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Chapter Two: Shining Like a Lighthouse From the Sea
There is a destiny that makes us brothers: none goes his own way alone.
Edwin Markham
March 12, 1625
Musketeer Garrison, Paris
Aramis trotted wearily up the stairs to Treville's office, gripping the rail and trying to stretch his back as he moved. He loved riding, especially Esmé, but a day in the saddle was always taxing. The road back to Paris had been a bit slower than the road out of it. Leading six riderless horses tended to inhibit speed of travel. For this reason, he and Porthos had only just gotten back to the city. He had sent Porthos ahead to The Wren to inform Marsac they were back and he'd taken on the duty of checking in with Treville. The captain had said he wanted to speak with him anyway.
He knocked once on the door and then let himself in.
Treville was sitting at his desk, looking over some papers, but he raised his gaze when Aramis entered.
"Uneventful?" Treville asked as he set aside the papers and stood, pouring two glasses of wine and holding one out to Aramis as he sat.
"More or less. One of the horses bolted halfway back to Paris. Took me and Esmé nearly an hour to chase him down. A real character, that one. I think deLuc said he was called Roger."
Treville chuckled and sat back behind his desk.
"Otherwise, no problems. All six are safe and sound in the stables."
"Glad to hear it."
"What about on this end? Any trouble today?" Aramis asked as he sipped his wine. He and Treville usually traded reports every day.
"Nothing major; nothing you need to concern yourself with," Treville replied.
Aramis nodded and sipped more wine.
"Have you eaten?" Treville asked with an air of nonchalance.
Aramis wasn't fooled. Treville was the subtlest mother hen he had ever met. He hid his concern under gruff words, stern looks, and feigned indifference, but Aramis had known him far too long not to see the truth of it.
"Porthos and Marsac are awaiting my delightful company at The Wren even now."
"I won't keep you long, then," Treville replied, leaning forward and retrieving a paper from his desk. He held it out for Aramis to take even as he went on. "I'm sending you to lead a training exercise. You and your second will take twenty of the men to Savoy and spend a fortnight running them through the paces."
Aramis felt his eyebrows rise in surprise as he took the page.
"Twenty men?" he asked. "That's well over half the regiment."
"A reserve unit will stay behind to carry out the daily duties to the king," Treville went on. "We're long past due on a training exercise such as this. They were commonplace when our numbers were smaller, as I'm sure you remember."
Aramis nodded, grinning at the memory of long days spent running maneuvers in the fields and nights filled with laughter and comradery amongst the others. Treville had always led such ventures, usually with Tristan acting as his second – before Tristan retired to a life of husbandry and fatherhood after an injury to his chest left him constantly short of breath. In more recent years, Aramis had taken up the title of 'second' on such missions. But never before had he led one on his own. He couldn't help a nervous flutter in his stomach as he wondered if he was ready for such an undertaking.
"I know that look," Treville scolded without any heat. "Leave those doubts behind. You've been on enough of these ventures to manage this one without me." The look Treville gave him bore a hint of affection and a warming bit of pride.
He nodded.
"And my second?" he asked, already warming to the whole idea and drawing up plans in his head.
"Marsac," Treville answered immediately. "You've a list there of those you're taking with you."
Aramis turned his attention to the paper in his hands and read over the names and orders as Treville continued.
"Spend tomorrow in preparation and leave on the first of the month."
Aramis nodded absently, his brow drawing together as he read the list of names a second time and found one name lacking.
"Not Porthos?" he asked abruptly, fixing Treville with a surprised and vaguely scolding look.
"No, not Porthos." Treville's voice was firm and unapologetic. He also didn't bother explaining his decision on the matter.
"I'd say he's proven his worth," Aramis argued brazenly, "and earned the right to know it."
Leaving Porthos here, when the man would thrive on such a mission, sent a very clear message to everyone. Aramis had been working to have the men accept the new recruit for weeks now and leaving him behind now could undo what little – and it was markedly little – progress he'd made so far.
Treville's brow raised slowly and his blue eyes hardened to a glare.
Aramis was often allowed to speak his mind, especially in private – a privilege born of the many years they'd known each other and worked together – but he rarely spoke out so boldly against a decision that had already been made. He was suddenly extremely grateful Marsac was not present for this briefing or he'd likely find himself under censure for insubordination. Treville tolerated a lot from him, but never insubordination in the presence of another Musketeer, and for good reason.
"Forgive me," he offered contritely, folding his apology into his tone and dipping his head submissively. He looked up through his lashes to see Treville rolling his eyes at the formality of it.
"Go, have your dinner," Treville waved him towards the door. "We'll speak more tomorrow. Can I assume you'll inform Marsac?"
"I'll see it done," Aramis replied as he pushed to standing. Then, because it was his nature to be annoying when given the chance, he bowed deeply to Treville. "By your leave, mon capitaine."
Treville scoffed.
"Out with you," he growled with an extra bit of gruffness that Aramis saw straight through to the affection hidden beneath. "Save your formalities for the palace where they belong."
Aramis smiled cheekily and did as he was bid.
Marsac looked up from his plate of food when he heard the tavern door open. He found himself smiling in greeting when he saw Aramis step through the door and look around. But instead of heading his direction, Aramis saw someone else first and started towards the opposite end of the tavern.
Towards Porthos.
Marsac frowned, watching Aramis remove his hat and take a seat at the table Porthos occupied, catching a passing serving girl and likely putting in a request for food. Then he and Porthos started chatting amicably.
Porthos had arrived at the tavern some time ago and approached Marsac to tell him Aramis would be along shortly. That, typically, would have been the time for Marsac to offer a seat to the other man. But he hadn't. Porthos hadn't presumed to take a seat without invitation and had moved off to sit by himself.
Marsac hadn't even considered that Aramis might choose to sit with Porthos instead of him. How many years had they known each other now? And Porthos had been here for just over a month.
As if sensing his thoughts, Aramis shifted in his seat, looking around the tavern, spotting Marsac a moment later.
The marksman's brow rose in surprise and he turned back to Porthos, saying something Marsac was too far away to hear. Porthos just shrugged in response and Aramis' shoulders heaved with a sigh. Then Aramis was standing again, saying one more thing to Porthos before heading across the tavern to Marsac.
He watched his friend approach, ever present hat clutched in his hands as his fingers worried the brim. Sometimes Marsac had to fight the urge to rip the damn thing from Aramis' hands just so he'd stop fidgeting with it.
"Come and join us, Marsac," Aramis suggested kindly as he stood next to Marsac's chair.
"You and him?" Marsac replied bitterly, taking a long drink from his wine cup. He already felt warm from the cups that had come before. "Why don't you come join me?"
"Well Porthos wasn't invited to begin with, was he?" Aramis shot back, voice a bit sharper than Marsac had come to expect from him. "Don't make this a choice between you and him, Marsac."
Marsac looked up at him sharply, clearly hearing what Aramis' statement implied. If he made this a choice, Aramis would not choose him. And who could blame him? Marsac was being a petty child. But with wine in his belly and his head already buzzing a bit, he couldn't find the inclination to care about his own fault in the matter.
"I was your friend first, Aramis. You seem to have forgotten that."
"It's not a competition, Marsac."
"You've known him a month, a month, and you chose him over me?"
He knew he should stop. The wine was making his words bitter and his mind muddled. He would say something he would regret if he wasn't careful, something even Aramis – the most forgiving man he'd ever known – might not let pass.
"Well he would never deny a fellow Musketeer a seat at his table."
The words were like a slap to his face and Marsac sat there, stunned at the biting tone. Aramis' temper was often like a coiled snake, harmless enough until it struck, leaving devastation in its wake.
Aramis sighed deeply and rubbed a hand up through the hair that had escaped the binding at the back of his head. A visible breath showed his controlled attempt to calm himself.
"We're to lead a training exercise, you and I," Aramis revealed suddenly, voice once again composed and measured. "We leave the day after tomorrow and you're to be my second. Porthos is not coming."
Marsac looked up at him again, blinking as he processed the news.
"I hope that you and I can find peace over this in that time, Marsac. I do not wish to lose your friendship. But know this: I will not cast him aside for the sake of your jealousy."
"I'm not jealous," Marsac defended in a grumble, though he knew it was not entirely true.
"Good," Aramis replied sharply. "You've no reason to be. I can be a friend to him and to you without any great strain on my person. But you haven't even given him a chance. I had hoped you might be different than the rest."
Aramis sounded so disappointed that Marsac felt warring feelings of shame and anger rise up in him. Aramis was scolding him like a child, but was he wrong? Not entirely. Marsac hadn't really given Porthos a chance. Part of that was out of jealousy, he knew, but mostly it was because he was not like Aramis. He was not so easily able to look past all that made Porthos different than the rest of them.
"He's not the right sort for the regiment, Aramis," Marsac pointed out sourly, before he thought better of it.
He watched as Aramis' eyes went darker and something in them chilled.
"What sort is that, exactly?" he asked lowly.
Marsac glanced around them to be sure no one was listening and then back up to meet Aramis' gaze.
"You know."
Aramis' expression hardened to stone and he arched his brow doubtfully.
"No, I don't. Please enlighten me as to how he is any less deserving of this uniform than you or I?"
Marsac paused, sensing he'd trodden onto dangerous ground. He shifted another glance around and saw a group of Red Guards sitting a few tables away. He remembered then the times he'd heard them mutter slurs behind Aramis' back – and sometimes to his face – about the Spanish blood so obviously in his veins. They judged him for his looks, without ever knowing him.
He could never admit to letting the same way of thinking color his view of Porthos. Not if he wanted to remain Aramis' friend.
"I only mean he's a bit unrefined," Marsac answered carefully. "The way he talks…he's from the slums, you have to know that."
Porthos had likely been a beggar at best, a thief at worst, before he found the military. Perhaps such men could find a place in the common infantry, but not in the Musketeers, not amongst the king's elite.
"Even if that is true, he is there no longer," Aramis pointed out quietly, but fiercely. "A man is only as good as the life he chooses. Porthos has chosen this one, just as you did. Just as I did."
There was something there, something in the way Aramis spoke of his own choice. Marsac couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a weight behind the words, a hidden truth that Marsac didn't know. He frowned a bit even as Aramis went on.
"We're Musketeers, Marsac," Aramis told him firmly, speaking their title as if it were a weapon all its own. "We are meant to stand apart from the rest, to be better. Ours is meant to be a brotherhood for all who wear the uniform. All for one, one for all," he recited, his tone both reverent and fierce. "What good are the words if we don't live by them?"
Marsac looked down into his cup and stayed silent. Aramis had always taken their creed to heart, had always born the ideals of the Musketeers as if they were written on his soul. It was no surprise, really, as he had been there when that motto was written. He had been one of the first to say it. He had stood, side by side, with Treville and four others as they swore the first Musketeer oath to the king.
Aramis had always embodied all it meant to be a Musketeer.
But they could not all be so perfect or so noble. In fact, in Marsac's experience, it was Aramis who tended to have his head in the sand in the matters of reality.
"Brotherhood is a choice, Aramis," Marsac replied bitterly, "not an obligation. You've no right to demand such a thing from everyone on his behalf."
Aramis stilled next to him and Marsac forced himself to look up again and meet his friend's gaze. He'd never before seen such a look in his dear friend's eyes. He had earned Aramis' disappointment before, his anger too, but never like this. Never had Aramis looked at him as if he didn't even recognize him.
"You're right," Aramis agreed softly, "brotherhood is a choice, one you and I made between us long ago."
Marsac nodded slightly, suddenly terrified of what Aramis would say next. He wondered suddenly if he had gone too far, if Aramis would put an end to that brotherhood now. But Aramis, he might have known, would always be too forgiving.
"That will never change," his friend assured warmly, but before Marsac could even feel relief, Aramis stepped back, away from the table; away from him. "But I make that same choice now, for Porthos. I had only hoped that you would make it with me."
Then Aramis was gone and Marsac felt sharply the loss of his presence.
He watched the marksman move back to the table across the tavern and return to his seat with Porthos.
He would lose Aramis to him, Marsac could see that clearly now. It had already started. There was an ease between the two that Marsac knew even he had never shared with Aramis. It was as if there was a deeper bond there, already in place. If Marsac didn't know better, he would have said they were kindred spirits.
But that was not possible. Porthos was from the slums, the gutter of Paris. Aramis was… Marsac didn't exactly know where Aramis was from. His friend had never spoken of his past. But it was obvious he'd been brought up in the ways of at least a lesser nobility.
There should be no reason for the friendship between the two to strike so quickly and burn so brightly. And yet it did.
Marsac scowled across the tavern at them and watched Aramis accept a bowl of stew from the serving girl. The smile he bestowed upon her sent a blush to the young woman's cheeks as she hurried back to her work.
Marsac thought maybe Aramis would glance back at him, would seek him out, would be missing him from the mealtime conversation.
But Aramis just turned back to Porthos and continued talking.
Marsac felt hurt and jealousy burn hot in his gut as he reached for more wine.
"I'm to stay behind?" Porthos frowned as he watched Aramis tuck into his stew. His friend looked up at him from his bowl and smiled in sympathy.
"You're lucky, really," he commented, "to be staying here. Nothing but bitter cold and snow in the mountains of Savoy this time of year."
Porthos treated him with a long, dry glare that had Aramis grinning in response.
"Think of all the rations you'll avoid."
Porthos arched an incredulous eyebrow.
"No sleeping on bedrolls with rocks and twigs digging into your spine."
Porthos continued to stare.
"No long days on horseback that leave your back aching and your ass numb."
"You're right," Porthos finally chuckled. "I pity you this horrible venture now."
Aramis' smile turned cheeky and he was obviously pleased with himself for brightening Porthos' mood on the subject.
"Did he say why?" Porthos ventured carefully. "Why I'm to be left behind?"
Aramis shifted in his seat and shook his head as he scooped another spoonful of stew into his mouth.
"Treville has his reasons," Aramis assured kindly after he swallowed. "I trust him and so should you. He knows what he's doing."
Porthos nodded miserably and sighed, feeling a bit stung by the decision. He would have excelled on a training mission such as this. He could not see why Treville would rob him of his chance to finally prove his worth to the other men.
"I know you're frustrated," Aramis soothed. "But your time will come."
"Just not this time," Porthos pointed out wryly.
Aramis quirked his lips in vague apology.
"Not this time," he agreed. "But look at it this way: you'll have a month, now, to advance your position in the Garrison. With so few remaining behind, you'll be assigned extra duties and have the chance to learn and do more than you have before. By the time we return, I've no doubt you'll seem such a natural fixture at the Garrison that none will dare question it."
Porthos felt his lips curve into a grin. Perhaps Aramis was right. He should view this as an opportunity, not a loss. He still could not help feeling, though, as he watched Aramis return to his meal, that the coming month would be a very lonely one.
March 14, 1625
Musketeer Garrison
Treville tilted the wine bottle to refill his cup and then shifted to do the same for the man next to him. The hour was late, or rather early now. It had long since passed the time when it would have been worth it to try and find some sleep before dawn.
Aramis was hunched over Treville's desk, fingers tracing a path on the map spread out before them, brow knitted in thought.
"Here," the marksman decided, tapping his finger on a place in the mountains. "Near enough to water but far enough from the nearby village that we shouldn't cause them disruption."
Treville leaned over Aramis' shoulder, looking at his selected location and the surrounding area.
"In the forest? Why not find a field?" he asked, brow arched in challenge.
Aramis sat back where he'd been seated in Treville's chair and met his gaze confidently.
"The trees lend to better cover from the elements. There's a plain a bit further east," he gestured to the map vaguely, "that we can travel to when the task warrants. But, as I learned from my time with Medina, battle doesn't always find you on an open field. The men need to know how to maneuver in the trees as well."
Treville found himself smiling, offering a nod of approval. He did, however, have to fight down a wave of tension at the mention of Darío Medina, a self-appointed General who hailed from Spain but whom the Spanish did not claim. When Medina and his band of followers had terrorized southern France three years ago using gruesome guerrilla tactics, it had been Aramis who'd infiltrated the rogue militant group and eventually helped to bring about Medina's capture. It had been the only time in his five years with the Musketeers that Treville had asked such a thing of the young soldier and he had vowed never to ask it again.
"He's languishing in the Bastille, you know," Aramis' gently teasing voice drew him out of his reverie. "You needn't look so worried just by the mention of his name."
Treville leaned to sit on the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the map instead of facing his young protégé.
"And last he saw of me I was valiantly taking a musket ball to the chest in the name of his cause. Even if he were to escape, he would not see me as an enemy," Aramis went on reasonably. "I'm in no danger from him."
"I know that," Treville snapped gruffly, taking a long drink from his wine. That 'valiantly' taken musket ball had nearly killed the marksman, but of course Aramis couldn't be bothered to care about that.
"And yet you look as if that wine has gone sour."
Treville finally shifted his glare to Aramis, wholly annoyed to find the boy smiling back at him.
"Somebody has to worry over you," Treville grumbled. "You do a piss poor job of doing it yourself."
Aramis chuckled and leaned forward again, reaching for his own wine with one hand and the papers scattered on the desk with the other. He didn't bother arguing against Treville's accusation and the captain hadn't expected him to. He had no defense, after all, because it was true.
"Do you think just the three days of night maneuvers is enough?" Aramis asked suddenly, eyes scanning the topmost sheet of paper.
Treville smiled.
"Yes, as I assured you the last three times you brought it up."
Aramis grumbled a bit under his breath, but continued to read over the words on the page, written in his own hand not more than a few hours ago.
"And do you think…"
"That three days of hard survival training is enough? Yes, I do."
Aramis slid a sheepish look up at him and then looked back down the page.
"What about…"
"Aramis," Treville pushed his palm against the page, forcing Aramis to place it back on the desk, "you're ready. You've planned and prepared beyond what is even necessary."
Aramis snatched up a quill from the table and started fiddling with it, leaning back in the chair. Treville watched him, used to such expenses of energy from the young man. Aramis, though able to remain absolutely still for hours if he was asked to take position as a sharpshooter, was often full of restless energy.
"Why are you keeping Porthos back?"
The question was quiet, a bit hesitant, and held no hint of challenge. It was just honest curiosity. It was a student wanting to learn from his teacher.
Treville took another drink from his wine and met Aramis' questioning gaze.
"Do you think he needs such training refreshers?" Treville asked bluntly.
Aramis blinked, quill stilling its dance in his fingers.
"He did just come straight out of the infantry," Treville reminded. "Where such training is common course."
Aramis tilted his head a bit, gaze thoughtful.
"I suppose not," he admitted finally, answering his captain's question. "But it would give him a chance to show the others why you chose him."
Treville inclined his head. That was true.
"But would that not deny the training to one who actually needs it?"
Aramis frowned, obviously not having considered that.
"It's nice to see there are still some things I have left to teach you," Treville chuckled, patting Aramis' knee affectionately.
"You've a great deal left to teach me," Aramis replied immediately.
Treville laughed.
"Perhaps how to hold your tongue?" he teased.
Aramis shifted his gaze away, a slight blush rising in his cheeks.
"I never intend to speak out amongst the others," he defended, gaze sliding back to Treville's sheepishly.
"And yet your intentions never stop it happening."
Aramis shrugged a shoulder, quill once again twirling about restlessly between his fingers.
"You're also not so good with orders half the time," Treville pointed out with a laugh.
The quill stilled and was then pointed demonstratively at Treville's chest.
"I happen to be wonderful at following orders…so long as they're not idiotic."
Treville shook his head in fond exasperation at the strident defense.
"I always follow your orders, do I not?" Aramis challenged.
"When it suits you," Treville shot back. Aramis narrowed his gaze.
"That time with the boat and horses in Calais doesn't count."
"Doesn't it?" Treville asked doubtfully.
"No, because in the end, I was proven right."
"I suppose you were. Though you were also proven half dead by the end as well, if I remember."
Aramis' shoulders twitched in another dismissive shrug.
"I knew you'd follow."
Treville sighed.
"I will not always be there to snatch you from the jaws of death, Aramis. If you're to one day lead these men as I do, you must learn to temper your instinct to run headlong into danger."
Aramis scoffed.
"This from you?" he chuckled sarcastically.
Treville was unmoved.
"You must learn restraint and forethought and let the men serving under you fulfill their purpose. You cannot lead if you are dead."
"I will never send a man into a situation I would not first willingly go myself," Aramis replied, suddenly serious. "That's a lesson I learned from you, Treville. And often times there is not time for restraint and forethought. There is only time for action, for instinct. You know this. You taught me this."
Treville sighed. He did and he had.
"Perhaps I just wish you would not court death and danger so brazenly."
He had grown quite fond of the young soldier before him, a boy he'd watched grow into a man, and he did not intend to see him come to an untimely end because of his own recklessness.
Aramis smiled warmly.
"I'm a Musketeer," he replied proudly. "Courting death and danger are my way of life. But for you, mon Capitaine, I will endeavor to exercise a bit more caution."
Treville rolled his eyes.
"Don't patronize me with your lies, you silver tongued devil. Caution," he scoffed. "You don't even know the meaning of the word."
Aramis shrugged again, a wicked and mischievous grin on his face. Treville watched his eyes then stray to the papers on the desk. Treville smiled patiently.
"Would you like to review your plans one more time?" he offered.
The sheepish glance he got in return had him chuckling and reaching for more wine.
March 15, 1625
The Louvre Palace, Paris
Aramis and the men had been gone only a day when Treville received a summons from the king.
He arrived at the palace and was taken immediately to the council chamber, narrowing his eyes warily when he saw the cardinal standing at Louis' shoulder. He always felt wary when Richelieu was involved. The man was a serpent in the grass, always looking for the opportune moment to strike. Treville had no doubt Richelieu acted in what he believed were the best interests of France, but his methods often left a sour taste in Treville's mouth.
"I've something I need from you, Treville," Louis stated immediately.
"I am at your command, Your Majesty," Treville replied easily.
"The troops you've just sent to Savoy," the cardinal spoke for the king now. "You are to pass on their location to the duke."
Treville felt trepidation rise in his chest. It was an odd request. The movements of French troops were not details often passed on to others freely.
"Why?" he asked.
"It is not your place to question your king," the cardinal replied sharply.
"It was not my king that issued the order," he shot back, turning his gaze to Louis.
"It is my order, Treville. You know the place at which your men will camp?"
Treville nodded slowly.
"Then you will send a dispatch at once to Savoy and inform the duke of this information," Louis commanded.
Louis must have read his unease because he softened slightly.
"I only wish to alert my sister's husband that my men are within his borders, so that he is not caught unawares. I shouldn't want any violence to spark between his men and my own through misunderstanding." Something in the king's words seemed to…ring just short of true. But the explanation was a reasonable one and Treville was not fool enough to question him again.
He stole a glance at Richelieu now, his gut churning uneasily at the impassive expression the man wore. There was something in his eyes…
"Treville?" Louis prodded.
"Your Majesty," Treville bowed slightly, "it will be as you say. I shall send the dispatch immediately."
"Excellent!" Louis chirped, exchanging a smile with Richelieu. "On your way, then, Treville, get it done."
Treville bowed once more and turned on his heel, marching back the way he'd come.
It was with a dry throat and a twisting stomach that he wrote out his message, sending it off with a royal rider before he even left the palace.
He told himself that these were the king's own soldiers hand-picked; specially trained Musketeers. There was no reason to fear for them. And it did make sense, he supposed, to inform the duke of their troops' movements within his lands. For their own safety, and that of the duke's men.
But as he rode back to the Garrison, the twisting in his gut would not settle.
March 20, 1625
Musketeer Encampment, Savoy
Aramis chewed the inside of his lip as he watched Marsac settle on his side of the tent. The rest of the men were already bedded down to sleep – save the two he'd set on sentry duty. Standing watch was as much training as running maneuvers.
But Aramis was restless.
He and Marsac had barely spoken over this last week, beyond what was necessary at least.
Aramis knew he had drawn a battle line of sorts that night in the tavern. He'd chosen to pursue his friendship with Porthos, despite knowing it upset Marsac. He did not want to lose his friendship, his brotherhood, with Marsac, but he could not fight the same call he felt towards Porthos.
There was just something about the large man - something familiar and comforting.
They'd walked some similar paths, Aramis suspected, though he doubted Porthos had been whisked away by a wealthy father in his youth. But just the same, Aramis' childhood might not have been so different than Porthos' in their earlier years. It was this, the recognition of a kindred spirit perhaps, that drew him to the large Musketeer.
Being around Porthos felt inexplicably like going home. It felt easy and comfortable in a way Aramis had not felt since he'd last seen his mother, thirteen long years ago.
He could not explain it. He didn't want to. He only wanted to embrace it.
But he did not want to lose Marsac.
"Marsac?" he called quietly.
The other man went still and then warily rolled to look at him in question.
"Are we still brothers?"
He watched Marsac's blue eyes blink in shock and then the man eased up onto his elbow to face Aramis fully. Warily, Aramis pushed up onto his own elbow to mirror the position.
For a long time Marsac just stared at him, but then something softened in his friend's gaze.
"Do you want us to be?" he finally asked.
Aramis' eyes widened, shocked Marsac even felt he had to ask.
"Yes," he insisted. "With all my heart, mon ami."
"Would you give up your friendship with him if I asked you to?"
Aramis felt his heart stutter in his chest.
"Would you ask me to?" he asked carefully.
Marsac stared at him quietly, his expression stony. But there was vulnerability in his gaze. He was afraid of Aramis' answer.
He sighed.
"If I did such a thing," Aramis answered softly, "I would no longer be the man you call a brother. I would not give him up for you, Marsac…just as I would not give you up for him."
He wasn't sure what reaction his words would get, so he was relieved when Marsac's lips curled into a slight smile.
"Equality in your affections," he mused. "I suppose I can ask no more than that."
"He's a good man, Marsac," Aramis felt the need to explain.
Marsac sighed, his gaze affectionately exasperated.
"So you continue to claim. But you don't know him."
"I didn't know you, either, once upon a time."
Marsac's eyes grew distant, no doubt remembering their own turbulent meeting four years ago. Finally, something like understanding dawned in Marsac's gaze.
"You're right," Marsac admitted quietly. Then he met Aramis' eyes earnestly. "If you see a worthiness in Porthos, I will endeavor to see it too."
Aramis smiled.
"That's all I ask, mon frére. I only want you to give him the same chance you and I gave each other all those years ago."
Marsac nodded his agreement and when he reached a hand across the tent towards Aramis, the marksman grasped it willingly.
Aramis felt his world shift back onto an even kilter and smiled again.
End of Chapter Two
I hope you enjoyed our second chapter! We'll be back tomorrow with Chapter Three! As you can see, I have some strong headcannons about the relationship between Aramis and Treville before Savoy. I love me some Papa Treville.
Until tomorrow, I would love to hear what you think. I, as most writers tend to, thrive on reviews.
But before we part, here is a preview of what's to come. This preview is short but clearly shows you what's to come.
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
It was instinct that woke Aramis. Pure, battle-bred, soldier's instinct. The weariness of his limbs told him he'd only been sleeping two, perhaps three, hours.
He laid absolutely still, listening intently for whatever had pulled him from his rest. There was nothing, no sound. Not even the rustle of the wind.