Entr'acte, part 4

Porthos finally managed to push his way through the crowd. d'Artagnan was doing his best to help, but between the fever, the anger even Porthos could feel around them, what he'd sensed from Athos and what he was still sensing from Aramis, he was all but unconscious. Father Maurice appeared on d'Artagnan's other side; Porthos didn't bother to glare, didn't even speak, just put d'Artagnan in his arms and went to Aramis.

Aramis was standing very still in the centre of the little circle. His pistol was still aimed squarely at the pyre, though Athos wasn't visible. Porthos devoutly hoped he'd fallen off of rather than into the pyre.

"Aramis, give me that." Aramis' gaze tracked towards him, but the pistol didn't waver. "I need it," Porthos tried again. "I'm going to get Athos and I need it."

Aramis looked slowly down at the weapon. Porthos cursed silently. Aramis hadn't moved this slowly since the bad days just after Savoy, when every movement seemed to take immense concentration. Porthos prayed to Aramis' God not to let his mind drift back there.

"Give it to me," he said again, and Aramis finally handed it over, eyes blank.

Christophe waved two of the men forwards. Porthos stopped them with a glare. "Touch him and you're dead," he said flatly, shoving the pistol into his belt and going around the pyre.

Athos was lying awkwardly half off the pyre. One boot was smouldering; Porthos dragged him down onto the ground, slapping his boot until it stopped smoking. Aramis' shot had gone in just above the temple and come out on the other side. Porthos considered for a moment before pulling off his bandana and arranging it as best he could over Athos' head.

Aramis was still standing when Porthos came back, but he went to his knees with a pained moan when Porthos laid Athos down. Behind him, d'Artagnan choked, leaning more heavily on Father Maurice.

"You happy?" Porthos demanded, looking at Marc. "Athos was trying to help you. He was trying to save your people."

"He was flouting Church Law!" Christophe shouted back. "He deserved it!"

"You know nothing about him," Porthos said coldly. To Marc, he added, "We're leaving now. We'll camp in the woods until d'Artagnan's better, until we're sure we don't have this. But we're leaving."

Christophe shook his head. He looked one step above madness now, eyes bright with fever. "No. You probably all have Abilities. You're not leaving."

"Try and stop us, little boy."

It sounded good, but if they attacked…d'Artagnan couldn't fight, and Porthos wasn't sure Aramis would come back from wherever his mind was right now in time to help.

"How're you feeling right now, Marc?" he asked. "Not sick yet? Good. I hope you don't get this. I hope you're still standing in a couple days when the Musketeers I sent for get here. I hope you're perfectly healthy when they try you for murdering Musketeers who put themselves at risk to help you."

"He admitted it," Marc snapped.

"Yeah. That makes it a Church matter, doesn't it? And your Father Maurice here was telling you to stop. So you broke Church Law."

"He didn't send for anyone," Christophe said impatiently. "He's been in the quarantine with us, and he doesn't know the woods well enough to get out."

"I broke your quarantine two hours after it went up. Walked out of here on the main road. We're Musketeers, not hired thugs."

"I have a suggestion," Father Maurice said abruptly. "I will lock them in the Cell. I'll question them most carefully to determine their guilt in this matter." He caught and held Porthos' gaze. "Will you consent to come peacefully, monsieur?"

Porthos stared at him, thoughts racing. Every church, no matter how small, had at least one Cell designed to hold those accused of having an Ability. They were made of some kind of stone the Church claimed suppressed Abilities, though Porthos had never met anyone who'd had any trouble using their Ability in a Cell. It might even help d'Artagnan and Aramis to be away from everyone right now.

But a Cell, in this village…Porthos glanced at the crowd, decided he didn't have much choice, and accepted as gracefully as he could. "We'll come. Let me talk to Aramis."

"You can't – " Christophe started.

"They are in my charge now," Father Maurice said warningly. "You've already broken Church Law once, Christophe."

Marc started to protest. Porthos tuned them out, kneeling beside Aramis. "Aramis? You with me?"

Aramis blinked, focusing slowly. "Porthos."

"Yeah. Can you walk? Don't look at Athos, Aramis, look at me."

Aramis dragged his gaze back. "Walk?"

"To the church. Father Maurice is going out on a limb for us. I can't manage you and Athos both, and I'm not leaving him here. So can you walk?"

"Yes. Walk, yes. Where's d'Artagnan?"

"Father Maurice has him. Up you get, Aramis."

Aramis stood, mostly under his own power, and he seemed steady enough, but he didn't move until Porthos nudged him towards Father Maurice.

"I can have someone bring him," Father Maurice offered when Porthos bent down for Athos.

"None of your people are laying another hand on him," Porthos said flatly. "Not one of them. Let's go."

The Cell was large enough for all of them to be relatively comfortable. Of course it was, Aramis thought grimly; it had to be big enough for the accused to be questioned without being let out.

"I'm sorry," Father Maurice said again, helping him to lay d'Artagnan down. He'd been apologising since they'd left the crowd behind. "It's the only way I could think of. They'd have killed you."

"It's fine," Porthos said, easing Athos down. He hadn't managed to untie his hands yet and it made Athos sprawl oddly.

"You can take him down to the crypt," Father Maurice offered. "I'll make sure no one touches him."

"He stays with us," Aramis said flatly, leaning over d'Artagnan to examine him.

Father Maurice hesitated. "I have to lock the door…"

"He stays with us," Aramis repeated without looking up.

"If they come in and find you're not locked in here, I won't be able to stop them…"

"Lock the door, Father," Porthos said impatiently. "He's staying with us."

Aramis glanced up, finally. "A little water before you leave us, if you would? d'Artagnan's really quite ill."

"I'll fetch it," Father Maurice promised, swinging the door closed. Aramis didn't watch him fumble with the key, turning back to d'Artagnan.

"He all right?" Porthos murmured, crouching beside them.

"Distressed more than ill, I think, but the fever isn't helping."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to do, now." Aramis brushed damp hair off d'Artagnan's forehead. "He's not really with us, right now."

Porthos eased back against the wall, sighing. "What happens now, Aramis?"

"Now we wait." He shrugged, still occupied with d'Artagnan. "I wasn't much help to you out there. I'm sorry."

Porthos shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We couldn't have fought back anyway. Not with Athos and d'Artagnan." He glanced at Aramis. "You know where you are?"

"Yes. I know where I am."

"It's like a shadow," d'Artagnan mumbled.

"Hmm?" Aramis leaned over him, watching as he blinked himself awake. "What's that?"

"Like a shadow." d'Artagnan reached up as though to brush something away from the space between Aramis' ear and shoulder. "It's always there but you don't always see it."

"What's always there?"

"Bodies in the snow." Guilt and grief rushed through Aramis, as familiar as breathing, and d'Artagnan flinched. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Aramis smiled faintly, pushing away the grief and guilt with the ease of long practise. "We are all what our lives have made us." He studied d'Artagnan for a moment. "Can you see it?" He shouldn't have been able to, but Aramis never bet against any of his brothers.

"No. It's like – like Cornet in the snow. Tastes like it – where are we?"

"Church. Father Maurice stepped up."

"Church," d'Artagnan echoed. Eyes widening, he added "Cell? Aramis, please…"

"We're safe," Aramis promised quickly. He'd forgotten d'Artagnan's deep rooted fear; from what he'd gathered, the priest in Lupiac had been zealous in his drive to rid the town of Abilities. d'Artagnan would have seen people he knew were innocent imprisoned, questioned and probably killed.

"We're safe," Porthos agreed. "We're just in here to keep Christophe and his guys off. We won't be here long."

d'Artagnan was looking past them. Aramis realised too late that he was actually looking, not drifting; he caught the boy's chin to redirect him, but he was too slow.

"How long will he be dead?" d'Artagnan murmured.

"Not sure. A while yet." Porthos shrugged. "We've not dealt with precisely this injury before."

"He'll wake."

Aramis ruthlessly refused to let himself feel any fear. "Why wouldn't he?" he said briskly. "Now let me bring your fever down. You'll feel better."

d'Artagnan shook his head, reaching to catch his wrist. "No."

"No?" Aramis repeated.

"You can't make me better enough to be able to fight. You just can't. And you can't make Porthos protect all of us. I'm all right."

He immediately proved himself wrong when he had to curl around a savage burst of coughs. Father Maurice arrived just as Aramis was getting worried, passing food, water and blankets through the bars.

"Christophe's been taken to the tavern," he reported. "I think I'll be able to get you out of here before too long. How's d'Artagnan?"

"He has influenza," Aramis said shortly. Father Maurice had done his best, but Aramis wasn't inclined to be polite to anyone in this village and certainly not from this side of the Cell's bars.

"Did you really send for help?" Father Maurice asked Porthos.

"Yesterday morning. With any luck the message has reached our captain. There'll be Musketeers on the way with supplies soon." Sooner, if Treville had Seen them, but he wasn't going to mention that.

"Good," Father Maurice murmured. "I have to go. They're burning the bodies and I have to be there."

"Don't let us keep you," Aramis said, leaning over d'Artagnan. He'd lost focus again, looking blindly somewhere past them.

Porthos pointedly said nothing, silence so loud it nearly deafened Aramis. He ignored it until he ran out of ways to help d'Artagnan; then he looked up with a sigh. "Yes?"

"He's doing his best."

"His best got Athos killed!" Aramis hissed.

"He didn't kill Athos. He didn't touch him. He was shouting for calm."

Aramis was very cold suddenly. "No. He didn't kill Athos."

Porthos cursed. "Aramis, you didn't…"

"Of course I did."

"You did right. I'd've done it, I'd been close enough."

"Athos is dead at my hands. What about this is right?"

"You spared him a lot of pain."

Aramis shook his head; he had to force the words past the lump in his throat. "What if this is it? He's never – what if this injury is –"

"If it is," Porthos said firmly, "you still did the right thing."

d'Artagnan stirred, plucking at his blanket for a moment before he realised what it was. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Porthos said. "We're just talking. Go back to sleep."

d'Artagnan shook his head absently. "Aramis…"

"Go back to sleep," Aramis echoed.

"Why are you afraid? Aramis, what's – why is –"

"Breathe," Aramis said warningly. d'Artagnan was struggling to sit up and Aramis got an arm under his shoulder to help. "Breathe," he said again. "It's all right."

"No, it's not, you're so – why, what's wrong?"

"It's just Aramis and his Downside theory again," Porthos told him. "Don't pay any attention."

d'Artagnan stared at him, still breathing too quickly. "What's the downside to Athos' Ability?" Porthos shook his head and d'Artagnan turned to Aramis. "What's the downside?"

"d'Artagnan, you need to rest."

"Why are you afraid?" d'Artagnan's voice was rising. "He's going to wake up! He always wakes up!"

"d'Artagnan, quiet," Porthos hissed. "Someone will hear you."

"He wakes," d'Artagnan said fiercely, and then bent double with a coughing fit that left him gasping and choking.

Porthos caught Aramis' eye, shaking his head. Aramis made a face, turning back to d'Artagnan as he calmed.

"I am always afraid when he's hurt," he said softly, "because I can't help him. Not with anything serious. I've tried, on occasion. It makes me ill and doesn't help him."

d'Artagnan stared at him. "He'll wake," he said softly, pleadingly.

"I have no reason to think he won't."

"Aramis…"

"Sleep," Aramis murmured. "We will talk about this when you wake. I promise."

d'Artagnan was too worn out to argue much; Aramis got him back to sleep without having to resort to his Ability. Porthos sat in silence, watching him.

"Don't start," Aramis warned him.

"Wasn't going to. I was just going to say, you should get some rest too. I can sit up for a while. How is it in here?"

"It's far enough from the tavern I don't feel anything. I can feel d'Artagnan, though." Aramis settled on the other side of the Cell, wrapping a blanket around himself. "Wake me if he gets any worse; I'll have to Heal him anyway if he does."

"Will do," Porthos agreed. "Get some rest, Aramis."

Aramis nodded, sighing, and let himself relax. d'Artagnan's illness was a constant itch at the edge of his mind, but he could ignore it with a little effort. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift into a doze.

d'Artagnan forced himself awake, panting harshly. Athos' death had dragged him halfway to the dark place and he could still feel it hovering when he closed his eyes.

Porthos touched his shoulder; d'Artagnan reached up to grip his hand, trying desperately to calm himself down. "Breathe," Porthos coached him. "You're fine; everything's fine."

"Water?" d'Artagnan asked when he could. Porthos hooked the water skin without letting go of him, helping him to sit up and drink.

"How're you feeling?" Porthos asked when he pushed the skin away.

"Tired. Hot. Sore." d'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face. "Why is Aramis afraid?"

"Should talk to Aramis about that."

"Porthos. Please, it's – I can't separate it if I don't understand it. I need you two, I need shields, I can't…"

"Breathe," Porthos said warningly, dragging him up and propping him against his own chest. d'Artagnan closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying to match the steady rhythm against his back. The dark place was pulling at him, trying to drag him back down, and it took everything he had to resist it.

"Aramis has that Downside theory," Porthos said after a few minutes. d'Artagnan kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the rumble he could feel through his back, focusing on the conversation itself as a barrier against that dark place. "He thinks that every Ability has a Downside."

"You think that?"

"This's about him, not me. His is feeling all that pain even when he can't do anything about it; he says it doesn't hurt him, but I know it upsets him. Yours, well, we don't have to talk about that – I can go anywhere I want, 'long as I don't mind being a ghost, ignored, not really there."

"And Athos?"

Porthos sighed. "We don't know for sure how Athos' Ability works. Aramis has two theories. One is, he can Heal a certain number of times and that's it. So every time something happens, Aramis is afraid he won't Heal this time. Especially an injury like this; even if he was someone else, Aramis couldn't've helped."

d'Artagnan shuddered at the thought. "The other?"

"The other is he'll keep Healing forever. Long after we're gone."

d'Artagnan thought about that for just a moment before pushing the thought away. "But he doesn't know."

"No. He doesn't know. Athos doesn't, either, but it doesn't scare him. Least, the first one doesn't scare him."

d'Artagnan shuddered again. "Maybe he'll live to old age and then die. We don't know."

"We don't know," Porthos agreed. "And if he dies proper today because Aramis didn't want him to burn, I think Athos'd be happy enough with that."

"Is that why Aramis feels so guilty? I thought – it feels like Savoy in his head."

"Yeah. That's why he's guilty. Can't accept that a shot to the head's better than burning alive any day."

d'Artagnan reached for the water skin, taking several more sips. "How long have we been here?"

"Hard to say. Half a day, maybe. How're you doing? I can't imagine somewhere like this is easy for you."

d'Artagnan shook his head. "Normally, no, but this one – no one's been really afraid in here for a long time. I don't think we're the first people Father Maurice has protected like this." He brushed a hand over the floor, letting himself skim back until the traces grew too weak to follow. Six months at least; he could go further back if he knew the person who'd left the trace, but six months was enough for him. Six months, and no real fear. No terror.

"You ever known one of these Cells to work?" Porthos asked absently.

"Yes," d'Artagnan said distantly. "I've known one to work." That was not something he wanted to think about now, with the dark place so close he could feel it.

Porthos squeezed his shoulder gently, apologetically. "You should get some sleep."

"No!"

d'Artagnan grimaced, waiting until he was sure he wouldn't shout again to repeat "No. No sleeping."

"Why not?"

Aramis stirred, pulled awake by some combination of the noise and d'Artagnan's illness. "What's wrong?" he asked before his eyes were even open.

"He doesn't want to sleep," Porthos reported.

Aramis frowned, coming to touch d'Artagnan's jaw to lift his face. "What's wrong?"

d'Artagnan lowered his eyes, since he couldn't actually look away. Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks over his head before Aramis said quietly "You need to rest, d'Artagnan. Your fever's starting to rise again, I can feel it already."

"No," d'Artagnan insisted.

"You won't be able to move when we need to."

d'Artagnan thumped the floor a couple of times, trying to focus. "The place," he managed finally.

"What place?" Aramis was still touching his throat.

"The dark place. Aramis…"

Aramis studied him. "You're not there."

"I'll fall. Please – it's there, it's waiting, I can feel it. You promised, you gave me your word."

"I did," Aramis agreed. "All right. If you're staying awake, though, you need to eat something, and you need to let me help with your pain."

"Yes," d'Artagnan agreed quickly. If Aramis had told him to walk on his hands he'd have done his best.

"Good." Aramis' fingers flexed against his throat and d'Artagnan felt energy flowing into him, pushing the dark place away a little and making it easier to concentrate.

Porthos cleared his throat; Aramis barely looked at him. "d'Artagnan will explain later. Can you get him something to eat, please?" Porthos sighed, going to obey, and Aramis muttered "You'll have to tell him."

"Should have anyway," d'Artagnan mumbled. "Thank you."

"Mmm. Eat, and tell me when the pain starts up again."

"Will. Thank you."