The world's more full of weeping than you can understand
Summary: Aramis can't recall how he got that scar on his head. He only knows because Porthos remembers the day very well. Athos, however, pretends to have forgotten; he can hardly bare to look at that scar because he knows, he hates, that he was the one to put it there. No slash. Adult themes - depression and alcoholism.
A/N: I won't be able to update often – I'm very busy with exams and revision and so on – and I thought posting this really short chapter would be better than nothing. I don't like this chapter at all, because I don't know where I'm going with this! Any help, advice etc would be greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: The Musketeers do not belong to me.
Porthos hesistated for less than a second after Aramis fell.
He shoved Athos out of the way – without a single care –and dropped hastily down beside his fallen, deathly still friend.
"Aramis."
His limbs felt heavy, his arm shook minutely and the blood rushed in his ears as he reached out, cupping Aramis' jaw in one hand to gently turn his face upwards towards the dingy light of the room.
"Porthos – is he –"
Porthos didn't acknowledge the quiet utterance of Athos, who clung precariously to an overturned table, the floor swaying beneath his feet.
Instead, he swallowed heavily, his chest heaving with each stuttered breath as he searched for his friends pulse.
It was there.
Strong, but slow.
The tavern had been overtaken by a startled, tense hush, but Porthos barely noticed.
All he could look at was Aramis.
The blood was oozing, pulsing from the two inch long cut near the centre of his forehead, just above his eyebrow. It was deep and jagged and Porthos nearly gagged at the sight of it because he knew that with head injuries, the damage lay inside.
"Porthos?"
Porthos realised that he hadn't removed his hand from Aramis' pale face – his other had settled upon his friend's chest just to feel the constant beat of his heart, a steady, reassuring rhythm – and he hadn't said a word.
"I – I need to get him out of here. It's too dark."
Porthos wasn't going to wait for a response from Athos, who was too drunk, too astounded, to do anything but sway and lose all the blood from his cheeks.
A vaguely familiar voice piped up from Porthos' left and a shadowy, hunched figure emerged from the corner.
It was Helene, an elderly woman he often saw in the market place buying meat.
He didn't ask what she was doing in one of the most notorious taverns in Paris.
"My house is just across the street – bring him there. I have a little medical training. I'm not Hippocrates, but my mother taught me when I was a little girl. She was a – "
Porthos didn't bother listening to the rest of Helene's small speech. Instead, as gently as he could, he raised Aramis up so the other man's head lulled onto his shoulder. Porthos hooked one arm under his best friend's legs, with the other looped behind his back, and then lifted Aramis up into the air.
Aramis' own arms fell uselessly over the sides, his head slipping from underneath Porthos' chin to hang limply backwards.
Porthos could feel the warm blood on his shirt.
Oddly enough, the sight of a burly, enraged Musketeers had everyone in the tavern darting to the side as the bigger man marched purposely through the room behind Helene.
A few moments later, when Porthos and Aramis were gone, Athos took a shaky step towards the door.
"You've done it now, friend," whispered a familiar drunkard, with a disgustingly yellow grin.
Athos glanced at the man, a cold, icy fire blazing in the depths of his eyes and he wanted to kill him, he wanted to blame someone else for what he'd done –
But he couldn't.
It was his fault.
If Aramis died at his hand, then Athos swore in that very moment, with every last shred of conviction and dignity he had, that he would continue living.
To die would be too blissful, it would be a release.
He deserved, and would embrace, every nightmare, every bleak and utterly pointless morning, and every damn second of torment.
And with that thought, Athos stumbled hastily from the tavern just in time to see the Helene's door slam in his face.
Without a sound, he dropped heavily onto his aching knees, his fingernails scratching against the door as he sought desperately for something to hold onto.
As the dampness of the rain soaked through the material of his clothes, and the moon continued its pale journey across the night sky, Athos waited.
He waited for hours, until the sun came up, and Porthos emerged from the house.