Disclaimer: not my characters.

Summary: April of 1625 had been one of the hardest months of Porthos' life. But in a strange way, it had probably been one of the best as well.

Savoy-centric origin story, in which Aramis is grieving, Porthos is a saint, and Athos just kind of shows up, eventually.

Winter, Late in Leaving

Chapter Three [tw: blood, but only a tiny bit]

Porthos was absolutely ravenous when he awoke. He hadn't eaten in nearly a day, and last night he'd expelled, quite violently, what little had still been in him then. Despite this, he pushed himself up slowly. The principle reason was the terrible stiffness he'd acquired from sleeping on the floor- he was out of practice, accustomed now to a bed or at least a bedroll on grass. But, apart from his aches, he found himself more than a little hesitant to face the day as well.

The immediate danger seemed to have passed; he'd gotten Aramis to Belley and had a surgeon see to him. But today's task was in a way more daunting. What was there to say in the wake of a tragedy such as this one? Not to mention that they hardly knew one another. What, exactly, was one supposed to do when a man had been through what Aramis had been through?

Porthos shook his head. Lying on the floor, he reminded himself, was doing precisely nothing and helping precisely nobody. Grunting, he pushed himself to his feet and glanced over at Aramis.

Aramis' eyes were open.

"Oh! Salut," Porthos greeted, hoping that he sounded less startled than he was. Aramis's face was blank, as though still asleep, and with the eyes open he looked unfortunately- dead. Only his moving chest said otherwise.

"When did you wake up?"

No response.

"How's your head feelin'?"

No response. Maybe yes-or-no questions were a better idea? Porthos searched for one, and suddenly his own bladder reminded him of what it should be.

"Do you, eh, need the bed pan?"

Nothing happened at first, but then Aramis shook his head.

The dizzy relief of an actual reply was quickly overwhelmed by its content; if Aramis did not need the pan, two things were possible. Either he had soiled the bed, which would do nothing for his morale, or he was dehydrated, and badly. There was no smell of urine, so Porthos suspected the latter.

"You need to drink something. I'll be right back-"

"Please," Aramis rasped; his eyes moved at last, locking onto Porthos'. "Please," he said again.

"Yeah, I'm goin' right now. Do you think you could eat something, too?"

Aramis' face crumpled. "Hey," Porthos exclaimed, and all at once he found himself perched beside the man on the narrow bed. "'s all right. It's all right. You don't have to eat just yet. But you do need to drink some water, mon ami."

Aramis shivered, and shook his head almost violently. "Please. Don't leave me alone," he said hoarsely.

Oh.

"All right," Porthos consented. He was hungrier than he'd been in ages, and his bladder was fit to burst; but it was as Treville had told them, all those long hours ago. Aramis was the priority. "Eh, are you warm now?" Aramis nodded. "I'll take the skins off you, then?" Another nod. "All right."

Aramis shivered as Porthos folded the blankets back and quickly removed the cooled skins from his body. Then he put a hand to his arm to test his temperature. If anything, he was a bit hot now, and Porthos prayed that this was from the excess of blankets and not an impending fever. He replaced the blankets and smoothed them down.

Aramis closed his eyes again, but clearly remained awake; there was little for Porthos to do but sit fretfully at his side.

It was no small mercy when the door cracked open, and Cagnatto shuffled sleepily inside. "Buongiorno, figlio," he called, coming to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

When Aramis didn't reply, Porthos answered for him. "He woke up and he was talkin' a little. He hasn't said much, though."

"I was asking after you," the surgeon corrected, pointing a finger at Porthos, and Porthos nearly laughed in relief.

"I'm all right." Could do with a trip to the washroom and the restaurant, he wanted to add, but Aramis didn't need to know that. Didn't need to feel badly about it.

But Cagnatto, it seemed, could tell. "I would like a few minutes with Aramis," he said, turning to his patient. "Do you think you could leave us? Not for long, I assure you."

"Yeah. That's fine. Eh, Aramis," he added, knowing he should, "that all right?"

"Yes." Aramis opened his eyes.

"I'll be back soon," Porthos promised, and left.

He relieved himself and washed his face, pausing for a moment by the basin to simply breathe. His mind was buzzing with thoughts like flies. He splashed himself with water again before leaving, just because he could.

In the restaurant, Marie was busy with her other guests. Nevertheless, she took a moment to ask after Aramis, and then, a bit more subtly, after Porthos himself. Porthos hoped he wasn't flushing. He knew that his dramatic exit from the inn could not have been overlooked last night, and in the morning light it was more embarrassing than it had been at the time. He was fine, he assured her. He didn't quite know what to say about Aramis, and so simply reported that he was awake and had spoken, and that he hoped to get him to drink and eat.

"You first," Marie said pointedly. Porthos could hardly argue when she told him to sit and returned to him a few minutes later with a plate of meats, cheese, and breads. Porthos briefly wondered how they were going to pay for such hospitality. But he was worrying about enough at the moment to add anything else, and so decided to leave that issue to Treville.

He fairly well polished off the plate. His had never been an appetite dampened by grief, unlike many others'; in fact, it was a comfort to focus on something as familiar as food. Porthos felt worlds stronger after his meal. He went to the stable to retrieve the satchels that he hadn't bothered with the night before, and took a moment to glance around the street. Snow was fresh on the cobbles, but was no longer falling.

Back in the room, someone had drawn Aramis a bath and brought him a towel; he was sitting a bit awkwardly in the water. Cagnatto was in a chair beside the tub, but facing away.

"Ah, good," the surgeon remarked, as Porthos entered. "I am sure your friend will be more comfortable with you than with me. I have checked him for other wounds and found nothing serious. There is fever, but it is light and should not cause trouble. Everything's going well, but send for me if you need." He clapped his hand on Porthos' shoulder as he left.

Staring up at him from a curtain of wet hair, Aramis shrugged haplessly. Though he seemed more aware than he had this morning, there was still an air of misery about him. Naked now, his body displayed its abuse much more clearly. His arms and chest bore a legion of small cuts, some of them bleeding freshly after having been cleaned, and he sunk into himself with the gauntness of sudden weight loss. His head was unbandaged. Try as he might, Porthos could not remember if it had been so since Cagnatto's first visit; in any case, the stitched wound was visible now, surrounded by a patch of mangled hair.

"How are you feelin'?" Porthos asked carefully.

"All right." Aramis voice was gravelly but did not shake. "My stomach still aches, but my head is better."

"Do you have clean clothes to put on when you get out?"

"Mm. Treville gave me some. But do you have a mirror?

"I should, why?"

Aramis gestured to the destroyed section of his bangs. "I'd like to cut my hair. Signore Cagnatto lent me his scissors."

"Mm. Least he could do, since it's him who ruined it," Porthos teased. To his delight, Aramis smiled in return.

Porthos located the shaving kit in his satchel, removed the mirror, and handed it to Aramis.

It was possibly unwise. The mirror shook in his fingers as he stared at his reflection with wide eyes. Aramis was captivated, and disgusted. It must have been the first time since the massacre that he'd seen himself, Porthos realized.

"There's- blood. In my beard."

"It's not that bad," Porthos soothed.

"It's dried in it," Aramis squeaked, and he dropped the mirror to scrub at his face with frantic hands. It splashed dully in the water.

"Hey," Porthos said, coming to his side. He tugged Aramis' hands away, gently. "Just- shave it, yeah? While you're at it?" Porthos suggested. Aramis said nothing, still breathing hard. "It won't take long to grow back," Porthos reassured him. "Eh, how long have you worn a beard?"

"Sixteen or seventeen," Aramis replied quietly.

"Seventeen years?" Porthos teased, feigning shock. "Precocious, were you?"

It was possibly the least funny joke ever, but Aramis gave another little smile and clarified, "I've worn a beard since I was sixteen or seventeen years old."

"Hm. Well, you'll have it back soon enough. Yeah?"

Aramis nodded dutifully. He fished out the mirror and out held it up to Porthos, who dried it on his trousers before positioning it at eye level. He passed Aramis the blade from his kit. Moving slowly, deliberately, Aramis brought it to his damp skin and pressed down.

His hand trembled; the blade slipped. Fresh blood trickled down his jaw, made abundant by the water on his skin. Aramis swore. Unexpectedly queasy at the little cut, Porthos put down the mirror and reached up to steady Aramis' hand with his own.

"Don't you dare fucking offer to do it for me," Aramis hissed, pushing Porthos away. The venom in his voice was sudden, and it stung. Porthos had done nothing but try his hardest, and though he knew Aramis was understandably raw in his reactions, he couldn't help but grow angry in kind.

"All right. Bleed yourself again, if that's what you'd prefer!" Porthos bit the inside of his cheek and made himself settle down before continuing. "But you've got to let me do your hair for you. Man can't cut his own hair right on the best of days. Fair?"

Aramis eyed him slowly. "Have you ever even cut hair before?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," Porthos replied. And he had- had done it for his friends back at the Court all the time. "I've even done hair like yours."

"Like mine?"

"Smooth," Porthos clarified. All at once he was tired, and couldn't remember if he was trying to prod at Aramis' nerves or not. "Eh, silky."

"Ah. All right."

Porthos picked the mirror back up, but Aramis' hand sat limply below the water, blade neglected. An uncomfortable silence descended.

"I apologize," Aramis said at last. "I should not have been short with you, mon ami. You've been-"

"It's all right," Porthos interrupted, when Aramis' voice began to quiver. "I've had worse done to me than a bit of shortness. Trust me."

"I do trust you," Aramis murmured. "And perhaps- perhaps you could help me with this. If the offer still stands." He held out the blade, hand shaking even worse than before.

Not wanting to make too much of it, Porthos took the blade, knelt beside the tub, and set wordlessly to work.

But Aramis' trembling did not lessen once his task was relegated. In fact, it only grew worse, spreading up his arms, taking over his shoulders; Porthos raced to finish shaving him before the tremors grew too violent to continue. Once he finished, he switched the blade for scissors. Working out from where Cagnatto had begun, he evened the length of Aramis' hair, keeping it as long as possible- which wasn't much past his ears. Even the sections that the surgeon had not hacked into were tangled beyond belief. Aramis' hair had always been long, one of the most notable things about him, and Porthos prayed that the sudden change wouldn't prove yet another source of upset.

But Porthos had no time to assess that, not even to check if he'd cut it well. The moment he took his hands away from Aramis, the man gave a massive shudder, and then at once the trembling overtook his entire body. He hunched instinctively lower into the still-warm water.

"Cold?" Porthos asked. He hoped it was a safe enough question to ask. Aramis thought about it, then nodded. "Let's get you out of the tub." Aramis nodded again and, with blessedly little fuss, allowed Porthos to help him climb out, towel off, and dress.

But when they were finished, he was still shivering violently. "F-fuck," Aramis stammered, wrapping his arms around himself.

"You're still—"

"I know. I just d-don't know why. 'm not c-cold. Not badly, anyway. How does m-my hair look?"

Porthos snorted out a nervous burst of laughter. "Looks fine wet, but I think it's gonna stick out a bit when it dries. How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-f-four."

"Twenty-four? You look eighteen, if that. I see why you wore the beard."

"Wonderf-ful."

"I'll dry it better," Porthos said firmly. "Maybe that'll warm you up too." He pushed Aramis into Cagnatto's abandoned chair, then seized the towel and worked it against Aramis' head, mindful of the healing wound at his temple. Aramis's hair curled as it dried, and the shivering quieted. Satisfied, Porthos took his hands away- and the shivering promptly began again.

So that was what Aramis needed, in the end: touch. Human contact. Casting aside the towel, Porthos brought his hands back to Aramis' body, rubbing his shoulders, stroking through his freshly-shorn hair. Aramis didn't question it, and Porthos was glad for that. It saved him from coming up with a practical reason why he should be petting a grown man like a cat.

He wasn't sure how long he kept at it. But as time passed, tension seeped out of Aramis' muscles and he slumped down into his seat. In fact, Porthos began to wonder if he was falling asleep.

"Hey, you awake?" There was no response. Careful to keep a hand on Aramis' shoulder, he stepped to the front of the chair.

Aramis' eyes were locked on the floor; tears came steadily down his cheeks. This was not the childish weeping he'd succumb to on the journey to Belley, barely coherent and only half aware of his actions. This was a soldier's grief, quiet and profound.

Porthos pulled away. "Do you want me to give you a minute alone?"

Aramis snorted a laugh. "Frankly, no." With no beard to block them, the tears slipped right off his chin, soaking into his shirt, dropping into his lap.

Porthos crouched before Aramis, hands on the man's knees. "Do you wanna tell me about it?"

"What's there to say?"

"Look," Porthos began, heart pounding. "I've no idea what it was like. I really, truly don't. But if you want someone else to know- you could try tellin' me."

"You couldn't know. Not unless you were there."

Porthos bit back a sigh. "Fair enough," he consented.

"It's not even in my head.," Aramis murmured. "It's not even a memory. It's in my eyes, like it's burned there. Like when you look away from a candle flame." He laid his hands on top of Porthos'. "Six or seven of us were dead before we even knew what was happening. We were asleep. I was asleep. I woke when Bernard started screaming. And it was dark. Enough to see the sparks when we fired. The moon was just past full, but the clouds covered it.

"We fought like dogs. I even wounded their leader. Then one of them got me with the butt of his musket. I don't know how Marsac found me, but he did, and he dragged me away from the clearing. We waited for the sun to rise. But when it did- when we could see again- I think it drove him mad. He cast off his pauldron. And he left me. He left me there. My best fucking friend. He left me there-"

Porthos opened his arms; Aramis pitched forward and tucked up against Porthos' chest like it was the only safe place left under the heavens.

And Porthos held him. Held him as tightly as he could, while his tears ran their course.

We know from flashbacks in The Good Soldier that Aramis' hair was much longer at Savoy than it is in series' present time. Therefore, even though cutting it to his ears wouldn't be too much shorter than we're used to it being, it would be a dramatic change within the context of the story. It's my headcanon that Aramis has kept it short(er) ever since Savoy.

The moon was, indeed, a few days past full on March 28, 1625. Yay research! Although I don't know if it was actually very cloudy or not.

Thanks once again for all your kind comments :)

French

salut = hi

mon ami = my friend

Italian

Buongiorno, figlio. = Good morning, son.

signore = mister