He was one of the first Musketeers; he had been a part of the original regiment. That thought had always used to make him proud, this balloon of emotion expanding inside his chest; he had worn that uniform longer than most, strapped across his torso sometimes light, sometimes heavy.
But now, now so little left, only mud stained memories tainted with blood and grief, so few had survived. Now, there was no pride, on loss that stung against his eyes and bit at his chest, a deep ache in his heart. There is always a danger, from the moment the leather and paludron is slipped over their shoulders, the moment they bare the crest that bounds their lives together, there is always a chance they will not see the sun rise by the morning.
But that chance had never really seemed real, not for a long while. In the beginning there was euphoria and hard training, their swords clashed only with each others, blades slicing the air but no aim to kill only to learn. The shots fired where at targets made of glass or wood, not imbedded in flesh that came down in a steady trickle, they were not used to it.
There had been fights within the streets, there had been arguments and drunks and saving young women from greasy hands and crackling voices that never took no for an answer. Of course, though not usually spoken of, many came from a hard background for any class could register, could try for a place so precious in the fragility; it was status and a roof over their heads, they were no stranger to conflict – but there was still a naivety to it all.
Then came Savoy.
Aramis remembered it all, moments hazy but the words exchanged were never lost, and scenes cropped up within nightmares that he could never remember in the summoning of daylight. All twenty two had left in high spirits, a buzz of excitement despite the ache of their muscles from three day ride.
"I heed not, I am the better ride" Jacques boasted loudly, a handsome grin stretched upon his face, blonde hair brushed from his face through the wind.
"Don't talk such lies, remember the race last summer?" There was amusement and exasperation mingled in Victor's words, and Henri chuckled behind him, one of the youngest in the regiment but there was scars hidden in his expression Aramis noted, something haunted.
"Oh yes, that fall..." Jean teased, dodging the swipe sent his was from Jacques, almost unseating himself in the process, clutching on to the reigns with a white knuckle grip, but the childish grin never left his lips.
"I was concussed in that moment, and yet you all insisted I ride with you" He sniffed rather dramatically, twisting away. Victor snorted in response.
"Weren't you the one who organised it?"
"Shut it" He growled, though there was little anger to his voice.
They rode upfront, side by side, Marsac and Aramis. Talking in low murmurs, exchanging laughs and smiles though more subside than their friends, there was a weight upon their shoulders, they would have to get this right after all, they were leading the exercise.
The others watched with some curiosity, and rather a little longing.
"Here, do you think Marsac has a mistress?" Pierre asked with a roguish grin, loud enough for the young man to hear.
"Ha, if anything its Aramis, have you seen the way he flirts?!" Remi exclaimed with a snigger, taking a final bite of an apple, before tossing the core into the sea of riding Musketeers, smirking wildly as he ignited a cry from Gilles and Philippe simultaneously.
The two ignored the comments, offering no response whatsoever, intent on just smiling where they could not see it.
A fire crackled, flames arching upwards and smoke danced into the darkening sky. They sat, all twenty two huddled around this one fire, squeezed up beside each other. Their laughs filled the tree's, echoing from each branch, nobody was less than anyone else, they were all equal, all brothers.
"Parry! Victor Parry!" He barked, their swords clashing once more, feet slipping in the snow and ice falling on their ground. They were paired up, a simple exercise, testing each other's skills and abilities and reflexes. His wrist flicked, almost too fast for the young man, who snagged the point just in time for it to skim past his head of dark hair.
Marsac and Andre halted in a similar moment, a cue to take a break, heavy breaths of air stark against the cold. Their eyes caught for a moment, despite the wealth freezing or the sweat still produced upon their brow, and they smiled; despite the conditions, they were pretty content.
His friends, lost in a sea of snow, blood and screams, a hole of emptiness only filled by guilt. Treville had been there for the aftermath, found him in the snow, curled beside his brothers, attempting for death to befall his own. The Captain had been there when he sobbed, warmth finally creeping into the ache and pain of his stiffened bones, the soft fabric of a blanket wrapped over his shoulders and hands clenched so tightly around the chair in front of the fire, an anchor to familiarity though his eyes never fully focused on the office.
He had been the one to come, when screams pierced from his lips in the dead of night and his limbs thrashed in the sheets that bound him so tightly in his mind to the bed that might've been snow. Treville had been the one to heal him, before Aramis had even met his brothers.
Months of his life were gone in the recovery, some days simply staring blankly at the walls, and others there might be a smile lighting upon his cheeks though the guilt remained fastened like a buckle in his eyes. It was slow, but it began.
There were relapses, indeed the first anniversary of Savoy a year later and he still had yet to pick up a gun or a sword, his fingers trembled too much and his mouth grew parched, a light sweat breaking over his forehead in small droplets and their screams once more cried in his ears.
Everyone was mourning that day, none possibly more so than the brothers left behind.
Hunched were the muscles in his back and shoulders, long dark locks shielding his face, gaze empty upon the wooden table. There was less noise than he remembered, most other days there was laughter, jokes even, but not today. They spoke in low voices, a tense air settled over the Garrison, and Aramis tried not to listen.
Many did not know the men that died, many had no relation and some few did not even know of it until the upcoming days where the soldiers became a little more subsided. There were whispers, rumours floating, dark glares.
He lifted the cup to his lips, the cold tin sending a shiver through his spine and the water than slipped down his throat was more tasteless than one could imagine, it offered no comfort to the lump in his throat and the stinging behind his eyes.
Etienne. Bertran. Marcel. Florent. Charles.
They were clustered a little further away; picking at their meals in not a dissimilar way to Aramis himself, a dark cloud seemed to hang over their heads, the very hairs on their necks stood and dark bags painted beneath their eyes. He still remembered their faces, etched so deeply into his mind, when the carriage was brought back with the bodies, the pain and grief and horror, their very blood spilled from another's body.
Aramis stood slowly, trying to hide the shake in his knees, and made his way over. They stiffened, noting his approach, nothing warm about their welcome even in a time where comradeship should have been most precious.
"Mes frères," He spoke quietly, never meeting their eyes, knowing what he would find. "They...They should never have passed how they did, I am sorry that they may only live on in memory and honour. I wish not to hurt you, only to apologise
Soft spoken as ever, a genuine pain building in his words mingled with emotions they could not decipher nor did they want to. They wanted to hate him.
"Mon frère" Florent rose, blonde hair brushed from his face, flattened against his head by the hat upon his head; Pierre's hat. The words were spat with venom and anger, Aramis flinched.
"What right have you to call us brothers ? What right have you to speak to ustoday or any day? Don't you understand Aramis, your very existence shouldn't be – how is it my brother died and your still here?! What did you do?! Huh?! Come on it's no coincidence is it! Espagnol écume!"
His spitting words steadily grew louder as the anger increased, his hands pushed against the Musketeer's chest, sending Aramis stumbling backwards until he slipped in the mud, falling with a hiss onto his back.
"Florent, Mon frère, please, Pierre-"
His pleading rasp was cut off, a hot pain rushing to his face and his head snapped backwards into the earth, spinning wildly as a warm trail of blood trickled from his nose.
"Don't speak his name!" Florent cried, rearing back his arm and thrusting his fist into his face once more, body crushing against the other mans chest as he hit him once, twice, again and again, a mixture of sobs and angry yells escaping from his lips, blinded by the loss of his older brother.
"Don't you. Ever. Speak. His. Name!"
The words punctured with a hit and a sob, and Aramis did nothing.
There were further yells from a distant echo, the weight on his torso lifted and the pain stopped, no more punches pushed into the bones of his face, bruising the skin. A cough escaped his cut lips, and he made no move to sit up, or indeed attempt anything at all, he just lay there, staring blankly up at the clouded sky, eyelids heavy with the sickening spinning of the world.
And then, softer, gentler arms hoisted him up, blindly dragging him through squelching mud that forever stuck to the boots that passed it, and drops of rain slid down his neck, skin bare to the pouring sky as his head bowed towards the floor.
"Aramis, are you hurt elsewhere than the obvious?"
It was distinctly warmth, only offering a little comfort to his unstable mind, as his body sunk down onto the makeshift beds that were for patients of the Garrison.
"E-Etienne...?"
There was a soft murmur of acknowledgment and a soft splash of water, before a cool sopping cloth was brushed lightly against his face, no hesitation despite the flinches. There was only silence as his comrade worked, wiping the blood from his face and tending as best he knew how to the broken nose. Aramis once again did not protest, but said little of anything, his eyes unfocused on the wall, seeing something at Etienne could not. It was unnerving, despite the tiny incessant buzz at the back of his mind, some tiny sick hint of satisfaction, a small part that was glad there was some form of pain, even if he knew Aramis did not really deserve it. The man was, or had been, an avid protester, always so impatient to get back into the action, he much preferred tending to someone else's wounds than having his own looked at. Etienne knew when he was forced inside he would talk, take his mind of it all, gave him something to do. But this, this was silence. This was not the man he remembered.
He allowed the cloth to fall back into the bucket and rose to his feet from his crouched position, clasping his fellow Musketeer's shoulder momentarily. His brother Jacques had always been closer to Aramis and Marsac, Etienne himself hadn't long signed up after his brother when they were sent to Savoy, but they had always been careful to include him, include everyone, he had always felt welcome. He never expected to lose Jacques so quickly.
A hand clasped upon his wrist before he could walk away, callous but warm blooded, and yet still he froze at the touch, glancing back to meet the dark eyes of a man he still undoubtedly harboured some bitterness for and yet, it was not so aimed at the right person he knew.
Etienne regretted it, for the broken expression upon his comrades face burned in his chest, reminded so sullenly that they were not the only ones to suffer. At least they had not to witness the horrors Savoy had brought.
"I-I am Sorry"
He could not get the words out, they were stuck inside the back of his throat, unable to tell Aramis that really, he did not need to apologise, there was little he could've done. But instead, he just gave a nod, and Aramis released his grip, head dropping down once more to stare at the floor. Etienne's heart began to ache not just for Jacques but Aramis as well.
Once again Treville had been there for the fallout. There had been punishment for both men, Florent was on guard duty for few weeks that followed, though it was softened for the man knew his attack was more out of pain than anything else. Aramis had his own, internal struggles that might as well have been a punishment all on its own. For the nightmares he had so recently escaped returned with full throttle and every waking sleeping moment he saw their ghosts.
There was only one small shred of hope that came from Savoy, was that although he could not bear to lift a weapon, he devoted himself to another skill. There were moments, on bad days, where there was a little too much blood or it was a little too cold and the stitches were messed up by the shake of his hands or when their words were never far away carried in by the wind; there were bad days where it was all he could do to cope, where sewing up wounds and bandaging his comrades was not enough to escape the demons that haunted him. But, he found a career in medicine, in healing, that didn't involve the crack of a bullet piercing from the end of a gun, or the swish of a blade through the air.
He became the Garrison Medic, René.
Nobody knew him as anything other than Aramis, so the use of his real name would not be of a threat to him, nobody would know that was what it was – indeed everyone thought Aramis was his given name and that's how it would stay.
Athos was first, though Porthos arrived within only a few weeks of each other. It was a little over two months after Savoy. And Aramis hated them.
He hated Athos. The aristocratic drunk, because although he did not speak of it there was mannerisms of grace and wealth in his moves, there was a accent to his voice that suggest a higher class and there was a wealth in his pocket that many could not afford. But that was not why he hated Athos. No. Athos was older, and more of a leader than Aramis had been in a long time, indeed some days it was barely enough to bring himself out of bed in a morning.
He couldn't quite pinpoint it, but the way it seemed, as if Athos had replaced him. He knew one day Treville would grow tired of the constant battle between the ghosts of his past and his mind, and he understood that one day the Captain would come to realise he was no longer a burden they could keep, but Athos was different. He was of higher rank, though little knew why, Athos supposed it was the wealth, but then Treville had never been one to accept bribes. He was Lieutenant; a right hand man to Treville, often seen leading men to escort Duke's or chase Bandits. He was where Aramis once stood, once upon a time when he was trusted, respected, a soldier, indeed one of the best in the regiment.
Jealous? Possibly.
And then there was Porthos. He smiled too much. He tried too hard. And he was too damn happy too early in a morning. He hadn't had it easy to begin within, the colour of his skin meant prejudices were formed by those that were the odd few scattered within the ranks born of noble blood. The thing that Aramis hated was that Porthos did not seem to care about his lack of friends or company, he didn't care what they thought, and then, eventually, they began to warm up to his unusual giant of a man. He was still too happy, still smiled too much, but they accepted him in a way they had not Aramis.
As René they could forget about his past, not that many had much care but there were some that questioned his capability, laughed at his failed attempts to shoot, complained about his lack of skills for they were buried deep within the snow of Savoy and he did not want to bring them out. As René he healed, and wounds began to mend between himself and his comrades, relationships were beginning to broker and sting together, even Florent had approached him willingly for stitches, something he had failed to do previously.
As René he was free, but he was just a medic, and often they forgot he was once a soldier too. Most recruits now did not know he could once shoot or wield a sword; most thought the only thing he could do was sew them up.
He didn't realise, sometimes the only way to learn to do something again, was to learn it in the field.
It was in his gut, this wary, uneasy feeling, it was unsettling. There had been little to do recently, no major injuries, no poisonings and no fights with the Red Guard. It was days like these, when there was nothing to act as a distraction, did the nightmares return.
René hadn't spoken to Captain Treville in a long while now, some might say he was avoiding the man, and in a way he was, but then, the Captain was too busy with Athos. Not that René needed him for anything, it might simply stop the gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach, that maybe, just maybe, nobody cared any longer. That now he really was alone.
He realised, quite suddenly, that is was too quiet. There was a difference between boredom and the sneaking suspicion of danger lurking in the corner. He was right.
They were scattered across the Garrison, some more obvious than others, guns held stiff and pointed, some from a distance, others holding recruits tightly with barrels pressed to their heads. It was really a pity nobody checked for healers; otherwise they may have gotten away with it.
The Captain was not there, most likely though a message had been sent to lure him in; this was no Red Guard prank but bandits and assassins ready to kill without a thought. Money. This was about the money, they would have been hired.
René slipped into the shadows beneath the stairs crouched low and tensed. The beginnings of adrenaline creeping through his blood and sweat in a light sheen upon his palms. There was a pistol left abandoned in the mud, a little rust creeping on to the steel, easy to reach. The musket balls however were not, as his searched frantically in the slosh of the mud hoping to find as many as possible. There was a shake to his hands, as they circled around each individual ball, cold against the building sweat, barely remembering to take a breath as he hurried.
He would not loose anymore of his brothers.
René loaded it silently, his eyes scanning for any sign, anything else that maybe of help.
"If you do not release these men, I will kill you"
Athos' deep, dry voice rang, his own gun loaded without so much as a flinch, but he was only one man against what was at least six on the inside, René knew he would be a fool to assume it was only them.
He could not shoot, not there under the stairs, he needed a better position. If he stayed where he was either he was going to die, or a Musketeer was; once the source of the noise was located from a single shot he would have no chance to shoot again and possibly endanger the lives of the others even more. He would run.
His eyes locked with Athos, into those deep dark sad eyes so used to staring at the depths of bottles as the night dragged on, and he became the distraction.
Words weren't the older man's forte, but in situations such as this Athos could bait for France. And it worked, as one of the bandits let out a growl of rage, and in an odd sort of way René almost felt sympathy for the man – because by God Athos was annoying. And then the anger bubbled, towards Athos, towards the bandits he did not know, even so, towards himself. But it came; as one broke from the circle they seemed to have formed precariously across the Garrison, tossing the young Musketeer to the ground, head knocking against the wood of the table and reached for his gun.
His legs moved faster than his head, his fingers, his body, his muscles acted on instinct and he ran, raising the musket without a hesitation and fired.
It was a blur of bangs, skidding through the mud, arm never fallen, never shaken from his target, a deep rage bursting from his gut, a hatred never acknowledged before, echo after echo of shots bursting against his eardrums until there were no balls left, and he went for the sword.
It was like a dance through the rain, a soft trickle turning into a downpour as he took centre stage, sweeping from the shadows into the middle of the fray, young recruits thrown aside as bandits fell and others drew sword, it was only the two left to defend.
Any other time, any other time and he wouldn't have been able to do it, as his hand scooped a blade from the floor and his foot kicked another up to his wrist, and he twirled, slicing them through the air with a scary precision and watched as if detached, as blood cut through the air in droplets. Finally he tossed them aside, similarly hooking his foot beneath the barrel of a musket and swiftly kicking it up into his grip much like with the sword.
There was one bandit left upon his knees, and one Musket ball left within the pistol, cocked and pointed without waver at his head.
"René," Athos spoke, like a distant echo, wary and cautious "René we need him alive, we need to question him."
And again the sentence was repeated, more distant than the last, his eyes only screwed to the sweating, exhausted man before him.
"René please, we need him"
Etienne, he was safe then.
"Aramis. Stand down."
There it was. The order he was waiting for. No drunk, no recruit, no other damn person would tell him what to do. His Captain, his Captain was the only person he would take orders from. He lowered the gun.
Aramis. Not René.
It was then he realised he was shaking, a light tremor running over his body, but nothing compared to before, nothing so prohibiting that he could barely lift the gun. It still took time, like anything it getting used to it all again, and despite his spree of adrenaline that sent ball after ball flying from the weapon clutched in his hand by the next morning his aim would not be as perfect, he would tremble just a little bit more as he aimed for a different target, a wooden target. But it was enough, enough to bring Aramis back from the buried depths.
He was a Musketeer again.
There had been a change, there always seemed to be, but a shift had settled in the Garrison long after that. Aramis was Aramis again, but he was no longer the survivor of Savoy, but another Musketeer in the ranks, he was welcome this time. There were still struggles between his brothers, there would still be months before Florent would look him in the eye, it would be a year before Marcel and Charles would agree to Guard Duty with him, it would be a eighteen months before Bertran would train with him.
But Athos no longer looked down upon him, there were no longer questions of his ability and capability, Porthos no longer smiled too much, instead he stopped trying to be happy for both himself and Aramis and instead asked him for help - with reading.
Finally, Treville.
"You've been avoiding me."
It was a statement, not a question. Aramis paused, the cloth currently blackened by the contents of his musket that he constantly cleaned. No longer was he the medic, though many still came to him with smaller wounds or simple stitches, he had a new method to cope, though things never got bad not anymore, he found cleaning his weapons kept him calm, it was peaceful.
It had been a long time since Savoy. Athos and Porthos were now there, his friends. The big bulky man he pulled from fights and taught how to shoot and would fight back to back with him until the day they died. The brooding asshole that really wasn't such an asshole, the one he dragged home drunk every week and willingly followed his orders and would die for without a second of hesitation.
And he knew they would die for him.
"What is there to avoid Captain?" He answered lightly, though the stiffening of his muscles was a giveaway.
There was a new light in his eyes, a new sparkle. It wasn't like the old one, it would never be the same, Treville noted with a hint of sadness as he closed the door to the Musketeer's quarters, arms crossed over his chest.
"I would ask you the same but I feel as though I would only receive riddles for an answer"
Aramis raised an eyebrow, still not quite meeting the Captain's eyes.
"Touché" Treville muttered at the look he received and stepped further into the room, away from the shadows of the door.
There was a long pause of silence, and just when Treville thought he would have to be the one to broach the subject once more, Aramis exhaled slowly and dropped the Musket and the cloth down on his bed sheets.
"What do you do Sir? When the world around you only showers affection, yet your mind belives you should be alone?"
It was an odd question, but any solider would understand its meaning. Forever praised for doing your duty, for killing and surviving and protecting, but never believing you deserve it; always someone you could have saved, always someone else you should have protected, always something you failed at; failed to yourself.
"I find, accepting praise in a world made of cruelty to others, helps change your mind, even just for a little while longer"
Aramis nodded slowly, staring at the floor, his fingers twisting around the soft fabric of his shirt, an internal debate inside his mind.
"I would like to thank you Captain," He said suddenly, rising quickly, almost startling Treville and finally, finally, meeting his eyes.
"For bringing me back to life, for not giving up on me"
There were no tears, no hugs or physical signs of affection; it was no happy family reunion no matter the brotherhood that was the foundation to the Garrison. It was just simply those words hanging raw and unnourished in the air between them and a soft smile upon his lips as he strode past, with a nod into the evening sunlight to join his comrades.
Treville blinked at the empty space left in front of him. He cleared his throat, a sudden unexplainable lump seemed formed and he took a breath of musty air, before following in his soldiers footsteps and catching onto the railing above, staring down at his men being served food.
They were his son's, every single one of them. He almost lost twenty two that night in Savoy, at least he saved one if he could not save the rest, at least, despite the forever raw reminder of what he had done, he had not failed them all.
He couldn't save the dead, it was already too late and too filled with regret, there was nothing he could do for them except honour their memory. But there was always a chance with the living.
It all ended with Marsac. The pain never left, a dull ache in his chest that never quite disappeared, but would slowly fade over time. The loss and sorrow was never forgotten, their graves all lined one by one. But it all ended with Marsac.
Closure. Something he didn't know he needed. And something he had gained, at the cost of everything he knew.
Marsac's body slumped dirty and ragged against his chest, hands sticky with his brothers blood, no longer a rise and fall in his chest.
Marsac's body placed ever so gently into a wooden box, even after all of this Aramis insisted he was respected in death.
Marsac's body gone from view, simply left to stare at a mound of dirt covering it six feet under as rain trickled down their backs cold and unforgiving.
Why the hell was it always raining?
Seemed the only question left in his mind, hours ago it had been filled with a flurry of urgent queries, demanding answers, a wild panic to know the truth. And now, one dismal question, so lame and pathetic in comparison hanging in his mind.
They used to do that in the beginning, when they were bored or even for a laugh, at any chance possible they would ask the Captain the most philosophical questions they could think of, at one point they even started scoring.
At the height of it all, when his fist connected with the Captains face, when the anger was so high he could hardly think straight and he had whispered "Did you only care because you felt guilty?"
But he knew the answer, because the Captain had always cared, even now they stood together to bury a man whose soul was long overdue to the grave, left behind in Savoy. Treville had given him closure, told him the truth Porthos and Athos were not willing to hear, at least D'Artagnan tried to help. But his brothers had abandoned him when he needed them most, a difficult position he had placed them in and he knew he shouldn't expect any less; he was rather they were loyal to the Musketeers, to Treville, but still he wished they had at least been there now.
Unconsciously or not, purposely or not, he was always abandoned at some point; Adele chose the Cardinal, Isabella had run to the Nun's, even Porthos and Athos would not stay with him, at least not for this, and at times his own faith in God had wavered. But not everyone abandoned him; Treville, D'Artaganan, even Constance had stuck by him.
A/N: This is obviously set Pre-Show and up to S1Ep4
I hope its okay, not too out of character
Mes frères – Means My Brothers
Mon frère – Means My Brother
Espagnol - Means Spanish
Écume – Apparently translates to Foam or Scum, in this case using the latter meaning
Apologies if any of this is wrong, It's from Google.