In the cold light of day, however, inner demons proved not quite as willing to be laid to rest as they had under the influence of the alcohol and herbs. Athos battled daily to keep the darkness at bay and walk away from the bottle before he was insensible. But it proved impossible to put it down some nights.
So he stopped drinking all together.
When that didn't work, he tracked down the local chemist and began mixing his own liquid remedy. Until Aramis realized what he was doing and poured every bottle in his apartment into a bucket, then emptied the bucket out the window and calmly smashed anything that resembled a vessel. Porthos stood just inside the door, not quite blocking it, but his size alone, and the hands planted on his hips discouraged any thoughts of escape in that direction.
"You just poured a two-hundred year old bottle of burgundy out the window, you know," Athos remarked conversationally from where he leaned against a wall watching the proceedings. "My grandfather's father laid that down, bottled from his own vineyard."
Aramis's face blanched the color of peeled almonds, though almost immediately it rearranged itself to reflect bored indifference. "I'm sure there's more where that came from." He yanked a chair out from the table. "Sit down."
Athos sat, not because he wanted to; a compulsion stronger even than the desire to drink straightened his leaning posture and put his fundament in the appointed chair. He had been nearly five weeks in the company of these two, and though he would not have admitted to it even under torment by the Spanish Inquisition, he had come to rely on their companionship.
"I'm disappointed," Porthos said, "I let Aramis bet Tréville you were worth savin'."
"Why?" Aramis asked, moving to lean back against the table beside Athos' seat, crossing his booted feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest. "Why are you doing this?"
Athos was silent. Their good opinion of him mattered a great deal and he had no answers to give that could hope to measure up to their standard of honor.
Aramis nudged the boot closest to his own. "We're not here to stand in judgment; we don't know what principalities have you in thrall. However, we've come to the conclusion that if you are in such torment as to be so hell bent on self-destruction, then we have some ideas for you."
"For instance," Porthos leaned his tall frame against the doorjamb, "you could just let one of them puppies run you through. Easier than falling on your own rapier n' tryin' to make it look like an accident."
"Or," Aramis suggested, "you could accidentally fall off a very high roof."
"Poison's always good. Works quicker'n rottin' your gut with drink."
"I've heard drowning is easy. Never tried it myself, but I suppose we could find some weights you could tie to your ankles before jumping into the Seine."
"You could get yerself gored real good. We'd haveta' find ya a bull, but that shouldn't be too hard."
"I'm not sure it's possible to smother yourself, but you might consider it as an option."
"Wot about pickin' a fight with the cardinal's guards?"
"If you really want to suffer, I know a few ladies of the evening who could give you a good time while they give you the clap."
Porthos shook his head. "Nah, I don' wanna watch that. Hard way to die, goin' crazy-like first. Now the cardinal's guards, that'd be som'en to cheer about, since I'm certain you'd take a few out wiv' ya."
"Wait!" Aramis jumped up, shoving both hands through his hair, eyes glazed with something that looked like glee. "Why not just confront the cardinal? I hear he thinks he's a wizard with a sword. He wouldn't be able to resist a challenge from France's greatest swordsman! At least make your death worthwhile!"
"Now there's a fittin' end for a man," Porthos agreed enthusiastically. "Quick and fast and still in the service of your country! Just make sure you get in a killing wound before you let him murder you."
He had not expected humor, though even thinking that presaged expectations, and he had had no expectation whatsoever. Humor though, slipped through the cracks of Athos' armor-plated soul, where lectures and exhortations would have just bounced off.
He planted his elbows on the table and dropped his forehead to his clenched fists. Such fierce loyalty in the face of the sad results it had garnered plucked the last vulnerable chord his heart possessed. He did the only thing he could – produced a rusty chuckle, though it sounded more like a centuries old garden gate creaking open.
Perhaps if he'd had tears anymore, they might have found an outlet now, but the ones he should have shed long ago had been damned up so fiercely, they had eventually evaporated. Hands settled on his hunched shoulders and began to knead, thumbs digging deeply and effectively into muscle and tendon, even through the leather of his coat.
"Athos, we can't help if you keep shutting us out."
A chair scraped out across the table. "An I'm not s'good with rejection. Don't take it too well."
"Why?" Athos' reiteration of Aramis' question was muffled but ingenuous in its childlike resonance. The hands on his shoulders paused for a second only before resuming with a mastery not even his valet could match.
"Because," Porthos said from across the table, quietly tenacious, "we never once stopped thinkin' you're worth savin'."
"But we can't do it without your cooperation," Aramis tag-teamed without missing a beat.
They were a pair, these two, though a pair of what, Athos could not quite decide. Comedians certainly, their act was worthy of a stage production; duenna's definitely, this they had already proved; staunch supporters, though he could not fathom why.
He settled, ultimately, on a determined pair of friends, for there was no question anymore of their steadfastness.
"Perhaps I am too broken to fix," he said in that inflexion-less tone Aramis had grown to hate.
A long silence ensued, in which Aramis continued to turn sinew and bone to butter. "If you truly believe that," he said, finally, and with utter conviction, "then there is nothing we can do to help. But there is no inherent evil in you." It was a statement of fact, meant to close the door decisively on any thoughts in that direction.
Athos did not think himself inherently evil, just inherently incapable of turning from it when it showed up on his doorstep. Or in the market place. Or in his bed. "I cannot undo the wrong I have done."
"It is not given to us to change our past, only our future. And by the way? It's the church that tries to make you believe expiation is required, not God."
"You think you got a past?" Porthos leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. "Know anything about the Court of Miracles? That's where I grew up. There ain't any bit of thievin', killin', or whorin' I dunno about, and not jus' from watchin' it, either. None of us is lily white when it comes to it, but you can't move forward unless you're willin' to let go of that past."
"How?" Athos whispered. "How did you let go? How did you kill those ghosts?"
"By not lettin' 'em have any power over me," Porthos replied promptly. "I did what I had to do to survive and when I had the chance, I moved on."
A dry rustle that might have been a cough or a self-deprecating laugh rustled across the table top. "Survival had nothing to do with what I've done."
"You're dead wrong about that." Porthos pulled his parrying dagger and began to groom his fingernails as though there was nothing more to say on the subject.
Aramis squeezed the leather-clad shoulders once more before jerking another chair out with his foot. He sat and leaned forward so he was on eye-level with Athos. "Porthos is far smarter than anyone gives him credit for, even me sometimes. Trauma is not always physical, but it leaves its mark nonetheless. Trust me when I tell you that in my experience, the kind of trauma that leaves us unblemished on the outside takes far longer to heal than a bodily injury."
"I'm not following." Athos pulled out his comte stare, the one that usually had people shaking in their boots, though he already knew Aramis was immune to it. "Are you implying I am not culpable for my actions because of the state I've been in for the last two years?"
Aramis clasped his hands between his knees. "Are there orders out for your arrest in France, or any other country where you've been practicing your depredations for that matter?"
"No."
"Then who is judging your actions; who is calling you to account?"
In the right hands – or the wrong ones – silence could be a weapon. Occasionally silence spoke volumes. Sometimes it covered hurt; sometimes it was the entryway to ecstatic joy. Silence, outside of the religious experience, was rarely just silence for the sake of quiet.
This silence had a healing quality to it.
"It does not feel … right, somehow, to be forgiven without … reparation."
Aramis did not answer right away, letting the curative quiet unwind a bit further from its spindle. When he rolled it up and tucked away what was left, he laid a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Is that not the definition of grace, my friend?" He paused, but only to allow the affirmation time to sink a few roots into the mixed soil it was trying to penetrate. "None of us are worthy, but we are all worth some effort."
"What we wanna know now is," Porthos rasped, "are you gonna make it worth our effort, or are ya gonna continue to throw it back in our faces?"
Athos appreciated the honest approach. "That would make me a very poor sportsman."
"Yes, it would," Porthos agreed. "And I ain't seen anything resembling poor sportsmanship in ya either. So what's it gonna be?"
Aramis sat back.
Another long silence while they watched Athos' internal debate ripple through clenched muscles and trembling fingers.
"Do you want the whole story?"
"Nope, that ain't necessary either. All we want is a genuine commitment to the future, not some half-assed make believe attempt at it."
Aramis rose, his footsteps echoing across the bare wood floor, then turning back again. "To that end," he upended a sack on the table, shaking out a piece of dark brown leather entangled in a plethora of buckles and straps, and drew his chair up to the table, "we have a proposition for you."
He set to work untangling the various bits across the top of the table, so a buckled elbow guard decorated with a stylized fleur-de-lis surrounded by small studs was turned up, followed by a long strap attached to another buckle ornamented with silver conches, and finally, a layered piece of plate armor designed as much to announce one's allegiance as to provide protection for the shoulder not wielding a sword.
"Porthos and I debated laying it out on the table and having at it with our swords after we picked it up from the leatherman's shop. It looks a little too shiny, I know, but we expect it won't be long before it's as battered as ours." He studied the pauldron thoughtfully. "We'll have to take your coat back to the leatherman, too, and have him mortise a buckle into the shoulder."
Athos' fists dropped to the table. The pauldron was indeed gleaming, the leather buffed and polished to a high sheen. Where Aramis' fleur-de-lis had been burned directly into the leather and Porthos' cut out and affixed to the armor, this one had been fashioned on the shape of a shield so the piece was raised by the thickness of the leather. It was also in the image of the flower, complete with blossoms, that represented the monarchy of France. The leather around the sigil had been worked into stylized indentations and raised swirls evocative of sword grips.
Of their own accord, Athos' fingers reached to touch tentatively, then caress with a reverence Aramis considered ought to be reserved for the fairer sex.
"Tréville?"
"Says if you still want to pay for it, you can - the coffers are always empty - but that you've earned it and payment is not necessary." Aramis shared a quick look with Porthos since Athos had eyes only for the pauldron. "He's received permission from the king as well, though he had to tell him who you really are. If something were to happen to you and we couldn't prove who you were, your lands would go into escheat. Tréville thought you might want to pass them on to an offspring someday."
Athos said nothing to this. To deny a desire for an heir, something every nobleman strove to produce, was to open that can of worms Aramis had effectively closed last night. It was not a lack of trust in his two companions that held him back, rather, he did not trust himself yet, with the bitter truth, and so he kept his mouth shut.
"We did suggest to the captain that he ask the king to keep your identity confidential. But the king is a bit capricious." Porthos trotted out one of his much loved words, grinning bashfully. "Even if it gets back the garrison though, our people will keep their mouths shut."
"So …" Athos' gaze lifted, moving searchingly from Aramis to Porthos and back to Aramis. "I am … officially … a Musketeer?"
"Well – yes," Aramis hedged.
"You gotta kick the jug bitten habit before Tréville will take you on as a full Musketeer." Porthos had no time for subtlety, it was all or nothing, and nothing wasn't going to cut it in this situation. "We wanted you to know there's somethin' worth it, waitin' on the other side."
"You already know it won't be easy," Aramis said quietly. "But we also want you to know we will do whatever is necessary to get you through it. If that means holding the chamber pot while you puke, we'll be there. If it's changing sheets while you sweat it out, we'll do it. If it means guarding your dreams every night, Athos, we will be with you through whatever it takes."
"If you will let us."
"Well." Athos looked around at the empty shelves and cupboards, since he'd had nothing but alcohol on or in any of them. "It appears you have already set me on the path." He rose and reached down to the touch the bit of carved and molded leather representing a lifelong dream. "You two had this done?" Despite the inflection, it was not a question, since he knew the answer already. "I could not have chosen better if I'd had it made to my own design." When he looked up again, he did not lift his head. He met each gaze in turn, though, and let his silence speak volumes before he said simply, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Porthos said gruffly. He rose, caught Aramis' gaze and stepped away from the table, extending an arm to the center of the room.
Aramis rose immediately, stepped around the table and stretched an arm out too. "Come" he said, indicating Athos should join them with a tilt of his head. "Put your hand over Porthos'," he instructed, placing his own hand over Athos' when he had complied. "And by way of initiation, now that you are one of us, you should know the motto of the Musketeers …"
He waited for Porthos to intone solemnly, "All for one-"
"And one for all," Aramis and Porthos declaimed triumphantly.
"You should both be on the stage," Athos observed tartly, though he did not step back until both his brothers had dropped their hands.
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and setting belong to BBC America, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.
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