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 Five

It was just before sunset that evening when Treville joined them; they were sitting in the restaurant, rabbit stew before them. Aramis rushed to his captain's side. He was eager as a child whose father had come home from war, and likewise Treville embraced him as a son.

There were tears on Aramis' cheeks when they pulled apart. He wiped them quickly and smiled as he led Treville to their table. The captain shook Porthos' hand warmly before settling down.

"Before I say anything else," Treville began. "Aramis, how's your head?"

"It's healing. There's a surgeon here, an Italian. He's looked after it."

"Good. How are you otherwise?"

Aramis nodded forcefully. "I'm well. I'm doing well."

"And you, Porthos?"

"I'm well. I'm fine."

Treville's smiled widened. "You're a pair, you know that? Pair of liars."

"Probably only half liars, sir," Porthos replied, and Aramis chuckled.

Marie brought them a bottle of wine; Porthos and Aramis could not force her and Treville to engage each other in front of an audience, though they tried for a good while. But slowly, the levity fell away and Aramis grew visibly anxious.

"What did you find out?" he asked at last.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you find out who attacked us?"

"Not specifically," Treville admitted, and Aramis frowned.

"Not specifically?"

"There are reports of Spanish raiders in the area. Everyone I could speak to confirms it. But Aramis, we can't know more than that."

"That's not very helpful!"

"What would you like me to do?" Treville snapped. "There's no way of knowing which group of Spanish attacked you, and even if there were there's no way of tracking them down. We have no names. We have no details. Savoy was a tragedy but it's a damn poor retaliation plan to go around killing every Spaniard we see."

Aramis huffed, effectively dissuaded. He stared crossly at his hands. "This aggression, between France and Spain- it's pointless." He drew a deep breath. "I'm half of Spanish blood, from my mother. As will be the next king, in case the country has forgotten."

"There are many who share your sentiments, Aramis." Treville's face had softened. "But it's much more than that."

"I'm aware."

Treville considered his musketeer for a long moment; Porthos watched his eyes scan Aramis' injured temple, his stripped-down civilian dress. "Are you ready to ride for Paris tomorrow?"

"Yes," Aramis said quietly.

"Porthos?"

"Ready when you are."

"First light then?"

"All right," Aramis said, and Porthos nearly agreed. Then, in a flash, he remembered what day it was, remembered Aramis' words: did I miss Easter?

"Actually, Captain," he began, politely, "eh, it's Sunday tomorrow. I was hoping we could stay in Belley long enough for Mass?"

Treville frowned. "Didn't think you were much of a church-goer. I assumed Easter was the exception."

"Can't say I make it every week, but there's- a lot to pray about now, isn't there?"

"Mm. I suppose I wouldn't argue with sleeping past dawn. After Mass, then." If Treville saw through Porthos' fib, he still pushed it no further.

Aramis' face, though, made it perfectly clear that he understood Porthos' intentions. He smiled gratefully when Treville looked away. Of course, now Porthos had committed himself to Mass two weeks in a row- probably for the first time ever- but that smile, that gratitude, was more than worth it.

The next morning, they rose early. Wanting to leave right after Mass, they tidied their things beforehand, and Aramis groomed himself neatly. With a clean and freshly-shaven face, he trailed Porthos to the cathedral.

Though Belley had proven a small and sleepy town, its cathedral was massive; it pointed up to the heavens with grace and determination. Porthos and Aramis joined the townspeople as the bells rang. It was Low Sunday; the mood was relaxing from the solemnity of last week's holiday. But for Aramis, Porthos reminded himself, this was Easter. It was the Mass he had missed out on, freezing alone on the border of Savoy; and it was a reawakening too. Porthos watched him openly as the service progressed. Aramis' eyes were filled with tears, but his face was raised up, bright and fierce and hopeful.

Back at the inn, Cagnatto returned to assess Aramis' condition. When he declared him fever-free and healing well, Porthos lunged at the surgeon and pulled him in for a massive hug. Cagnatto laughed indulgently and returned it with surprising force. "You are a good man, figlio. A good friend to him," he whispered in Porthos' ear, and Porthos' heart swelled.

When they let go, Aramis stepped forward to embrace Cagnatto in turn. Then, to the surprise of both his listeners, he thanked the surgeon at length in slightly clumsy Italian. This earned him a delighted grin. "Sarete bene, bambino," Cagnatto assured him, rubbing a hand down his arm. "You will be just fine."

"Grazie." Aramis' voice was thick; they hugged again.

Once Cagnatto had left, Porthos and Aramis gathered their things. In the restaurant, Aramis kicked Porthos' foot and wagged his eyebrows as Treville favored Marie with a goodbye kiss.

They departed before midday. As before, they rode without cloaks or pauldrons, "at least for the first day," Treville insisted. But the journey was uneventful. They made their way slowly, stopping often to rest, but Aramis seemed cheerful and not even terribly tired. Though they found an inn for the first night, he insisted that he was fit to camp the second.

It was a well-intentioned decision, but regretfully premature. Aramis curled up by the fire peacefully, with no visible anxiety; inside of an hour, though, he was thrashing, whimpering- gasping himself awake. Porthos crawled quietly to his side. Shushing patiently, wordlessly, he pulled Aramis into his lap and ran his fingers through the man's sweaty hair.

"F-fucking forests," Aramis stuttered, face half-hidden against Porthos' chest. "I r-really used to like them."

"You'll like 'em again," Porthos whispered back. "When you wake up in the morning and see that everything's all right."

"Mm. When I wake up," Aramis breathed.

But Porthos was fairly sure, though they stopped talking then, that Aramis never went back to sleep. He certainly didn't. And when Treville asked over breakfast why he hadn't been woken for the second watch, Porthos was too exhausted to think of a clever story. He only shrugged, and the captain left it alone.

That day, the journey seemed endless. Tomorrow they'd reach Paris, but tomorrow might as well have been next year for all the comfort that gave them. Porthos half-slumped in his saddle. Aramis' eyes drooped with exhaustion, but he sat stiffly at alert.

"We've ridden far enough today," Treville said, as they came upon an inn. There were hours of sunlight left, and Porthos was deeply grateful for the captain's intuition. The gratitude only increased as Treville booked two rooms, one for himself and one for Porthos and Aramis. Then he sent Aramis to bed, as he and Porthos saw to the horses.

Porthos was looking forward to turning in early, in the safety and warmth of an actual bed. He opened the door of his shared room eagerly, wondering if Aramis had already gone to sleep.

He had not. Aramis stood, arms crossed, in front of the fire; its light reflected off the tears on his cheeks.

"Hey," Porthos said quietly, shutting the door behind him. "This time tomorrow, you'll be home. That's something, right? I can't wait to see my own apartment."

Aramis nodded obediently. But in the next breath, he began to weep in earnest. "I'm sorry," he bleated. He brought up both hands to cover his crumpling face and stood there, like a child, ashamed and afraid of his own broken heart.

"Hey," Porthos breathed out. He went to the man's side and gathered him up against his chest, where he had come to fit quite naturally. "What'd I tell you about apologizin'?" After a moment's hesitation, Aramis gave a little moan, then uncovered his face; Porthos stood silently as Aramis sobbed against his shoulder.

"I am sorry, though," Aramis rasped, after he'd calmed himself down. "I'm sorry for doing this all the fucking time. You're going to get tired of me doing this to you, Porthos."

"Don't fret," Porthos soothed. "It's all right."

"No. I try to be calm. And I am, for a while." Aramis shivered. "Then it all rushes back over me and I find I'm weeping before I can stop myself-"

"It's all right-"

"It's not all right!" Porthos thought that Aramis might pull away; instead he pushed even closer, shouting hoarsely against Porthos' jacket. "It's not decent of me! We'll be back tomorrow, and I need to just get over it because sooner or later you and the captain are going to get tired of me and leave-"

"No."

And something in that one syllable was enough to stop Aramis' mouth. He moved back just enough to glance up at Porthos' face.

"'m not gonna get tired of you," Porthos continued, a swell of emotion rising up in his chest as he spoke the words that felt like an oath. "'n I'm definitely not gonna leave. I only wish I knew how to help you."

There was a long moment in which neither spoke; Porthos stared evenly down at Aramis and Aramis held the gaze with an unexpected steadiness of his own. "You're a genuinely decent human being, have I ever told you that?" Aramis remarked at last. His voice was hoarse but the tears themselves were briefly forgotten. "I'll put you up for a sainthood if I manage to outlive you."

"Mm. Patron of the Court, or Patron of everyone who's got a card up his sleeve?"

"Don't be such a cynic. You wear a medallion, after all." And then, with fingers like a lightning flash, Aramis snatched the necklace out from under Porthos' collar.

He stared at it with fascination, and laughed brokenly. "Jude. Patron saint of lost causes. You're my Jude, all right, mon ami."

Porthos' breath caught, forgotten beneath the swell of affection that rose up in him. "Nah. You're not a lost cause, Aramis," he promised, solemnly, earnestly. "And I'm not your patron. I'm just your friend."

Aramis seemed to consider that deeply; he went still, fingertips white where he gripped the medallion. Then fresh tears swelled up in his eyes.

"Stick around once we're back in Paris, and I might almost believe you," he murmured.

Porthos began to breathe again; it came out as a laugh. "I'll stick around," he swore, pulling the man to him once again. "Course I will, frère."

It was a promise he had ample opportunities to keep: back in Paris, though he had been ordered to stay home, Aramis stuck close to Porthos as often as he could. As before, his mood varied: sometimes he was talkative, cheerful; sometimes he wept. Sometimes he sat silently. Treville still seemed to see Porthos as the best medicine for Aramis. He gave Porthos menial, garrison-based tasks so that he could remain with his healing friend.

And Porthos did, true to his word.

But in reality, it wasn't a hard promise to keep. Their friendship had not begun under typical circumstances, perhaps, but Porthos genuinely enjoyed the man's company. Aramis was sincere and thoughtful, and more than a little devilish to boot. Moreover, he was a man who returned friendship, deeply- and was willing to prove it.

He got his chance before long. They'd been in Paris nearly two weeks when Porthos finally broke down.

There was nothing special about the day itself. It wasn't an anniversary; it wasn't a birthday. He hadn't even dreamt of Savoy. Nothing specific happened that sparked his memory; grief simply overtook him, at last.

It built steadily all day, waiting for him around corners and in shadows; tears swelled up during roll call, during lunchtime. As he practiced his marksmanship. As he polished his musket. Aramis asked after him; he brushed the question aside, fearful of what would happen if he let himself answer. By the time the afternoon chill was settling, it was all Porthos could do to hold the grief at bay.

He excused himself to no one, simply left. Porthos stumbled back to his apartment, slammed the door behind himself, and burst into tears. He punched the wall. He kicked the wardrobe. Then he sat down at the table, put his head in his arms, and sobbed.

He was far from finished when the door rattled and began to open. Porthos frowned up at it. He couldn't bring himself to care that he'd forgotten to lock it, nor bring himself to worry about who might be entering. All he cared about- all he knew- was the grief. He waited, eyes on the door.

Aramis opened it only halfway, slipped in, and shut it quietly behind himself. He stopped just inside the room, eyes to the ground. "Salut," he mumbled.

"Salut," Porthos replied quietly. "Eh, come in."

"I didn't know if you'd appreciate the intrusion."

"You ain't an intrusion."

"It seemed as though you wanted privacy."

It was all so fucking Aramis that tears began to fall again, double-time. "Thought I did," Porthos choked out. But I was wrong. "Were you gonna stand there all night?" Please stop fretting and come hug me already.

Aramis looked up at last, and the wave of comfort that washed over Porthos was stronger than he'd ever have expected. "What happened today?"

"Dunno," Porthos sighed. "'m just not havin' a good day." He chuckled; it was wet, weak.

Aramis pulled away from the door, and came to Porthos' side. "There doesn't have to be a reason, frère. It's all right." His hand cupped against the back of Porthos' head, guided it to rest against his stomach. "I'm with you now," he murmured, "grieve as you need to."

So Porthos did.

Aramis' presence tempered his weeping. The tears were slow and placid this time, drawing only the barest of hitches from his lungs, bringing only the slightest of tremors to his hands. They soaked into Aramis' shirtfront as the sun receded slowly behind the curtains. Aramis didn't leave his side until the room was almost too dark to see; even then he only pulled away long enough to light some candles. He returned with a cup of water, made Porthos drink it. Then he pulled the other chair up, cast an arm around Porthos' back, and sat patiently as his friend wept once more.

"They were my friends," Porthos sniffed at last. His cheek was against Aramis' shoulder, and as he spoke Aramis pressed their heads together. "It's just- god. 's not the first time I've lost someone, but- everyone at once. It's like I can't- I can't sort through it, y'know?"

"I didn't know any of them well," Aramis mused. "I didn't get to know anyone else when- when Marsac was around." He snorted. "As you know." He reached over and wrapped his fingers around Porthos' own. "Will you tell me about them?" Porthos smiled, squeezing Aramis' hand.

He talked for as long as he could manage. They were random memories, no order to them, no running theme except the friendship he'd shared with the fallen men.

There was Vincent, sitting next to him his first night in the garrison. Striking up a conversation about which alloy was best for swords, so casual and trivial it seemed as though they'd known each other for years.

There was Phillipe. Taunting a group of Red Guards together, nearly staring a duel but somehow playing a game of two-on-two chess instead. They'd never worked that one out.

Alain, who excelled in producing funny little sketches of his fellow musketeers. Posing for one like a wealthy comtesse. Hanging the finished product in the armory.

Reading with Georges. Helping him with the longer words, sympathizing with his struggle all too well.

Losing a bet to Eric-Pierre. Striding through the garrison in nothing but his cloak.

Measuring his height against Big Jules'. Winning.

Racing Thierry on some unimportant patrol. Losing. Laughing.

Sparring with Pascal. Correcting his hand placement. Drinking with Bernard. Carrying him home.

Porthos didn't remember stopping, only waking up sometime later. He was warm in his bed; Aramis dozed on the floor beside him, cheek propped awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. "Hey," Porthos grunted, swatting at his head. "Don't be a martyr, come up here." Aramis mumbled wordlessly and obeyed, climbing into the bed beside Porthos and dropping off to sleep the moment he had settled down.

It was unexpected: so deep a love after so deep a loneliness. Porthos couldn't help casting his arm around Aramis, nor bending his neck so that their heads rested together.

Sleep came easily. Aramis would keep him safe, and he'd do the same for Aramis.

The sun had risen when Porthos woke next. He was on his stomach; Aramis had pushed him halfway out of the bed and was now resting contentedly on his side with Porthos' arm still around his waist. The man was snoring a bit, completely asleep.

They were clearly going to be late for roll call, but Porthos felt justified in his tardiness, just this once. Keeping his arm around his friend, he shifted onto his side. Aramis huffed lightly, but his eyes never opened; he tucked up against Porthos' chest and grabbed his sleeve in one hand.

Treville could yell himself blue in the face, Porthos decided; there was no way he was getting up just yet.

Notes: one more chapter left! And yes, Athos will finally have his due time.

There is indeed a really big cathedral in Belley. I am such a dork.

French

mon ami = my friend

frère = brother

salut = hi

Italian

figlio = son

Sarete bene, bambino. = You'll be all right, child.

Grazie. = Thank you.