Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Four: Arlothia, IrethOfMirkwood, pallysdeeks, MashiMoshi, ImaginaryArtist17, twaxer, Deana, SandBank, weathergirl17248, Grantaire32, enjoyedit, Aednat the Fourteenth, lizard1969, UKGuest, LordLady, SnidgetHex, and X4uth0r
PS: before I forget again, special thanks to my beta, Arlothia's boyfriend for going over all the Spanish parts of this fic for me! Without him this would have been all relying on Google-Translate so he saved us all lol.
Chapter Five: It's Your Love That Brings Me Home
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.
The Hollies
April 3, 1625
Outlying village, Savoy
Porthos looked up at the tavern before him with a weary sigh and tipped his hat to be rid of some of the rain that had accumulated there. His heavy cloak had done its best to protect him, but after a time even it could do little to stop the rain from its thorough attempts to drown him.
His companions had fared little better. Even Treville looked waterlogged and miserable.
The rain, when it had started an hour ago, had slowed them down, but finally they'd reached Savoy.
Or rather, they'd reached a village near the forest that had become their brothers' grave. According to Treville, Aramis had planned to camp not far from here.
"Gaston, Demonte, find someone willing to part with a cart. Assure them they'll be paid. I know it's late, but I want to leave at first light."
The two other Musketeers, looking as weary as Porthos felt, nodded and turned their horses away from the tavern.
"Come now," Treville slid from his saddle. "Nothing more to be done tonight."
Porthos slid from his saddle with a groan. They handed off their horses to a stable boy and then he quietly followed his captain into the tavern, nearly running into the man when he froze just inside the door.
"Oi," he mumbled irritably, stepping around him and into the warmth of the room.
"Anton," Treville snapped the name sharply, startling Porthos into searching the room for a threat. He watched a bobbing head spin to watch them. Treville strode forward. "What are you doing here?"
"Dead," the drunk man, Anton, Porthos assumed, mumbled brokenly. "All dead."
Treville grabbed the man by his shirt, hauling him up.
"What are you doing here?"
Anton looked confused.
"They're all dead," he murmured brokenly.
Porthos, taking in Treville's fury, realized all at once who Anton was and what his presence here meant.
"He's the scout," he stated bluntly. Treville's nod had Porthos' own anger rising. "You didn't return to see to the dead?" he accused the sniveling man.
They'd all assumed, had discussed it just this morning, that the scout who'd found the bodies and sent word would return to the camp. The bodies would need to be seen to and guarded from predators. They had expected him to have recruited help from the village, that the bodies of their brothers would be ready for collection so they could take them home to lay them to rest.
But Anton was here, drinking away his sorrows.
The scout just shook his head, tears streaming silently down his face.
Treville dropped the man back to his chair as if his touch burned.
Porthos felt sick. Days it had been since the attack. Days that their fallen brothers had been abandoned in the snowy forests of Savoy.
"You left them to the animals?" he snarled, snatching Anton back from his chair with a growl. "Our brothers?!"
"All dead," Anton stated pitifully, shaking in his grasp.
"You bleedin' coward," Porthos accused lowly, anger boiling to the surface.
"Porthos," Treville warned firmly.
"He's left them to be ravaged," Porthos shot back sharply.
Treville looked just as sick at the realization as Porthos felt.
"Every man reacts to the violence of battle in his own way," Treville explained carefully. "Anton is young and untested."
Porthos released the trembling man with a disgusted snarl.
"He's been tested now, 'n he bloody failed."
Treville's calming hand on his shoulder did little to quiet Porthos' raging heart. A sound at the tavern door had them turning to watch Gaston and Demonte coming towards them.
"We've acquired a cart," Gaston informed them wearily.
Treville drew in a slow breath.
"We've just discovered the bodies have not been seen to, nor guarded since the attack. It's likely that…" he trailed off with a swallow and a vague gesture.
"My God," Gaston closed his eyes and crossed himself.
"I leave it to the three of you," Treville met each of their gazes in turn. "We can take some rest. It has been a long hard ride. We can go for them at first light. Or…" he looked to the door.
Porthos drew himself up to his full height.
Nearly five days of travel to bring them here after the message had reached Treville. For all that time and too many hours beyond, their brothers had been abandoned. "I say we go," he stated firmly. "Our brothers have waited long enough."
Next to him, both Gaston and Demonte looked at him in vague surprise, something akin to real respect igniting in their eyes for the first time. Treville, for his part, just gazed at him proudly.
"Long enough indeed," he agreed, looking to the others.
Both Gaston and Demonte nodded their agreement.
Treville nodded in return.
"Then they shall wait no longer."
In the end, Gaston remained behind to bring the cart at first light while the rest of them made their careful way in the darkness with nothing but the moon and a few borrowed lanterns to guide them.
Porthos hadn't been certain what to expect when they finally reached the site where their men had made their camp. Perhaps he'd expected the forest floor to be littered with foraging animals, or for nothing but gnawed bone to remain.
What he hadn't expected was the eerie quiet that blanketed the abandoned camp like a choking cloud. From a distance, it looked as if it was a normal night, as if the lumps on the ground were merely men asleep. But the absence of fires and any sort of movement or sound gave the entire scene an unnerving, unearthly feel.
They could see the bodies clearly enough. The rain – which had mercifully stopped – had cleared away any dusting of snow that might have covered them. The larger bodies of slaughtered horses stood further to the east.
Other than a few crows that fluttered about, unhampered even by the recent rain, the bodies seemed untouched.
They all exchanged wary glances.
"Spread out, circle in slowly. An enemy may still lie in wait," Treville ordered quietly.
Without a word, they moved to obey.
It was Demonte who found the wolf. He raised a hand to get their attention.
"This wolf's a rapier in its chest," he stated in shock.
Porthos met Treville's sharp gaze, eyes wide.
"Somebody survived," Porthos realized.
"The body is only hours old," Gaston added rapidly.
"Quickly," Treville snapped.
They converged on the bloody scene with a frantic sort of hope, but found no other body nearby.
"Remy," he heard Demonte call sharply only to shake his head when they all looked to him. "Someone treated his wound, but he's been gone for days."
It was Treville who found Michel. That hope was just as brief when he announced that though he also had a bandage, Michel was far beyond help.
It was Porthos who noticed the damp remnants of the fire. Even though the flame was gone, Porthos saw a faint red glow buried beneath the sodden sticks. There was a tin cup resting in the coals, prompting Porthos to kneel next to it. Cocking his head curiously, he turned his focus to the immediate area.
There.
Between where Porthos stood now and where Gaston had found the wolf lay a figure outstretched on his stomach. The man's face was hidden, turned away from Porthos' view. He had one arm outstretched, fingers curled loosely in the dirt, and one leg bent as if he'd been in the midst of pushing off with it when he had died.
Something in Porthos' gut twisted as he studied the figure and ventured closer. There was a dirty, sodden bandage around the man's head, indicating that perhaps he was the one who had survived long enough to kill the wolf. Though the two others had also been bandaged, both had been laid carefully on their backs, not sprawled mid-movement like this one. He had been alive at one point after the battle, Porthos was sure of it.
His hair was long and dark, matted in a bloody wet mess, and could easily belong to any number of the Musketeers who'd died here. But Porthos knew, somehow, that it wasn't just any Musketeer. His heart told him exactly who it was.
Aramis.
Porthos went to his knees next to the body and carefully rolled it over, catching the lulling head in his hand.
"Oh God," Porthos breathed, eyes stinging as he took in the bandages and the blood. Aramis had survived the attack. He'd been out here, alone, amidst a field of the dead while that cursed scout drank himself to oblivion.
"Here!" he called out hoarsely around the lump in his throat. He pressed his hand against Aramis' chest, already dreading the stillness he feared would greet him. "It's Aramis," he announced, voice tight. "He's…" he was ready to say 'dead'. The word had formed on his lips.
But then, so faint he'd nearly missed it, there was a weak rise of ribs against his palm. Sure he had imagined it, he leaned over, pressing his ear to the man's chest. A faint, but steady thump was his reward.
"Alive…" he breathed in shock. Then hope flooded him. "He's alive!" He shouted to the others. "Aramis!" he called sharply, lightly tapping the wounded man's cheek. There was no response, no signs of life but that steady thump and those weak breathes.
Treville was suddenly at his shoulder.
"My God," the captain whispered, sounding as if his very heart had been ripped from his chest. Then he snapped into action. "Demonte find a way to build a fire, I don't care what you have to do or burn to get it going. Porthos, get the wet clothes off of him. I'll fetch some blankets."
Porthos shifted Aramis off the cold ground and up to rest against his chest as Treville ran back towards the horses. He placed a gentle hand against Aramis' check, hissing at the icy feeling of his skin.
"'S all right now, 'Mis," he whispered. "I'm here now. You're safe."
There was no response, not even a twitch.
He had only just started peeling the sodden doublets from Aramis' body when suddenly Treville was back.
"Here," Treville shook out his own bedroll and gestured towards it.
Carefully, as if he were handling a newborn babe, Porthos finished removing the doublets and shifted Aramis to the blanket. He watched Treville assess the man's wounds even as Porthos took in the ghostly paleness of his features, the dangerous tinge of blue in his lips.
He was cold. Too cold.
"No obvious signs of infection," there was relief in Treville's voice with that, for good reason. "This wound has been cleaned at some point and blood loss was likely slowed due to the cold," Treville muttered as he fussed over the soiled bandage on Aramis' leg. "That may have saved his life."
But Porthos had grown up in the Court of Miracles, where dozens died from the cold every winter.
"The cold may kill him yet," he replied sharply. "We've got to warm him, carefully though, starting with his chest."
Treville looked at him in surprise as Porthos started unbuckling his doublet.
"Body heat is our only hope to save him," Porthos went on without explaining how he had this knowledge, or why he'd suddenly assumed command of the situation.
"You've dealt with this before," Treville realized. Then he nodded. "As have I. Put him between you and the fire, we'll put on every blanket we have to spare."
Porthos nodded and tossed his doublet aside, stripping off his shirt next. Treville worked in tandem to finish stripping Aramis out of his sodden clothes.
"Should we not try to get him back to town?" Demonte asked without looking up as he battled to get a spark to light the tinder he'd piled.
"There's no time," Treville replied frankly, voice void of emotion. "The cold's got too much of a hold on him. If we don't work quickly, he won't survive."
Porthos swallowed thickly as he kicked off his boots and slid out of his trousers. Left in nothing but his underclothes, he looked to Aramis. Treville had already completed the same tasks with the wounded man.
Without hesitation, Porthos laid down on the bedroll and pulled Aramis to him, wrapping his large arms around the smaller man and pressing their chests together.
"He's bleedin' frozen," Porthos growled through teeth clenched against the sudden cold that swept across his own skin. Treville quickly draped them both in a blanket, then started to shake out the others, quickly spreading them as well.
"I'll find more," Treville assured, disappearing from sight.
With Demonte fully focused on getting a fire lit, Porthos was left mostly alone with a half dead man in an awkwardly intimate embrace. So he reached for humor to settle the tightness of fear in his chest.
"Usually I save compromisin' positions such as this for partners prettier than you," he commented quietly. He tightened his arms around Aramis, lifting the man's head up to tuck into his neck so at least they weren't nose to nose. "You're bleedin' small, you know that?" he went on, acutely feeling the small stature of the man within his arms whose life now depended on him.
It wasn't true, exactly. Aramis wasn't particularly small at all. He was tall, really, as men went, but lean. Porthos was only a bit taller himself, but he was broader in the shoulders and built with thicker muscle than the lithe marksman. The difference between them, though, had never been as obvious as it felt right now.
"You never seemed small before now," he continued idly. "The way you trot 'round, larger than life. Never seemed small…but, bleedin' Christ, feels as if your half my size. Best we not play at hand t' hand anymore. I'm likely t' break you," he teased with a slight grin. He could almost hear the affronted huff and sarcastic quip Aramis would respond with if he were awake. He'd likely follow that response with a swift challenge of hand to hand combat right then and there.
There was, of course, no response to his rambling but that which he imagined. But the faint puff of Aramis' breaths against the skin of his shoulder comforted him, assured him the man was still clinging to life.
Another blanket draped over him, followed by two more.
A moment later he realized Demonte had a fire burning and was slowly building it up.
Aramis had the fire at his back now, and Porthos at his chest. He had no choice but to get warm now.
But Porthos knew that there were no certainties. In the Court, even those who'd they'd managed to find and rewarm had sometimes died despite their efforts. The cold taxed the body in a horrible way. Some were simply not strong enough to survive it.
"That's not you, is it?" he whispered to the unconscious man. "You didn't stay alive this long to give up now."
Treville hovered near their feet, eyes wide with worry in a way Porthos had never witnessed in the veteran soldier.
"Nothin' now but to wait," Porthos commented, more to break the silence than anything. "Either it'll work and he'll warm and wake, or..."
Treville nodded, squeezing Porthos' leg through the blankets and then motioning Demonte – who'd gotten the fire burning brightly now – to follow him. Porthos watched them start to move around to see to the dead.
Sitting in silence just made the worry in his chest fester, so Porthos sought distraction.
He talked.
He talked about everything and anything that came to mind. He spoke of his past, his childhood in the Court. He remembered Flea and the young love they'd shared. He recounted his choice to leave the Court, the inspiration he'd found to change his lot in life.
"It was you, you know," Porthos remembered quietly. "That day in the market. I saw you, dressed in your leathers, pauldron like a beacon on your shoulder. You stood, fierce as a lion, between an angry store keeper and two little orphans. I watched you repay him for what was stolen. Then, you gave your coin purse to the li'l ones. Every bit of wealth you had to give in that moment, you gave it without thought." Porthos remembered that day clearly, over three years ago now.
The weight of the stolen coins in his own pocket had grown too heavy to bear as he watched a nameless Musketeer selflessly give what little he had to those who needed it more.
Porthos had left the Court a week later and joined the infantry.
He had never dreamed to see that Musketeer again. But then, on his first day in the Garrison, freshly commissioned by Treville, Porthos had been assigned to train under that very Musketeer who had inspired him – Aramis.
He'd never told the marksman that he had been the final push Porthos had needed to put action to the years of discontent he'd struggled with as a child of the Court. One selfless act of kindness, witnessed from the shadows, and Porthos had resolved to be a better man. He'd never imagined at the time that he would one day wear the same uniform as that Musketeer; never conceived that he would serve beside him as an equal. A friend. A brother.
"You cannot die here, Aramis," Porthos told the unconscious man fiercely. "Fate brought us together. We're meant to stand side by side, you and I, as brothers."
Because he knew that he and Aramis had not met by chance. That day in the market, the instant spark of friendship between them years later, the ease with which that friendship had flourished…it had brought them here. Aramis had saved him, twice now, without even knowing it. First, in the market and again when he offered the friendship all others had denied.
Now, he would save Aramis.
Fate had bound them. Porthos would not let that bond go without a fight.
He tightened his arms around the silent man against his chest and closed his eyes. Then, for the first time since he was a child watching his mother die from fever, he prayed to a God he had long since stopped believing in.
Sometime later, Treville and the others had moved the bodies, lining them up carefully and covering them with the cloaks and blankets they'd found abandoned in the snow. Treville now sat close at Porthos' head, eyes drifting down every now and then to the silent, still figure still cradled to his chest. Demonte was sleeping on the other side of the fire.
"One day for that dispatch to reach you," Porthos mused quietly. "Four more for us to arrive… Five days, he was here, abandoned in the snow. Five days alone but for the dead."
Treville sighed deeply, looking suddenly so much older than he ever had before. He took a breath as if to speak but Porthos continued.
"Even havin' his wounds treated, how has he survived?" he wondered, focusing for a moment on the soft breaths against his shoulder. He thought they might be growing stronger, steadier.
"Through God's mercy," Treville guessed. "A divine miracle."
Porthos frowned.
"I don't believe 'n miracles." Then, frowning further, "I don't believe 'n God."
Despite its name, the Court of Miracles had been no place for faith or hope. You could trust in no one but yourself and those you held as family…and sometimes not even them. There were no miracles, no divine saviors, only your own wits and strength to see you through. If God existed, he had abandoned Porthos long ago.
Treville shot him a skeptical glance and Porthos shrugged a shoulder.
"Aramis does," Treville revealed. "He's actually quite devout."
Porthos arched an eyebrow. The stories of Aramis' romantic conquests were renowned within the Garrison and were known throughout certain parts of the city as well.
Treville grinned a little.
"In his own way, at least," the captain amended.
Porthos chuckled a bit at that. 'His own way' indeed. Aramis probably charmed God in prayer as easily as he charmed Serge into giving him special treatment, or the ladies of Paris into letting him into their beds.
"And I think, perhaps," Treville stared into the fire, tone thoughtful, "that the God in which Aramis believes has seen fit to spare him…whether you believe or not."
"He's not spared yet," Porthos pointed out.
"But neither is he dead."
Porthos could not argue that.
He felt something tremble against his chest. He blinked and then felt another shudder. A moment later Aramis' entire body was shivering, almost violently, within his arms.
Porthos felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.
"Is he having a fit?" Treville worried. It was a valid concern, one Treville had probably seen lived out in his own days of soldiering.
The cold could do terrible things to a body.
"No," Porthos assured. He briefly closed his eyes as relief swept through him, and then raised his gaze to Treville's. "He's shiverin'," he announced with a weary smile.
Treville looked wary, as if he didn't dare to believe it.
"He's shiverin'," Porthos repeated. "It's workin'."
A look of such relief swept across Treville's face that Porthos was sure the man was about to cry. Instead, he reached for another branch and added it to the already roaring fire.
Porthos hadn't meant to sleep. But even so, he found himself waking to the sun already nearly halfway across the sky.
He startled a bit to realize the figure in his arms was no longer shivering, but felt reassuring breaths against his shoulder a moment later. Aramis hadn't stopped shivering because he'd died. He'd stopped shivering because he'd warmed. Mostly, at least. Even as Porthos watched him, a single, violent shiver wracked the man's body. Still, it was an improvement. But a sharp look at Aramis' face revealed cheeks red with the beginnings of fever. Not exactly joyous news, but better than them being white with death.
"Gaston arrived an hour ago and we've got the cart loaded." Treville was suddenly standing over them, blocking the sun. "There is something we need to discuss, but we need to get him to the village first. There should be a physician of some sort there. Has he improved enough to travel?"
Porthos opened his mouth to reply when a faint mumble drew both their attention.
Aramis stirred, eyes fluttering.
"Muerto…"
Porthos frowned. That wasn't French. He'd heard Aramis speak to Esmé enough to recognize it as likely Spanish, but that knowledge did not tell him what the mumbled word meant.
Treville's gaze was soft, correctly reading his confusion.
"He's got Spanish blood in him; his mother, I think, but he's never said. You can see from looking at him."
Porthos supposed that was true. He hadn't really noticed before now.
"Dem'n," Aramis mumbled, pushing weakly against Porthos' chest.
Porthos was afraid to let him go, that his warmth was still needed.
"Tha's a bit rude," he muttered in response to the accusation.
"He's dreaming," Treville pointed out.
Porthos barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd figured that bit out for himself.
"Todos muertos…" (All dead…)
Porthos didn't have to speak the language to guess at the meaning behind those words, the tone told the truth of it clearly enough.
"Y' c'n't 'ave 'em," Aramis pushed more firmly against Porthos' chest, but he held strong. "Este n' 's m' día p'ra m'rir."
Porthos was struggling to track the rapid shift in language, made even harder to distinguish amidst the slurring, so he looked to Treville.
"You know what that means?"
Treville looked torn between being stricken and fiercely proud.
"'This is not my day to die'," he translated, voice thick.
Porthos looked back at Aramis.
"Damn right it's not," he agreed fiercely.
Then, all at once, without any warning, fever bright brown eyes were staring at him. He didn't even have a chance to feel relief before a sharp elbow was cutting up into his chin, then slamming hard into his cheek.
"Bleedin' hell!" he gasped, arms loosing and allowing Aramis to scramble away. "He's strong for being half dead," he muttered, feeling blood trickle from a cut below his eye.
"Aramis, calm down," Treville spoke carefully.
The tone of voice had Porthos warily pushing himself up, searching for the marksman. His eyebrows rose when he saw Aramis standing a distance away on shaking legs, a rapier brandished before him.
Aramis had woken to confinement.
Strong bindings had been holding him in place. The sounds of clashing steel had reached his ears and the memory of a battle with masked men filtered through his mind.
His brothers were in danger. They needed him.
He lashed out at whatever was holding him captive and a moment later he was free. He saw a sword resting on the ground nearby and dove for it. He had it in hand a moment later and tore it from its scabbard, tossing the covering aside.
Then he turned to face the enemy.
But instead of men in masks, he saw four wary gazes watching him.
So they'd finally shown their cowardly faces.
The one off to his left moved closer and Aramis swung the stolen blade, driving the man back several stumbled steps.
"Aramis, it's me, Treville," the oldest of the lot spoke to him.
Treville? Why did that name seem familiar?
Aramis shook his head, only to wince when a flare of pain had his world wavering dangerously.
The four men moved closer and Aramis snarled, forcing away the weakness of his body.
They would not kill him, not here, not today.
"Este no es mi día para morir," (This is not my day to die,) he spat before launching into an attack.
It was pathetic really, how short the battle was. A strong hand was able to bat the rapier out of his admittedly weak grip with an annoying sort of ease just as Aramis' leg gave out beneath him.
He hit his knees jarringly, sending a wave of agony through his body from his legs up to his head – God, his head – but would not give up so easily.
He fisted his hand around some snow and threw it into the face of the one who had disarmed him. His eye caught a pistol on a bedroll.
He dove for it.
His hand found the smooth stock and he brought the weapon around, rolling onto his back. He leveled the pistol at whichever enemy was closest. At least he thought he did. It was hard to be sure with his vision swimming to and fro and his head pounding like a herd of horses was stampeding through it.
No matter. Even at his worst, Aramis prided himself on being one of the best with a pistol in his hand. His odds were good. He brushed his finger over the trigger.
"ARAMIS!"
The sharp call had him pausing. That voice…
He blinked and the man who had shouted his name came into stilted focus. The man was large, seeming like a giant from Aramis' position on the ground. His skin was dark and his black hair had a dusting of snow in it.
His eyes, though, were what caught Aramis' attention. The dark eyes were wide with worry and not one shred of hostility. And there was…something there – something familiar.
"'S all right," the hulk of a man soothed. "You're safe."
Aramis blinked again and something triggered in his pounding brain. He knew that voice. He knew that voice better than he knew anything else right now.
"Porth's?" he realized, confusion crashing down on him.
Why was Porthos here? He couldn't be here, it wasn't safe.
"No te puedes estar aquí," (You can't be here,) he said.
Porthos frowned, glancing to the older man standing next to him.
"It's not safe," Aramis went on, heart thumping hard and fast in his chest. Porthos couldn't be here. "It's not safe!" he stated more firmly. He had to make him understand. Porthos needed to get out of here before it was too late.
But instead of fleeing, Porthos drew closer. He went into a crouch once he was within arms' reach.
"It's all right," Porthos said again. "You're safe now."
Aramis frowned.
"No," he argued, pushing off the ground with his elbow and reaching out. The pistol fell, unfired, to the ground. Porthos met his trembling hand with his own and Aramis used the grip as leverage to haul himself up. Immediately, the world started twisting and turning and a sharp pain pulsed through his head. He clenched his eyes closed, trying to wait for it to pass – for all of it to pass.
Strong arms caught him around the shoulders, keeping him from crashing back down.
"Easy," a deep voice rumbled near his ear. Porthos. "I've got you, 'Mis."
'Mis.
His mother had called him 'Mis. She's the only one who had ever done that before now.
"P'th's."
"I'm here," that voice assured.
"You can't be," Aramis insisted. He forced his eyes open and turned towards the voice. He met Porthos' worried gaze. "No esta seguro…" (It's not safe…) he breathed. When the words didn't inspire immediate action, Aramis said them again, more forcefully. "¡No esta seguro, Porthos!"
Porthos' gaze was confused, but his voice remained calm and steady.
"It's all right, 'Mis."
No. No it wasn't. Nothing was all right.
Why couldn't he breathe?
"Aramis," a new voice echoed from over his shoulder, "you need to calm down and breathe, son."
Aramis turned his head, eyes searching.
Treville.
Relief swept through him.
Treville was here. Treville had always protected him.
One arm was still tangled up with Porthos, keeping him from collapsing in a heap, but Aramis reached for Treville with the other.
The captain caught his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Aramis opened his mouth, intent on issuing the same warning to his captain that he'd tried to communicate – poorly apparently – to Porthos. But his vision trembled and his voice stuck in his throat.
Sharp, pulsing pain shot through his head and the world went white.
"Aramis?"
"Aramis!"
He tried to speak again, despite the fact that the only thing he was really aware of anymore was pain. His vision faded back and he caught a glimpse of worried eyes and concerned faces for only a moment before gray started to invade.
He'd failed. They didn't understand. He hadn't made them understand.
They would die here with him now.
He wanted to apologize. He wanted to beg their forgiveness for failing them.
But before he could manage anything more than a stuttered breath, the gray turned to black.
Porthos caught Aramis against his chest as the marksman slumped bonelessly against him.
"Aramis?!" he called, worry making his voice gruff and sharp.
Treville pressed his fingers against Aramis' throat and Porthos – along with Gaston and Demonte – held their breath as they waited.
"He's alive," Treville announced, expelling a relieved sigh.
"I think he was a bit confused," Demonte commented.
Porthos gave the other man a sarcastic glare.
"A bit," he agreed with snarl. "His head's been bashed in. What do you expect!".
"Porthos," Treville warned sharply. He waited for Porthos to release Demonte from his glare before going on. "We need to get him back to town, have him seen by a physician. Gaston, Demonte, pack the camp," Treville ordered. Once they'd both moved away, Treville turned his full attention back to Porthos and the dangerously still bundle in his arms.
For a long moment, Treville just stared at them. The look in his eyes, usually so calm and unflappable, was like nothing Porthos had ever seen before. He didn't even know how to describe it. It went beyond simple worry, beyond devastation.
But then, in a blink, the look was gone and Treville was back to the steel-strong captain that Porthos had come to know.
"Redress yourself. There's no room in the cart so he'll have to ride with someone," Treville decided.
For Porthos, there was no need to consider.
"He'll ride with me."
Treville smiled patiently and warmly.
"You are the largest of us, Porthos…"
"Which means I'll have the easiest time of it keeping him in the saddle," Porthos growled. "The horse won't tire, we've not that far to go, and certainly won't be moving quickly."
Treville held up a hand to quiet him.
"If you'd let me finish, I was going to agree with you."
Porthos, mouth open to argue further, released the breath he'd drawn in and let his mouth close again. He gave Treville a curt nod but then only stared at him when the captain reached to take Aramis from him.
Treville's gaze softened again and he moved his hand to grip Porthos' shoulder.
"I'll take care of him," the captain assured, reaching with his other hand for the nearest blanket.
Reluctantly, Porthos eased the unconscious marksman into Treville's waiting arms, watching the captain carefully wrap the retrieved blanket around him. Only then was he able to force himself to move.
As he found his clothes and began to redress, his gaze was continually drawn back to Aramis and Treville. Other than to wrap a second blanket around the injured Musketeer, neither had moved. Treville sat, Aramis cradled in his arms, head bent low and mouth moving with words Porthos was too far away to hear.
Everyone in the regiment knew Aramis had been one of the original five Musketeers, hand chosen by Treville when he was only eighteen years old. Everyone knew, though it was never explicitly stated, that Treville was shepherding Aramis along to one day take over the mantel as the captain of the Musketeers.
But in this moment, Porthos did not see a captain and his soldier. He didn't even see a mentor and his protégé. What he saw, as he watched Treville with Aramis was…something more.
The scene reminded him of an accident from his youth in which a childhood friend had been struck in the chest by a horse's kick. The boy's father had held him as he struggled for breath, had whispered quietly to him with a voice too low for any other soul to hear.
However surprising the revelation, it was impossible not to see the same bond in the two men before him now.
He kept waiting for Treville to notice his stare, but even by the time he had buttoned his heavy cloak around his shoulders, the captain had not once raised his lowered head. Porthos retrieved an extra shirt from his hastily packed saddle bags and then Aramis' discarded trousers and boots. He brought them over to Treville and knelt beside him.
"…-est men I've ever known. So be that man now and fight," Treville was whispering.
Porthos hesitated, but then cleared his throat.
"Captain."
Treville's head rose immediately, expression expertly schooled. Porthos held up the retrieved clothing demonstratively and Treville nodded.
Ten minutes later found Porthos astride a horse with Aramis being carefully handed up to him by Treville and Gaston. He tried to not be completely overridden by concern and fear when Aramis had no reaction at all, not even an involuntary whimper of pain, from all the movement.
When the marksman was finally settled before him, carefully bundled in blankets, Porthos wrapped his arms around either side of him and took the reins that Demonte offered him.
"Got him?" Treville asked, hands still hovering near Aramis' leg.
Porthos gave another curt nod.
He had him and he did not intend to let go any time soon.
End of Chapter Five
So they've got him, but this, of course, is only the beginning. Head wounds are such nasty business and those of you that have been reading my little fics for this 'verse so far know that this one sticks with Aramis for years to come. More to come tomorrow!
Drop me a line if you please. I would love to hear from you!
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
"I remember thinking I had never met a soldier with such a bright disposition before or such an easy demeanor," the captain went on. "Nothing ever fazed him, nothing ever gave him pause or made him flinch. He could adapt and adjust to circumstances like few I'd ever seen."
Treville leaned forward, brushing his fingers over Aramis' wrist before withdrawing again.
"But most of all, what I remember most about him from that time, and what holds true even now, is this…"
Porthos waited, watching Treville expectantly.
"He survives."