Note: This is slightly AU, as it is set after S2 when the musketeers go to war. In this story, for the sake of storytelling, Aramis is with them. Just a little one-shot, tbh I have no idea what this is. Thank you, Karri, for keeping these monthly challenges going! The italics are flashbacks to the night before. I took the topic rather literally. Second-language English. Enjoy.
What Tomorrow Brings
Barely one sound made it to his ear. The ringing hadn't stopped, but even if it had he would have been greeted by an oppressing silence. Numbing. Cold.
He stared into pale eyes, some filled with pain, others filled with bitterness. Other eyes were staring back at him blankly, and only a few, far too few, had a warm and kind glistering to offer. Those who had something to offer at all.
Porthos was fighting against more than one unknown enemy within – his anger, his disappointment, his sheer wrath against those who had left them here to die. Here, amidst the rocks, amidst the dirt, amidst the blood and sweat.
They had taken the word, they had taken the promise. Blinded by the light of the man who had given the promise, of his shining glory, the illusion of honour. Honour the musketeers hold so close to their hearts. The honour they would never dare to question.
Now that he let his gaze wander over the bloodied and violent scene in front of him, he realized that the honour had been butchered. Stamped to the ground and spat at. There were only two thoughts that crossed his mind.
Had nobody bothered at all? Had nobody cared?
„You know, back in Paris, you could be prosecuted for that kind of behaviour," Aramis explained teasingly, his eyes not diverting from the night sky for one second. "You're still too young to see the Bastille from…well from where nobody wants to see it."
D'Artagnan's snort could be heard in the entire camp. „I was merely borrowing it. No need to exaggerate or be overly dramatic, I already apologized."
„In more cultivated circles, one would call it theft," Porthos countered grimly, his arms folded in front of his chest. His eyes wandered towards their fourth member. „Ain't it right, Athos?"
„Leave me out of this," the swordsman answered dryly, not giving his brothers the satisfaction of granting them the attention they sought.
„You're the one talking," Porthos said with false disappointment in his voice. „You're still in possession of all of your weapons. I'm not because a certain someone," and he shot d'Artagnan a warning glare, „lost my beloved dagger." He took a few seconds to stare at the Gascon, who was a picture of pure innocence paired with indifference.
Porthos made sure to underline the teasing nature of his following words: „Just know, should I die tomorrow because I wasn't able to use my dagger, it's your fault."
D'Artagnan flashed a grin. „Charming."
As soon as he regained his senses, all he was met with was darkness. The image in front of his eye was mercilessly black, tainted with the echo of the bloody and violent slaughter he had witnessed only what…hours ago? Minutes ago? He had no idea how long he had been lying here, nor had he any idea what exactly had happened.
He remembered Athos' war cry as soon as the Spanish and French troops had clashed. He remembered the look of grim determination on his brother's faces, and in that moment he had once again received proof that the decision to join them in this war had been the right one. He could not bear the uncertainty after a battle, he could not stand the burden of not knowing what to do they were forced to carry after a battle, just to be anticipating the next. Staying away from his friends, and not having their backs in this horrible war would have crushed his senses, and torn apart his heart.
Aramis gasped as he tried to regain his sight and his mobility. Something heavy was lying on top of him, something warm on top of his upper body and something cold and hard on his legs. A numb pain spread from his hip all the way up to his arm, but it was the lack of oxygen that was threatening to arise his panic. He freed his arm from something he could not see and reached out blindly to remove whatever was blocking his vision, only to feel his fingers digging into another person's open flesh. He would recognize the feeling of blood on his hands everywhere.
The smell he was exposed to was overwhelming. He tasted and smelled the iron of blood, paired with the bitter scent of sweat and a faint note of decay and gunpowder. He heard some voices, but they were dull and sounded miles away. He blinked a few times, in the hopes that it would dispel the blackness, but it was hopeless. He felt sick, but he could not move and his muscles did not cooperate. He kept longing for air, he kept gasping and concentrated on the tiny bit of air he was able to get, just enough that he would not pass out. His fingers were digging into the body on top of him, desperately trying to move it and dig his way to the surface. He was sure to have heard his name among the distant voices, but his mind could be playing tricks on him. And then, there was nothing left to do but to hope someone would find him.
He wanted to pray, wanted to claw onto his faith and beg God for mercy, beg God for guidance. But the sheer survival instinct had kicked in, and all he was left to do was gasp for air and forget about time.
It had been another battle, just one battle that had followed dozens and would bring dozens more. In time, Aramis was sure to suppress the memories, forget the details. It would fade. He would forget about the pain, he would forget about the faces of the men he had faced. About their anger, about their fear.
But the look on Athos' face as soon as his friend had understood that there would be no help coming was something Aramis would carry with him until the end of days.
„You two should focus on the bright sides of our current situation," Aramis chipped in from the side, clutching his hat on his chest. All four of them were lying on the grass around the remains of a small campfire, which was barely lit. The remains of their poor dinner were scattered in the dirt next to it, nothing but a few crumbs of bread and some leaves. Athos, to Porthos' left, had his hat pulled down over his face, in what looked like an attempt to find some sleep, but Porthos knew that the Captain was aware of all of his surroundings.
Aramis, opposite of him, had his head on his jacket and a small book, a bible, lying close by as he liked to read it in the late evening hours. Aramis' faith had always been with him, but ever since they rode off to war, it seemed to have become an even bigger influence in his life.
Porthos contented himself with throwing one last admonishing look to the sheepishly grinning d'Artagnan to his right, who was sitting on the ground cross-legged, his neck thrown backwards to look up. Then, Porthos returned his attention towards Aramis.
"The bright side?" he repeated slowly and huffed. "It's so dark here it's kinda hard to see a bright side, my friend." Though he was referring to the blackness of the forest they found themselves in, he couldn't help but transfer the image to the situation they were trapped in. The Spanish troops had headed north, and if the information they had received was correct, they would reach this godforsaken forest by tomorrow. It was an unavoidable battle, one that Athos tried to prepare the entire regiment for, but truth was, the men were scared. The scouts had reported that the Spanish were superior in numbers and supplies and the menacing shadows of this forest hadn't helped to ease the soldier's nerves.
"Look up," Aramis answered mildly, conjuring a calm atmosphere. "This is a beautiful night. The stars do grant us some light after all."
Porthos finally laid down as well and allowed his body to rest as his eyes wandered up towards the stellar ceiling. "Let's hope it offers enough light for General Goyen to find his way to us."
He could feel d'Artagnan's eyes resting on him. "You don't sound too convinced he'll come. He is a good man. He will keep his word."
"I know, I know," Porthos defended himself and made a declining gesture into the Gascon's direction. He smiled. "I remember when he first was invited into the palace. I remember looking at that man, that general, and think: I want what he has."
"You're not talking about his shiny armour, are you?" d'Artagnan commented needlessly and even Athos granted their young companion an annoyed look.
Aramis made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Porthos," he admonished. "Envy is a sin."
Porthos rolled his eyes. "What I am talking about are his achievements. The sense of truthfulness and honour he represents. His reputation."
Athos finally removed his hat from his eyes and shot Porthos a look, raising a questioning eyebrow. "All that, from a man you met once?"
"In Porthos' defense," Aramis chipped in, "I get what he means. When you hear about General Goyen, you hear the heroic stories of how he stands up for what is right. About his glorious victories in battle, without leaving one soul behind. How he does not fall for the lies of the greedy or the treachery of gold."
"Even you must be impressed by him," d'Artagnan said into Athos' direction. "Don't lie."
"I am," Athos admitted. "I spoke to him when we rode to war, and contrary to you all, I spoke to him a few weeks ago when the plans for all this…" and he made a vague gesture towards the forest they were in,"…were made. I don't count on stories, but the way he spoke to me, and the way he assured me his assistance and support… I don't know. I believe him."
"He is an honourable man," d'Artagnan concluded and for a moment, they returned to silence, all rewinding what would happen tomorrow, and how they all counted on the said, well-known general to save the day and win the battle they could not win alone.
Porthos' eyes rested on the night sky, decorated with numerous bright stars and not a single cloud. Truly a beautiful and clear night. He could hear the distant chatter of the other soldiers and the shuffling of Aramis readjusting to a comfortable position. For a moment, the worries about tomorrow were gone, and he hated to admit it, but Aramis was right. This night was something special. Porthos blinked, and just as he turned his head to look over to the remains of the fire, he noticed a flash of light, briefly, but it was there. His eyes snapped back towards the sky and he saw a few flashes of light, looking like stars falling down on earth in a far distance, leaving a faint trace of light across the black ceiling.
"Did I get hit in the head or did you three see that as well?" Porthos commented, his eyes wide open with fear.
It had taken long, way too long for d'Artagnan to find his way back to the centre of the battlefield. He had been separated from the others shortly after the entire regiment had been hit by the Spanish cavalry. Though they had been prepared for the cavalry charge, they had been taken by surprise by the skill of the riders and their numbers. Judging by the look of the battlefield, the cavalry had been supported by some lighter infantry shortly after. This hadn't been a huge battle involving hundreds of soldiers, but it had been a brutal one. It had been bloody, dirty and violent.
A white flag was flying sadly on an abandoned and broken broadsword rammed into the ground roughly in the middle of the battlefield. D'Artagnan froze when he spotted a soldier in Spanish uniform searching the ground not far away, and his hand instinctively flew to his sword, but his eyes spotted Porthos only a few feet away, helping a wounded musketeer towards the safety behind their own line.
A temporary truce, so it seemed. Enough blood had been shed today.
Porthos' eyes came to rest on his younger companion and his face showed signs of relief.
"D'Artagnan!" Porthos walked over to him with a bad limp and laid a hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a brief hug. "Thank God. I thought…"
"I'm fine," d'Artagnan breathed and took a look around. "Athos and Aramis?"
A shadow crossed Porthos' already dark face. "Haven't found them yet."
Anger welled up in d'Artagnan, not because of Porthos, but because of the ultimate unspoken betrayal that hung in the air between them. "Porthos, the general…"
"I know, d'Artagnan," the musketeer countered, his voice trembling heavily with emotion. With betrayal, with disappointment, with sorrow. "I know."
"Have you never seen them?"Aramis asked with a spark of curiosity and a hint of disbelief and needlessly pointed at the sky.
Porthos huffed. "I've been too busy wondering about my place down here than to worry about what's going on up there." He made a pause. "What are they?"
It was Athos who took the word first. "Some believe stars falling down are the messengers of destruction, others see them as a blessing from above. After a while, since it occurs around the same time each year, people stopped associating it with a messenger and looked at it more like a reminder."
"A man from England I met once called them the tears of Laurent," Aramis added, his glassy eyes reflecting the spectacle from above.
"Who's Laurent?" d'Artagnan threw in, having a hard time to conceal the reverence in his voice.
To everyone's surprise, it was Athos who answered his question. "Saint Laurent was a roman deacon," the swordsman explained. "He died the death of a martyr on the gridiron in the third century."
"He's considered a patron saint to many," Aramis continued, his voice indicating he was clearly distracted. "And people believe the stars falling down on us are the tears he shed."
"Tears?" d'Artagnan repeated, and he seemed to rewind the whole tale in his head once more. "Tears for what?"
Porthos didn't see him, but he could almost hear Aramis' thoughtful smile. "I guess that remains to be seen."
If they had had the time, they would have taken a deep breath and surveyed the damage done to the battlefield and themselves, but they didn't have a second to spare. The absence of both Athos and Aramis stung badly.
"I fought side by side with Aramis right by that treeline," Porthos explained rapidly, and indicated the direction with his hand. "We got separated by the cavalry."
D'Artagnan nodded knowingly. "And Athos had my back over there…", and he pointed towards a larger rock close to the clearing. "I would have gotten trampled if not for him."
"They have to be around here," Porthos murmured and strode towards the place d'Artagnan had indicated, close to the rock. "Search the area," Porthos continued. "Turn around every body. We find them."
One way or another, d'Artagnan thought with a sickening feeling in his guts as he steadied his breath and did as Porthos told him. Though he had expected the war to be cruel, and he had been familiar with the stench that lay thickly above a fresh battlefield, he had never gotten used to it and he doubted he ever would.
He kept stumbling over abandoned weapons and torn earth, turning every stone, just like Porthos had said. His friend was searching the area not far from him.
It was the pile of shredded wood, possibly their own supply cart once, that attracted his attention. A lot of men had given their life there, and though he did not know what exactly had led to a gruesome scene like that, his heart told him to dug in deeper. There were many men on top of each other, some still struggling, others at peace.
"Porthos!" d'Artagnan called out frantically and kept trying to gently but steadily loosen the chaos, and within moments, he felt his brother's presence by his side. Both of them exchanged a brief look as they heard someone struggling underneath the wood and bodies, and it spurred them into action even more. D'Artagnan cut his hands open on the rugged edges of the wood and had to bite his tongue as he pushed away a Spaniard's body to reveal the struggling frame of Aramis.
Aramis sucked in the fresh air frantically and coughed heavily, but it didn't diminish the relief written all over his face. Porthos and d'Artagnan grabbed Aramis' hands and pulled him backwards out of the pile, letting go immediately after their friend let out a yelp of pain and clutched his side.
"Are you hurt?" Porthos asked, frantically searching his brother for any obvious injuries, but Aramis, still struggling to get some air in, made a declining gesture with his hand.
"Nothing serious," he coughed. "Maybe a broken bone or two."
D'Artagnan and Porthos granted Aramis a short moment to regain his senses and get a hold of the situation, until they confronted him with their problem.
"Athos is still missing," d'Artagnan said and his heart clenched with worry. "We haven't been able to find him yet."
The marksman was heaving, but something ignited in his eyes as he heard the news.
"I know where he is," Aramis panted, and he buried his fingers in d'Artagnan's sleeve and dragged him and Porthos with him over the battlefield.
"And what do you believe?" Porthos asked his friends. "What do you think this is? A natural phenomenon, or should I start playing cards and feel fortunate?"
D'Artagnan and Aramis chuckled, and even Athos snorted in amusement.
"I like to think that it is a sign. A message from God," Aramis answered sincerely. Porthos turned his head and looked over towards the marksman for a moment, appreciating the spiritual input.
"And what message do you think that is?" Porthos was not sure whether he was searching for reassurance or a warning.
Aramis diverted his gaze from the sky for the first time and met Porthos' questioning look. "That we are going the right way – no matter what tomorrow brings."
"It's not that we have that many paths to choose from right now," d'Artagnan commented dryly and escaped Aramis' piercing glare barely.
"But a little guidance is reassuring," Aramis countered calmly. "I have a feeling we have him by our side."
"We certainly need it," Athos commented dryly. "I usually like to look at it from a scientific point of view – those are falling stars. Just because we don't understand it doesn't mean it has a higher purpose." There was a short pause where they only heard the soft murmur of the surrounding soldiers.
"But then again," Athos continued mildly with a kind tone in his voice. "Aramis' thought provides more comfort."
Porthos and d'Artagnan snorted simultaneously, and Aramis granted Athos a cheeky grin.
"And what about you, d'Artagnan?" Porthos wanted to know.
The Gascon laughed. "Perhaps that's a question you should ask me tomorrow. Given that we see the sun set again."
They passed many Spanish soldiers, and they were granted many hostile looks, but they all shared a common sentiment – defeat. The battle was over, more or less in a stalemate. But the musketeers had managed to hold their position, and the fact that the Spanish were allowed to look for their wounded was merely a polite gesture on Porthos' part, d'Artagnan guessed.
"I saw Athos getting hit against the head," Aramis explained as he kept staggering over the battleground. "I tried to get through to him, but this cart…I don't know. It's a bit hazy."
"He was wounded?" Porthos' voice was tinged with worry.
Aramis nodded and grimaced as he kept his pressure on his side. D'Artagnan offered him a shoulder to guide him. "Can't tell how bad it was, but I just hope the Spanish thought him dead."
D'Artagnan growled in frustration. "This could have all been avoided if the General would have kept his damn word."
Aramis' grip around d'Artagnan's arm tightened, and the marksman's eyes locked on a body a few lengths away.
D'Artagnan and Porthos didn't even need to ask, they just instantly raced over towards the motionless body of Athos on the ground, sprawled on his side with a trail of blood running down the side of his head.
Porthos instantly laid a hand on the captain's chest, and d'Artagnan's hand flew to his friend's neck.
"Is he…?" Aramis asked, not daring to speak out the question.
"He's alive. I can't see any injuries, except for the bleeding head," Porthos reported dutifully and breathed in relief. "What can we do?" He shot a questioning gaze towards Aramis, their medic.
His friend bit his lip, a grim but worried expression on his pained face. "Pray that his hard skull prevented any damage," he answered shortly. "We have to get him out of here," he continued, and made a hasty but uncertain step forward as he watched d'Artagnan trying to pull the unconscious Athos to his feet. "Careful!" he hissed angrily, but the anger soon vanished as he watched Porthos and d'Artagnan carefully taking the limp form of their brother between their shoulders.
"We should get back to the others," Porthos said. "Have everyone checked over, and then I say we get the hell out of this hellhole."
Aramis nodded and took his place by Porthos' side. Together, they brought as much distance between themselves and the battlefield as possible, suffering from the silence, until Aramis decided to break it.
"Remind me to never trust my life to men who pride themselves on their honour," he murmured, and the hurt and sorrow almost broke his voice.
"The higher they rise, the harder they fall," d'Artagnan added bitterly, and the anger and frustration written on his face was a mirror of the other men's feelings.
"He did send a messenger to us, you know," Aramis explained, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. "The man found Athos and me when the battle was already raging."
"And what is it the General had to say to us, after the damn battle had already begun?" Porthos wanted to know sourly.
His friend bowed his head, and a spark of dismay and disappointment flashed in his eyes as he recalled the words of the messenger.
"Goyen said he thanks us for our sacrifice," Aramis echoed darkly. "But he never intended on helping us. We are on our own."
"Our sacrifice?" d'Artagnan could not hide his anger and sheer disbelief. Several hours had passed since they had made their way off the bloodied battlefield, and to all of their relief, Athos had woken shortly after.
He had been very disoriented at first, but as soon as he had started barking orders and expressing his discomfort about his current state, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan had agreed it could not be too bad. The bloody wound on the back of his head had been bandaged and all four of them were currently on one of many carts going south.
"Could you lower your voice?" Athos, apparently suffering from a serious headache, hissed into the Gascon's direction.
"I'm going to kill that dishonourable bastard," d'Artagnan continued dead serious.
Aramis, who was leaning awkwardly against the wooden banks of the cart staring up at the night sky threw his friend an admonishing look. "Vengeance is a bloody path," he said. "We are better than that."
"Most of the times, at least…," Porthos added with clenched teeth.
"By the way, how come we are not dead?" d'Artagnan threw in. "They had us outnumbered. And as much as I'd like to cut his throat, General Goyen was right to believe this is our final stand."
"The Captain positioned a few marksmen up on that hill, shortly after the battle had begun," Aramis explained, and d'Artagnan noticed how he referred to Athos as "the Captain" as soon as he delivered a military report. "They shot at the Spaniards from the side. Apart from that, I believe we owe it to our skills and sheer luck." He kept one hand pressed firmly against his side, the other one was clutching his bible, as it did for many nights now. He exhaled slowly.
"Don't try to understand it. Just be thankful."
They all more or less had their sights set on the night sky, which was just as beautiful as the night before the battle. Consistent, and illuminating.
"So, d'Artagnan," Porthos began anew. "Made up your mind yet? We saw another sunset. And the stars are as spectacular as they were last night."
Their youngest member seemed to think about it for a moment. "Perhaps they are stars passing by, not falling down on us," he proposed. "Like visitors, making sure we still make the right choices down here. Guardians, you could say."
"And do we make the right choices?" Porthos questioned with a tinge of worry.
D'Artagnan hinted a smile. "Would we be seeing them if not?"
"It is a beautiful thought," Aramis admitted deep in thought. "And no matter what we choose to believe in, there is one thing that we cannot argue about: They grant us a beautiful sight in these trying times."
D'Artagnan and Porthos made approving sounds, and despite the betrayal they underwent, despite the pain and the anger, they found a common ground of peace, of brotherhood, of calmness and joy.
"What about you, Athos," d'Artagnan asked. "Can we take your silence for approval?"
"I don't believe in any of that," Athos replied slowly. "We should not place our trust in things beyond our control."
For a moment, there was silence, but it was Porthos who dared to dig deeper. "What do you believe in, then?"
"I believe in us," he answered with a sincerety that warmed their hearts. "We made it out of there alive. That's what I am proud of." He made a brief pause. "I believe in us," he repeated slowly. "Right here, right now. And brothers, for my part, that's all I need."
-The End-