantastically bedraggled, the marksman drags himself to Athos's side, d'Artagnan, shaky, pale, and quiet, follows closely.
They made it. They made it.
The rest is not important because Athos will be fine now, he really will be fine.
They move their friend near the fire and they care for him; Athos loses consciousness soon after Porthos removes his boots and d'Artagnan begins cleaning the scapes on his face. Athos is broken, but on the whole of it, nothing can explain how he has survived that fall - nothing but divine prudence, Aramis knows, as he meticulously wraps a swollen shoulder with linens from a sacrificed shirt. They'll look after Athos here for tonight, and tomorrow d'Artagnan will ride on to the nearest village for a cart; it'll be an excruciating journey to the nearest inn but at least, thankfully, thankfully, Athos will be alive.
/
He comes around to the dim light of a candle-lit room.
He feels like Porthos – no, three Porthos'es - are sitting on his chest. d'Artagnan is pinning down his arms, and Aramis is...
.. sat at his bedside.
He's in a bed, then. The room doesn't look familiar; there's a patch of pitch black outside the window, it goes without saying its nighttime. Athos shifts a little and bites down a cry, eyes watering as pain explodes like fireworks all over him – just what – what has happened to him?
"You're awake."
He is. Wishing he weren't.
"No, don't try to sit up," Aramis prevents him quickly, eyes dark with concern. "You have broken ribs; God knows how many cracked. Sudden movements can puncture a lung." He pauses for a fraction of a second before adding, "I'm pretty certain I'm not equipped to handle that."
The fact that a wisecracking joke doesn't follow speaks to the depth of the marksman's dismay. In the soft, golden light, Aramis's face is etched with worry lines that appear several days old; Athos, wisely, and wordlessly, obeys the instruction. Water is brought to lips and he sips, eyes sliding close again.
It slowly comes back to him. The tumble. He took a tumble into a cliff. (How is it that he's still alive?) But he's too tired to ask, too tired to listen as aches and pains start awakening one by one. He's wary of even beginning to wonder how much damage he's amassed in the fall; he just wants to drift off again.
Silence stretches..
.. stretches...
... stretches some more...
"I am sorry, my friend."
The apology, when it comes, is quiet – devastated - and as is ever with Aramis, well-contained. "I should have listened to Porthos. Should have moved slower –"
But Athos's good hand twitches. Crawls over the blanket to find Aramis's fisted one and drapes itself over it. When Aramis looks up, it is not exactly a smile he glimpses on Athos's tense features, but forgiveness, clear and unmistakable, is pooled and shimmering in his eyes.
Accepting the gift that is being given, Aramis reaches out with his free hand and pats softly over his friend's knuckles. When he raises his eyes to Athos's face again, the wisecrack now at the tip of his tongue, Athos is asleep.
Somewhere nearby, church bells strike midnight.