~§~
The dingy, smelly street was shrouded in shadows, like the narrow space trapped in between the houses tall enough to hide the light of the sun -even when it shone brighter than it did this winter's day- had been nothing but a careless afterthought instead of a necessary path for folks to walk through.
Constance's steps faltered and she had nearly made up her mind to turn around and head home. "Are you sure this is the right place?" she asked, her voice but a whisper. Two steps ahead, her young guide was merely a dark shape against the mist that turned everything grey and lifeless.
"They're here, couple of steps ahead, I swear," the girl assured her.
Constance moved forward, taking comfort in the fact that she and her husband had not nearly riches enough to justify such an elaborate ruse to be robbed. Still, her legs shook as she walked and her grip around the candle holder grew tighter, fairly certain that her foolishness was leading her straight into becoming a corpse, floating in the Seine by the next morning.
When she finally manage to lay eyes on anyone remotely resembling a Musketeer, they were standing less than two steps away, three men huddled against each other.
For a moment, it was hard to tell which was the hurt one that the young girl had told her about. The two that Constance could recognize, Athos and Porthos, looked like they had been dragged over the cobblestones on a rainy, muddy day and even from a distance, she could see the greyness that tinted Porthos' skin and the way Athos' face was lined with pain.
There was a third man, head resting on Porthos' shoulder and propped upright between the other two, all three of them sitting on the front steps of Madame Poulain's bakery, closed ever since her husband had fallen sick with a fever. From where she stood, it was nearly impossible to see the injured person properly, but she could only assume that it was someone in trouble with either the Red Guards or the rest of the Musketeers. After all, what other reason could they have to come to her instead of a certified physician? "What's this then?" she asked, trying to instill as much calmness and reassurance in her words as she possibly could. They looked lost enough without her rebuking them like misbehaved children.
"I hate to bother you in such a manner, Madame," Athos whispered, trying to get to his feet. One of his legs seemed less inclined to oblige and he ended up nearly falling into Constance's arms as she instinctively stepped closer. "We find ourselves in desperate need of sanctuary," he added, his blue eyes earnest and sincere as he accepted her arm. "A place to render some aid to our injured brother."
Constance resisted the urge to roll her eyes in a very unlady-like fashion. "Just for your friend, yes, I can see that," she pointed out, her words filled with compassion despite the sarcastic tone.
Jacques would not be pleased if it reached his ears that his wife was opening the doors of their house to three men he had no familiarity with, but, fortunately for Jacques, he was away on business and would not be returning for the next four days.
Constance trusted Captain Treville and she knew Athos to be a kind and honorable man who had come to her aid before; it was impossible for her to think that someone chosen by the Captain to be a part of the Musketeers -like Porthos- or any man who Athos called 'brother' with no hesitation -like the senseless stranger- could be anything else but good, honorable and decent as well.
Besides, it would be very un-Christian to deny them assistance, she was absolutely certain of that. "Follow me," she voiced, decision made.
The sound of heavy and numerous footsteps echoed in the nearly-empty street and Constance turned in that direction, curious as to what it might be. Not many around here had the kind of coin that was necessary to buy leather footwear, and what she was hearing was most definitely the stomping of solid boots on the ground.
A troop of Red Guards emerged from the white brume at the end of the street, the otherwise vivid shade of their cloaks drained of color by the elements. They moved with purpose, marching at a fast pace past her, barely glancing in her direction. Their eyes, sharp and attentive, searched every hidden nook and cranny, their gloved hands on the pommels of their weapons, ready to strike. She shivered, praising the Lord above that it wasn't her they were looking for.
When the guards were nothing more than ghostly shapes on a foggy background, Constance turned around, set to hurry the Musketeers along; the temperature was dropping once more and she was too poorly-dressed to be caught outside in the snow. She found herself alone.
The three grown men and little girl who had been there just a second before had, apparently, managed to vanish into thin air in the amount of time she had been distracted by the passing guards.
Her initial impression that they had sought her out because they were in trouble with the Red Guards became more than a suspicion. "You're the ones they're looking for," she said, certain of her words and that, even though she could not see them, they were nearby. "It's safe now, they're gone."
Athos limped out from the shadows, eyes darting around to confirm her words. It was less a gesture of mistrust and more of a soldier's ingrained habit, which was the only reason why the action did not offend Constance. "We have done nothing wrong, I assure you, Madame," he said, his head bowed in either deference or regret.
Constance believed him. Besides, she'd had a healthy dislike for the Red Guard ever since its creation. "Well, let's not stand around waiting for them to come back, shall we?"
~§~
The troop of Red Guards were going in Notre Dame's direction, Athos was certain of that. The implications of why they could possibly be in such haste to get there, or why there were so many of them walking together, he could only guess. And what he could guess brought shivers to his skin.
Whatever was happening, it seemed like the Cardinal was using his regiment to clean up Rochefort's mess. To make everything disappear. To make Aramis disappear.
It had been only by the oddest of lucks that they had succeeded in thwarting the Cardinal's plans for their friend. Had they missed the sound of Aramis' chains dragging the floor, or the sound of his moans, the injured Musketeer would still be wandering alone, lost in the tunnels underneath Paris. Easy prey for the Red Guards.
A single moment in time, a mere distraction or even a more silent and less-confused Aramis, and everything would've been lost. Even now, in the street where they waited for Constance, had the mist not worked in their favor, they would've been doomed, for the alcove where they had hastily ducked had not been much of a refuge, but more of a game of shadows that disguised their presence.
Athos had to smile. Despite all the trouble that seemed to find him, Aramis seemed to have an uncanny amount of luck on his side. Down in those tunnels, in that street...even at Savoy.
It was for that reason, and that alone, that Athos vowed not to despair as they settled Aramis on the Bonacieux's dinner table, close to the fireplace, and removed Porthos' doublet, to better assess the damage. Because grim as the sight was, Aramis had his luck to keep him alive. Hopefully.
Constance let out a gasp, hands flying to her mouth a second too late as she tried to stop any sound from escaping.
Athos cringed at her reaction, blaming himself for his poor discernment in exposing an innocent woman to such raw evidence of a level of violence that even they, as trained soldiers, had no small amount of difficulty to stomach. "I apologize, Madame," he stammered while his hands stayed busy, gently prying Porthos' doublet from the wounds covering Aramis' skin. His hands, he noticed, were shaking. "This is not a sight I'd wish to impose on any lady...if you trust us with your home for the time being, no one will think less of you if you choose to step outside and avoid such a display."
Constance's hand, when she placed it on top of his, was steadier than anything he could have managed at the moment. Athos looked up, facing her pale, yet determined face. Her gasp, he could recognize now, had been inflamed by compassion rather than fright. "Tell me what you need," she offered, not a trace of hesitation in her voice.
It was hardly a difficult question, or even an unexpected one, but Athos found himself lost for words. His mouth opened and the only thing that managed to get out was a sob. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his own reaction.
It was certainly troublesome to gaze upon the damage inflicted upon Aramis during the time he had been at Rochefort's mercy, but now that he was free from that torment and back in the care of his friends, Athos should be feeling his burden lessening, the knotted rope around his chest finally unclenching, allowing him to breath. Instead, he could feel his breath coming faster and faster, his brow peppered with heavy beads of sweat, his fingers senseless and feeling like ice.
Dragging his gaze away from the wounds on Aramis' torso, Athos focused instead on his friend's face, hoping that was what he needed to calm his hammering heart.
Maybe it was merely a trick of the light, or the blood crusted in Aramis' neatly-trimmed beard, or maybe it was his mind torturing him and reminding Athos that memories and guilt would never fade away...for one second, Aramis' face was not his own, familiar features replaced by another's, unblemished skin replaced by freckles, brown curls taking on a reddish hue. "Thomas..."
~§~
His attention fully focused on the injured friend lying unconscious on top of a dinner table, Porthos barely had time to react as he felt, more than saw, Athos' legs buckling underneath him. "Oye, mate!" he let out, rushing to grab the older man before he fell gracelessly to the floor. The wound in his side protested vehemently against the added weight and the way he had twisted, sending both of them to the floor by Constance's fireplace. "Shit! Athos?"
The pallor that had overtaken Athos' features was alarming in itself. Porthos had seen dead men with more color in their cheeks than his friend had at that moment. The only difference, it seemed, was that dead men did not sweat or shake as Athos was currently doing in such an alarming manner. "Athos?"
Constance's face loomed over the both of them, looking one step away from running from her own house in search of aid. As it was, Porthos couldn't really blame her, considering that there were three wounded Musketeers in her home, two of them currently unresponsive and doing their best to pass as corpses.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked, kneeling by their side. "Maybe it'd be best to fetch a physician..."
"I'm alright," Athos whispered, his voice raspy and leaden. "I'm...I need to get up," he said stubbornly, one hand reaching up to the fireplace mantle to pull himself up.
Porthos watched as his friend struggled to his feet, swaying for a bit until he regained his balance, before turning his attention to his own battered body and getting off the floor, a task easier said than done.
While he respectfully would not make any comments about what had just happened, Porthos knew that Athos' actions were not merely due to his injured leg or the grief of seeing the poor condition their friend was in. It was not the first time he had heard the name Thomas coming from Athos' lips in a moment of distress and pain and he was sure it would not be the last. Whoever Thomas was, or had been, the name carried with it the same remorse and sorrow that Marsac's name dragged from Aramis' mouth.
The need to help both of his friends tore at Porthos' heart, pulling into two different directions with equal strength. Aramis, however, had injuries that had to be dealt with, burns and cuts that were still bleeding and needed to be cleaned, unless they wanted his fever to run any higher than what it already was. Athos' heartache would have to wait, but it would not be forgotten, that much Porthos vowed to himself.
"Madame, 'bout that help ya mentioned," he stated, taking a deep breath and forcing a polite smile onto his face. "Som' boiled water and as many clean linens as ya can spare would be much appreciated," he asked, still keeping an eye on Athos. The older man was still grasping the mantle like it was the only thing keeping him off the floor. "Do ya still have tha' bag we brought from tha' nasty lil' man?"
Athos blinked, his eyes looking more and more focused at each movement. The bag that they had stocked at the apothecary had been left abandoned on one of the chairs as they had both heaved Aramis onto the table. "I'll sort through what we need," Athos offered, the gentle nod letting Porthos know that his head was back on his shoulders and he wished to help.
Taking advantage of the fact that Constance had left the room to get some water boiling, Porthos went about ridding Aramis of the filthy rags still attached to his body before covering the lower half with one of their cloaks, his hands barely hesitating as he threw the foul-smelling breeches into the burning flames. They had been ruined either way, and in between him and Athos, Porthos was sure they could purchase some news ones for Aramis.
Planning for new clothes was the easy part, his treacherous mind reminded him. For a moment, looking down at the map of pain that his friend's body had become, the tall Musketeer was at a loss for where to start; for one frightening moment, it seemed like an insurmountable task to piece Aramis back together.
His eyes focused on the dark bruises around Aramis' neck, finger-shaped marks that his beard was too short to hide. Bile rose to Porthos' mouth as he realized that, at some point, Rochefort's hands had been around his friend's throat, stealing his breath, close enough to end Aramis life. Porthos' hands curled into fists, his blood singing for revenge, for a chance to repay the favor and squeeze the life out of that vile man. Soon, he promised himself, very soon.
Athos, bless his soul, saw the look on his face and rested a hand on Porthos' arm, a gentle grasp before moving to the end of the table. On a chair between the two of them were the ointments and herbs that they had bought from the apothecary. "I'll see to the cuts on his feet," he offered. "You start on his chest and arm and we'll work our way towards each other."
The words, while practical and far from being untrue, still sounded harsh and violent when spoken aloud, bringing to reality the fact that Aramis' body was such a canvas of ill-treatment and injury that two of them would have to 'work their way towards each other' to cover all that there was to be done. Taking a deep breath that smelled of blood and burned wood, Porthos started his work.
~§~
Aramis woke with a gasp, breath caught in his throat, an imaginary cork that still prevented any air from reaching his lungs. He coughed and sputtered, panic rising inside his chest, the feeling of hands around his throat adding to the effect that he could not take a breath. His eyes were open, but all he could see were blurred colors, likes shimmering ghosts of things that were meant to be solid but lacked consistency.
"Easy, now." A gentle voice, a woman's voice, filled his senses. "Air's not running out any time soon. No need to go about trying to gulp it all down in one go, is there?"
There was a hand pressing down on his chest and it took Aramis more than a moment to realize that the slender fingers were trying to stop him from getting up. The touch remained gentle, putting the slightest pressure against his skin and he allowed himself to sink back into the soft mattress and the smell of clean linens. "Who—where am I?" He could barely recognize his voice, hoarse and faint as it was.
The Musketeer willed his eyes into focus, blinking until the heated haze that seemed intended on consuming his eyeballs receded just enough for him to glimpse the shape of the woman sitting by his bedside. Both the woman and the bed were complete strangers to him. Auburn hair, loosely curled, framed a face where a forced smile beamed down at him. "Aramis, yes?" she politely asked, waiting for his confirming nod. "I am Madame Bonacieux- Constance. You're at my home. You are safe here," she told him, the words sounding almost true. "Athos and Porthos will be back in a little bit, don't you worry. Would you like some water?" she asked even as a glass was pressed against his lips, her warm hand supporting the back of his neck and raising his head slightly.
The cold water tasted like sweet ambrosia, washing over his dry mouth and opening a fresh and wet path all the way down to his empty stomach. It was distracting enough that the woman's words only registered after Aramis had drained the glass dry. The fact that she was asking him not to worry was enough to send his heart racing, more than it had been before. "What's wrong? Where a—are they?" he asked, pushing against the mattress to get himself up. The second he moved, Aramis realized two things in quick succession: his right hand was tightly strapped to his chest and his whole body exploded in pain as soon as he tried to twist onto his side. Aramis fell back down with a gasp, curling into himself.
"That was a very stupid thing to do," the woman, Constance, chided him, her voice managing to convey both her concern for his well-being and how much of a fool she thought him to be. "Here, let me see how much more damage you've managed to do to yourself."
He had forgotten about his broken arm, about his mangled finger, about everything that had happened. Despite the unfamiliarity of the place, there was a sense of security and welcoming domesticity to the house that made him think of his parents' home and his childhood.
The pain, however, had completely shattered that illusion, bringing everything back in harsh, bright colors. Well, almost everything...there was a large blank piece in between being held down by chains and lying in a stranger's bed.
The last thing Aramis could remember was the Cardinal's man walking away, on his way to pick Treville's letter and -hopefully- fall into their trap. He'd been chained to those columns, and now he was in this woman's house and somehow Athos and Porthos knew where he was and would, apparently, be returning soon and all that Aramis knew for a certainty was that they weren't safe until the Cardinal and his man were both dealt with. "Where are they?" he asked more vehemently, pulling his hand away from the woman's careful inspection. His limb was wrapped in linen from the elbow to the tip of his fingers, the cloth around his thumb stained red. Hidden underneath, he could feel the stitches, itching already "What are you not telling me?"
It was easy to guess the turmoil inside Constance's mind. On the one hand, she seemed honestly intent on keeping him safe, on the other, she seemed to be equally worried about the other two Musketeers. Despite what proper manners dictated, Aramis reached out with his good hand to grab the woman's fingers where they were twirling around each other in her lap. "Please, tell me."
Constance looked up, startled by the feeling of too-warm fingers wrapping around her cold ones. "They made me promise that you would be kept safe," she said, biting her lower lip. It wasn't a coy gesture or even one of indecision. Her mind was already made up, even if she wasn't happy with her decision. "The Red Guards have been knocking on every door from Notre Dame to here," she finally said. "Athos seemed certain that they were looking for you," she confessed. "He sent Charlotte to alert Treville of what was happening, then both he and Porthos left to find a safer place. They made me promise that I wouldn't allow you to do something stupid while they were away," she finished, looking pointedly at him, like 'something stupid' was exactly what she imagined he would be doing.
She wasn't wrong. Aramis' mind raced with a million thoughts. If the Red Guards were in fact looking for him like Athos believed, that meant that the Cardinal had decided that the Musketeer was no longer of any use, which was bad. It also meant that the man that had spent the past days tormenting him, the blond man with the cruel, pale eyes, was no longer free to return to the tunnels and finish the job himself, which meant that Treville had managed to stop him, one way or another. Which was good. "Charlotte?" Aramis asked, confused by the unfamiliar name.
"The girl who was with you when I brought you to my house," Constance explained, the look on her face making Aramis wonder just how many times he'd already asked that same question. "I told Athos that it was no job to send a child to do, warning the Captain like that, but it was either that or leave her to watch over you, and she seemed to be under the impression that you didn't like her."
Aramis smiled despite himself and the situation. His mind was still confused and sluggish, but he remembered the young girl who he'd thought to be a ghost until she had stolen his coin purse. By some twist of fate, she seemed to be aiding Athos and Porthos in their quest to save him. How his friends had become involved in his secret mission, Aramis had no idea. "How long has it been since they left?"
Constance rose from her chair, busying herself with straightening the bed clothes around him and fluffing a pillow that needed no more fluffing. She was nervous, stalling an answer that both knew nobody was going to like. "Over two hours," she finally said, looking out the window, "maybe more...Oh, God!" she let out, one hand flying to cover her mouth.
"What is it? What do you see?" Aramis demanded, struggling once again to get out of the bed. Now that he was aware of what his body felt like, it was somewhat easier to handle the pain. Barely.
His legs felt like he had ridden his horse for two whole days without rest and with only one -barely- usable arm, the simple enterprise of sitting up became nothing short of an Herculean task. Aramis could feel sweat breaking out all over his skin, the salty liquid stinging as it rolled over the few wounds not covered by bandages. He felt chilled and on fire at once, shivers running like waves over his skin. There was no way to stop the groan that escaped his lips as Aramis tried to take one step on his bandaged feet and faltered, landing on one knee.
Constance's attention finally veered from whatever was happening outside her window and she raced to his side. "What in damnation do you think you're doing?" she asked, her tone of voice one that Aramis hadn't heard coming any woman since his mother had caught him stealing honey from the jars in the pantry when he was five. "You think yourself in a fit state to run down there and save them from the Red Guards?"
Aramis' heart froze inside his chest before shooting off against his ribs like a musket ball. "W-what?" he stammered, pushing against Constance's supporting arm until they were closer to the window.
She was right. There were at least twenty Red Guards gathered in the square below her house. Their attention, as far as Aramis could tell, was not on the house or even his presence inside, for they were all facing away, looking in the direction of the well. Hidden behind the precarious cover of some crates and a vender's cart, Aramis could glimpse two familiar heads, one covered in light brown hair and the other with a dark cloth.
"They're trapped," Aramis whispered, sagging against the side of the window, what little strength he had left abandoning him. "It's impossible for the two of them to defeat that many Red Guards...they will perish...because of me."
"Charlotte left at the same time as they did," Constance reminded him, nervously peering outside. She could see as well as he did that the Cardinal's men were getting ready to attack. Athos and Porthos didn't have much time. "I'm sure help will be arriving any second now."
Aramis shook his head, remembering that none of the other Musketeers knew of their plans. To them, he was nothing but a disgrace to the regiment and a murderer. The garrison was less than ten minutes away; if help was to come at all, it would have arrived already. "No one is coming," he offered with a defeated sigh. "The girl probably didn't even get inside the garrison," he added, remembering her aversion to Musketeers and anyone in a uniform in general.
Athos and Porthos had put themselves at risk because of him, because of Aramis' decisions and his failure to escape by himself from those tunnels. He would not idly stand by while his two best friends - while his brothers – died. Not again.
"What do you think you are doing?" Constance asked as soon as Aramis pushed away from the window and took a feeble step towards the door.
He could see a flight of stairs just to the left, steps that he was sure would lead him outside. If the Red Guards were there for him, then he would give them what they wanted and avoid the entire confrontation. "I need to get down there," he stated, taking another step. "They're here for me; there's no need for anyone else to get hurt."
Aramis found himself envious of the ease in Constance's movements, as she effortlessly pushed past him to bar his way. He couldn't remember a time when he could move as effortlessly and gracefully as she, when it did not hurt to stand, to walk, to breathe...
"Take one more step and I will slap you right back into that bed, you can mark my words, Monsieur!" she threatened, hands on her hips, elbows out in a stance that was meant to make her look twice her size, even if it failed at its purpose. "You can barely walk, you still have a fever and I would gamble my grandmother's fake silver necklace that it wouldn't take more than a puff of wind to bring you to your knees right now," she pointed out, fuming. "How will your death help your friends, care to explain it to me?"
Aramis' eyes turned cold with anger. While her words stung with the bitterness of truth, she didn't know, she couldn't understand that doing nothing would be the death of him just the same. This way, at least, there was a chance that Athos and Porthos might live. "You suggest that I stand by and watch them die instead?" he asked, venom lending strength to his words. "Do you believe me to be completely without honor?"
Constance paused, her posture deflating. "No...no, I'm suggesting no such thing. But surely there is something else to be done, other than throwing your life away?"
Aramis closed his eyes, feverish tears pooling under his lids like acid. She was right. Even if he went down there and placed himself at the mercy of the Red Guards, there was no guarantee that they wouldn't kill Porthos and Athos all the same, just because they had defied them. And then all of their lives would be wasted, for nothing. And what of Constance, what would happen to her if the Cardinal discovered her involvement in the whole confusion? What would become of her life?
When he forced his lids open once more, his gaze landed on a brace of pistols and the pouch of gunpowder and balls resting on top of a wooden chest in front of the bed.
"Porthos left those behind," Constance informed him, her tremulous voice weighted down by the heaviness of what she refused to say. That the weapons were there in case Porthos and Athos never came back, in the event that the next boots up those stairs belonged to Red Guards instead of Musketeers. In case everything was lost. "In case...just in case."
Aramis smiled. He had to remember to thank Porthos properly for his thoughtfulness later. "We must find a distraction," he whispered, looking around for something that they could use. He would be able to take only two shots at a time, using both pistols, but in the time it would take him to reload, the Red Guards could easily invade Constance's house and murder the both of them before a third shot could be fired. And that too would do nothing for the two trapped Musketeers. "Something to give an edge to Athos and Porthos, just long enough to allow their escape, and not get us killed in the process."
For the first time since he had awoken, Aramis saw a genuine smile spread across Constance's delicate features. "I know just the thing."
Although he had just met the woman and, therefore, could hardly judge her character, there was something in her intelligent gaze that made Aramis believe that she knew exactly what she was doing.
In an odd manner, she reminded Aramis of Marsac. The way her eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect of battle, where others might have coward away, was suddenly painfully familiar, even if Aramis could not help but smile at the recognition. "Good," he encouraged her. "But first, we need to cut these off," he added, his chin pointing to his strapped arm. There was no way he would be able to do anything with only one hand, even if the other was barely usable.
Constance looked at him like he was a mad man. And that too felt familiar.