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Chapter Six: When You Call and Need Me Near
Because brothers don't let each other wander in the dark alone.
Jolene Perry
April 4, 1625
Outlying Village, Savoy
Porthos rubbed wearily at his eyes and shifted in the hard wooden chair he'd pulled close to the bed Aramis now lay in.
The physician had only just left. Treville was seeing him back to his horse even now.
Gaston and Demonte were seeking out a safe place to keep the cart until they could begin the journey back to Paris. Which left Porthos to sit with Aramis – an outcome he was more than happy with.
His place was here, after all, at his brother's side. The thought of being anywhere but at Aramis' side made his chest tighten. Even unconscious as he was, Aramis' presence still brought him comfort.
It didn't make sense, he knew, to feel such dedication. The duration of their friendship had been short up to this point. He should not feel so tied to this man.
But, without real reason, he did. He could not explain the bond between them and he hoped he never had to try and imagine his life without it.
Being around Aramis, before all this had happened, had felt…warming. It had been as if they had been kindred spirits, however impossible Porthos knew that to be. Aramis was nothing like him, had lived nothing like the life Porthos had. The young marksman should not have felt so instantly familiar. Being around him should not have felt like coming home.
But it had.
Porthos sighed and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and fixing his gaze on the injured marksman.
Aramis stirred restlessly, but showed no signs of waking.
The physician had callously sheared away and shaved over half of Aramis' hair to properly clean and bandage both the obvious wound on his temple and a wound on the back of his head that Porthos hadn't even known about. He had clucked about the fever that had slowly tightened its grip, murmured about the miracle that all Aramis' fingers and toes appeared intact despite spending several nights in the frozen forest. Then he had gone on to marvel at how, after over five days, no infection had set in.
The fever, he'd said, could be a result of a number of things and it was impossible to know exactly what was causing it. The bottom line was simply that Aramis' body had been through an ordeal and it was suffering for it.
The physician had left a drought of herbs to help with the fever and another for any pain once Aramis was awake enough to drink them.
If he was ever awake enough.
Despite their insistence that Aramis had been awake and talking – albeit without great lucidity – the physician cautioned them of the unpredictability of head wounds. A man could be fine one moment, seem completely sound, and then the next be dead on the ground. In short, Porthos had taken that to mean they should not rest their hopes on those moments of confused awareness from the forest.
Aramis could easily never wake again and there was nothing to be done for it. All they could do was wait.
Porthos reached to remove the damp cloth from Aramis' forehead just as Treville re-entered the room. The captain silently watched Porthos rewet the cloth and carefully rub it over Aramis' heaving chest as he labored over every breath.
"He'll be horrified when he wakes to half his hair gone," Porthos commented just to break the silence. His words seem to spur Treville back to life and the older soldier moved, dragging over a second chair to take up sentry at Porthos' side.
"Yes, but even his horror will fall far short of the heartbreak the women of Paris will feel until it starts to grow back," Treville replied with a faint, slightly forced chuckle.
Porthos grinned.
"You say that as if having no hair will make any difference in that regard."
Treville huffed a real laugh now, fidgeting with something in his hands that Porthos hadn't noticed until now.
Aramis' hat.
Treville hadn't had it when he'd left the room earlier. He must have retrieved it from the things they recovered from the camp.
"He'll be glad to have that back," Porthos nodded towards the headwear, watching Treville absently stroke the feather. "I've never seen a man so attached to a hat before."
The smile that turned up the corners of Treville's mouth only lasted a breath, but it was full of warmth and affection.
"Yes, well, he's had it since he became a Musketeer."
Porthos rewet the cloth again and snuck a glance at Treville over his shoulder. There was more to that story, he was sure of it. Treville was looking down at the hat now, eyes reflective.
"Should I shave it?" Porthos asked after a moment.
Treville looked up at him with a confused blink.
"The rest of his hair," Porthos explained. "Better an even shave, do you think? Rather than this half job mess?"
Treville considered for a moment and then nodded.
They spent the next hour gently and carefully working together to trim away and shave the rest of Aramis' long hair. That done, they settled back in their chairs to wait.
Demonte and Gaston appeared bearing trays of food at one point, and sat with them for a while even after the food was gone. Then, as evening fell, Treville shooed them to their own room to rest. He tried to send Porthos away as well, but Porthos flatly refused and Treville did not push further.
And they waited.
It was only a couple of hours into the night when Aramis started dreaming. While that seemed a comfort in a way, since it suggested his mind was still intact, it was also a curse because Aramis talked as much in his fevered dreams as he did when he was awake.
"Shhh," Treville soothed as Porthos stood to mop Aramis' hot face, carefully mindful of the bandage wrapped around his head. "You're safe," he assured as he used a second cloth to wipe down Aramis' chest.
The words seemed to have no affect as Aramis continued to writhe on the bed, growing more and more agitated as time wore on.
"Masks…" Aramis mumbled, "cowards… The leader, Marsac… Marsac…no me dejes aquí…" (don't leave me here...)
Next to him, Treville went still.
"What does that mean?" Porthos demanded. "What's he sayin'?"
Treville opened his mouth to answer, but Aramis spoke again, a hand lifting from the mattress as if reaching for something…or someone.
"Please…don't… Todos muertos… Marsac…don't leave me here…"
Porthos met Treville's gaze, feeling hot fury rise in his chest. Treville's eyes had hardened to ice at the implication of those fevered words.
"Does that mean what I think it means?" Porthos asked lowly, anger turning his voice into a growl.
If it did…if Marsac had abandoned Aramis during the fight…
"Marsac wasn't amongst the dead," Treville revealed. "I was going to tell you earlier, but we had more pressing matters to concern ourselves with."
Porthos sank down to his chair, breath catching in his chest.
Don't leave me here.
The whispered, fevered words seemed to hover in the air, taunting them with a truth they did not yet know.
What had Marsac done?
"We don't know anything for certain," Treville pointed out firmly. "What matters most, in this moment, is Aramis."
As if spurred by the words, Aramis started writhing even more, his right hand grasping at the bedsheets, searching for something.
"No…no… This is not…this isn't…" his breathing sped up, chest heaving as he gasped in air. "Este no es mi día para morir," (This is not my day to die,) he practically snarled.
"Aramis," Treville pitched his voice low and calm, pressing his hand carefully against Aramis' chest, "you're safe."
But Aramis did not calm; if anything he grew more agitated. His head rocked back and forth on the pillow, brow furrowed against pain even unconsciousness didn't spare him from.
"Easy, 'Mis," Porthos tried, smoothing his hand over Aramis' pinched brow and then skimming it carefully back over his shaven head. "I've got your back now. And no harm's comin' to you on my watch."
Aramis' erratic movements slowed, his head tilting slightly towards Porthos.
"He heard you," Treville concluded, sounding both relieved and very sad.
"It's a coincidence is all," Porthos argued quietly as he absently stroked his hand over Aramis' head, mindful of the bandaging.
"Either way," Treville replied wearily, "it's working."
Sure enough, Aramis' breathing was evening out and his writhing was settling. When he finally calmed back into a somewhat peaceful rest, Porthos sat back again.
"What if he doesn't wake up?" Porthos asked quietly, eyes fixed on Aramis' lax face. He eyed the bandaging over the gruesome gash on his temple. It had been too late for needlework, the physician had said. After five days, the wound had already begun to knit and the scar left behind would be a nasty one. But, the bulk of it was far enough behind his hairline that it would be hidden once his flowing locks returned to their former glory.
Next to him, Treville shifted.
"I've known Aramis for a very long time," the captain began quietly, but steadily. "He was just a boy, only seventeen years old, when I met him."
"I thought he was eighteen when he was commissioned," Porthos wondered in confusion.
"He was, but I had known him for over a year before that. I met him before the Musketeers had ever even been a thought in the king's mind."
"What was he like then?" Porthos wondered, trying to imagine Aramis younger, less sure of himself.
"I was a boy amongst men," Aramis had told him once. "Hardly certain of my place and unwilling to jeopardize it."
"Much as he is now," Treville answered easily, a glance in his direction revealed the older soldier to be smiling fondly, gaze reflective. "A fair bit more reckless, if you can believe such a thing is possible, but no less fearlessly brave. He was very young, though, too young for what was being asked of him."
Porthos looked fully at Treville now, curiosity bubbling.
"What was being asked of him?"
Treville's blue eyes came back into focus and he glanced first at Porthos and then settled his gaze back on Aramis.
"Too much," he answered vaguely. "Those stories are his to tell, not mine."
Porthos nodded, accepting.
"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."
Porthos felt his breath catch again at those two simple words.
He survives.
Those words spoke of strength that had been tested and that had endured.
"He will survive this," Treville stated firmly, leaving no room for argument or doubt.
Which was just as well because Porthos did not intend to do either.
"Porthos!"
Porthos jerked awake, nearly falling from his chair.
He blinked around the dark room blearily, trying to locate the origin of the call.
There, bathed in candlelight, Treville was struggling to hold a flailing Aramis to the bed.
Porthos was out of his chair in a breath and leaning over the marksman, helping Treville hold him down. The first thing that struck him was the heat. Aramis' skin was burning with a fever so much higher than before.
"What happened?" he asked gruffly, using his shoulder to rub at his weary eyes. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it seemed his body had made that decision without his consent.
"The dreams have been getting worse," Treville replied sharply. "He's torn open the wound on his leg."
Porthos' gaze snapped down to the bandage wrapped around Aramis' thigh to find it stained bright red.
"I can't get him to calm," Treville ground out as he narrowly avoided a knee to the ribs.
"Aramis!" Porthos called out immediately, pressing his palm to the marksman's forehead.
He nearly jumped away in shock when Aramis' eyes snapped open. The brown gaze was bright with fever and looked a step shy of lucid.
"Marsac!" Aramis gasped, hands wrapping like vices around Porthos' arm.
"It's Porthos," he explained gently, ignoring the fingers digging painfully into his skin.
"Porthos?" Aramis stared up at him, but despite the alertness the questioning call suggested, he still looked completely unaware of his surroundings.
"Yeah, 'Mis. It's Porthos."
Aramis blinked at him.
"'Mis…" he repeated breathily. "Mamá…" Before Porthos could do more than exchange a confused glance with Treville, Aramis' hands tightened their already bruising grip on Porthos' arm.
"Porthos, don't go," Aramis pleaded, eyes wide and frantic. "No me dejes aquí...por favor…" (Don't leave me here...please…)
"No one is leaving you, Aramis," Treville assured quietly, but Aramis' dark gaze remained pinned on Porthos.
"Por favor…" (Please…) Aramis' hands clawed their way up Porthos' arm until his fingers were twisted into the shirt over his chest. "Don't leave me here."
"I won't," Porthos promised, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I won't leave you. I'm not going anywhere, 'Mis. I promise."
For several long, heavy moments Aramis just stared at him, his brown eyes wide and vulnerable.
"Rest now," Porthos urged, carefully peeling Aramis' hands off his shirt and easing the other man back onto the bed. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Aramis' eyes closed and he settled back to sleep with a sigh.
Porthos pressed his palm again to Aramis' brow and then slid it back over his scalp, hoping the gesture was a comfort.
He didn't notice Treville had backed away until the man spoke from near the door.
"I'll fetch the physician," he announced gruffly, a note of something in his voice that had Porthos turning to assess him.
Treville was watching Aramis with a sort of sadness in his eyes.
It struck Porthos that perhaps, in the past, it had been Treville's voice, Treville's assurance that Aramis had sought in moments like this.
"I'm sorry," Porthos blurted, but he didn't step back from his place hovering over Aramis, didn't remove his hand from the marksman's brow.
Treville met his gaze, then, and shook his head.
"Don't be. It's for the best, I think."
Porthos frowned, puzzling over what the captain meant by that. But before he could work it out, Treville had slipped out the door.
Treville kept his steps calm and controlled as he moved down the hallway, away from their room. He remained cool and collected as he descended the steps and kept his voice steady and polite as he asked the innkeeper for directions to the physician.
It wasn't until he stepped out into the cold, crisp night air that he felt his well-practiced mask start slip.
Seeing any of his men injured had never been easy to take, but Aramis had always been different. Seeing the young marksman grievously wounded had always hit him harder than when it was one of the other Musketeers. It was the duration of his relationship with the boy that made it so, that and Aramis' habit of making light of his own injuries.
The young soldier possessed an amazing capacity for enduring pain and his fortitude had, thus far, known no bounds. This had often led Treville into a false sense of security when it came to the youngest – and the most reckless – of his original five Musketeers.
Aramis shrugged off things like knife wounds and minor musket ball injuries like most men shrugged off scrapes and bruises. So when Aramis was actually affected by a wound, when an injury actually succeeded in stripping away the marksman's typical bravado, Treville was often left shocked by the sheer severity of it. Because if Aramis wasn't brushing it off, if he wasn't hopping back up with a smile and a laugh, then he was likely on death's door or drawing near to it.
Aramis had only been injured to such an extreme a handful of times in the years Treville had known him. It hadn't yet gotten any easier to witness, but this time…this time was worse.
He had always been there, at Aramis' side, in the past. He'd been the one Aramis clutched at when the pain was beyond what he could bear. He'd been the one who Aramis called for when the reality of his injury set in and the fear took hold.
But not today.
Today, it had been Porthos' touch that calmed him, Porthos' words that settled him. Porthos had been the one he clutched at.
It had hurt, more than it should have. He should be grateful, he knew, that Aramis was finding any sort of comfort at all. He should be relieved that Aramis had found such a trusted friend, a brother. But still…he felt the loss of no longer being the one Aramis turned to.
But he had been speaking the truth when he told Porthos that it was for the best.
Treville had caused this, after all.
He had been the one to send Aramis here. He had given that order. And worse, he had a horrible feeling that he had been the reason their attackers had known their location.
From the moment Louis had given him the order to send word of his men's position to the Duke of Savoy, his instincts – bred and honed through a lifetime of soldiering – had warned him something was badly wrong. It was why he'd sent the scout, Anton, after them.
He had prayed, every night since then, that his gut feeling would be proven wrong.
Instead, he found himself with the blood of twenty dead on his hands. He found himself haunted by Marsac's disappearance. He found himself gutted in the face of Aramis' uncertain future.
Would he wake? It seemed he might. But would he be Aramis when he did? Would he be the young man Treville had shepherded into manhood? Who he'd trained and guided along the path of becoming a Musketeer? Time would tell. In his years of battle experience, Treville had seen men lose themselves to the horrors of what they'd witnessed, of what they'd done, and what had been done to them. He'd seen men waste away to nothing as they were buried beneath the weight of such memories.
Would Aramis become one of these men? A broken soldier? A spent warrior? Would his life be ended when he had only just begun to live it?
Treville reached for the wall of the building he walked next to, using it to keep himself from going to his knees as his legs betrayed him.
God, what had he done?
If what he suspected had happened was indeed the truth, then he had betrayed his own men. He had given their location to a man intent to do them harm.
He had done this.
He had gone through it in his mind, over and over, on the trip here from Paris. He'd tried to figure out why. He'd tried to understand why the duke would betray the king in such a way. He did not believe such a thing could be mere coincidence. The duke had done this, every instinct told him it was so. But why? For now, he had no answer.
Nor did he have any idea how he was going to face Aramis when the Musketeer was alert enough to comprehend the world around him. How could he ever look the young man in the eye again after this?
Aramis would not blame him. This he knew with certainty.
"We're soldiers, Captain," he'd say. "We follow our orders no matter where they lead…even to death."
Familiar words.
It had been the justification Aramis had given him when they'd first met all those years ago. When Treville had come across a wandering young soldier, he'd thought him to be a deserter. He soon found out the boy was a French spy returning from a clandestine mission across the border.
Seventeen years old, Aramis had been. Seventeen and his commanding officer had turned him into a spy because he looked the part and spoke the language.
He'd been too young for such a burden, too young to have so much asked of him.
But Aramis had been of a different mind on the matter. He was a soldier, through and through, and he was loyal. He was loyal even to that bastard of a commander. He had taken Treville's concern and righteous anger over the whole situation and laughed at it. Then he'd looked him directly in the eye and said those words, sounding decades older and wiser than he was. He'd said them to him again after the mess with Darío Medina left him very nearly dead. Treville, himself, had used those words when explaining unwelcome or dangerous orders to his men.
No, if Aramis knew the whole story, he would never hold it against him.
But that – that disregard for the value of his own life – was always hard to face. Aramis had always been quick to dismiss his own life if he thought a greater purpose would be served. It was noble and heroic and so very brave. As a captain it made Treville fiercely proud. But as a friend and a pseudo-father it drove him absolutely mad.
And he would not keep the truth from him. Everything between them would change if he did. Even now, seeing how Aramis had suffered – was suffering – was a physically painful thing. Further, Aramis – being Aramis – would blame himself. He was good at that, at seeing how he had failed when things went wrong. He was quick to excuse the shortcomings of others, but never his own.
He would tell him, confess the whole awful truth of what he'd done, when Aramis was well enough to hear it. Until then, Treville would bear the burden.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, he straightened his shoulders and pushed away from the wall that had held him up, continuing on his way.
"Somebody has to take the bodies back to Paris," Gaston whispered as the four of them sat around the small table across the room from where Aramis continued to suffer through his relentless fever.
"I'm not leavin'," Porthos declared firmly.
"I would not ask you to," Treville replied immediately, much to Porthos' relief.
Treville had returned with the physician a few hours ago and the man had rebound Aramis' leg. He'd fretted about the fever, suggesting leeches.
Treville, to Porthos' surprise, had firmly objected and had refused to be swayed. The physician had relented.
Morning had now come, and Aramis was no better. Porthos and Treville had worked tirelessly to cool his scorching skin, but so far their efforts had been fruitless.
Aramis, for his part, continued to dream. And, just as before, somehow Porthos continued to be the only one able to calm him. Somehow, through the fever induced delirium, Aramis heard him.
"We need to get back to Paris," Treville went on. "There are precious few men left to carry out our duties and the king needs to be informed about what happened. We cannot linger any longer."
Porthos watched Treville's gaze shift over to Aramis.
"Gaston and I can take the cart," Demonte suggested. "You, Captain, can ride ahead to Paris if need be."
"I'll not ask the two of you to bear that burden alone. I will ride with you. Porthos will remain behind with Aramis until he is well enough to travel."
The decision made, Gaston and Demonte left to gather their things. Both, though, paused by Aramis' bed to lightly touch the marksman's shoulder and whisper words of farewell.
Then, once again, Treville and Porthos were alone.
"If I had my way, I'd stay until his fever broke," Treville revealed as he returned to Aramis' side and reached for one of the cloths they'd been using to keep him cool.
Porthos didn't know what to say, so he just hummed a vague response and returned to his chair near the bed.
After a moment of silence, Treville spoke again, eyes pinned suddenly on Porthos.
"You are completely devoted to him, aren't you? And yet you've only known him a short time."
Porthos blinked, feeling suddenly as if his motives were being called into question.
"Things between me and him, they were easy from the start. Something about him and something about me… Our friendship feels fated, in a way. I promise you, Captain, he'll find no more devoted a brother in all his days."
Treville held his gaze seriously for a long moment. Then, he smiled slightly.
"That's a comfort to hear," the captain replied as he looked back down at the unconscious marksman. Then he backed away, handing the cloth over to Porthos. "Then I leave him in your capable hands, Porthos."
"I'll take care of him."
Treville nodded and turned to gather his things. He knelt by Aramis one final time before he left, resting a hand on the Musketeer's shoulder and leaning close.
"We've much to talk about, you and I, when you are well again. See that you don't keep me waiting too long in that regard."
Then Treville was gone and Porthos was alone.
The weight of the huge responsibility he'd been left with settled heavily on his shoulders and he pulled his chair even closer to the bed.
"You can't die now, 'Mis," he whispered. "I think he might kill me if you do."
The entire day and half the night passed with no change. Then, as Porthos fought off sleep in his chair, he noticed sweat glistening on Aramis' skin.
He sat forward abruptly, pressing his hand to Aramis' chest.
Still uncomfortably warm, but noticeably cooler than it had been an hour ago.
The fever was breaking.
Feeling weak, Porthos dropped his head down to rest on the bed near Aramis' elbow and wept. He didn't even try to blame it on exhaustion, though he was sure that played a part. Instead, he readily admitted to himself the tears came from pure emotion, namely relief.
When he opened his eyes again, the morning sun was pouring through the window.
Porthos sat up with a start, heart pounding when he realized he'd fallen asleep.
On the bed, Aramis lay unmoving, the heaving chest and writhing movements nowhere to be seen.
Terrified Aramis had died while he slept, he pressed a hand to the marksman's chest and studied his lax face closely.
Ribs rose and fell easily and smoothly beneath his palm and Aramis' skin was cool to the touch.
The worst had finally passed.
"Devil's luck you've got, brother," Porthos mused.
With a relieved sigh, he forced himself to his feet and stretched his aching back.
He walked to the leftover food from dinner the night before and munched a piece of bread. He downed the entire glass of wine in one go and wished idly for another.
Porthos was just preparing to perhaps go in search of a whole bottle when a moan from the bed had him dropping the glass to the table with a crack and rushing back to his Aramis' side.
"Aramis?" he called gently, trying to rouse the man from slumber.
Aramis' brow furrowed and then, without any further delay, his eyes fluttered open.
Porthos smiled, feeling once again weak with relief.
"There you are," he greeted. "Beginin' to worry you were gone for good."
Aramis grimaced, swallowing thickly. His hand drifted clumsily to his head and Porthos caught it gently.
"Easy," he soothed. "Best not go fumblin' about up there just yet."
Aramis' eyes were confused and exhausted, but more lucid than Porthos had seen them since Aramis rode out for Savoy nearly three weeks ago.
"¿Que pasó?" (What happened?) he murmured, voice gravelly with sleep and lack of use.
Porthos reached for the water pitcher beside the bed and poured the liquid into the cup he'd had ready for this moment.
"Here." He helped Aramis lift his head and pressed the cup to his lips. "Slowly now. You've not eaten proper in days and this might unsettle you."
Aramis obediently drank and didn't protest when Porthos took the cup away.
"¿Que pasó?" he asked again.
Porthos shook his head.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he admitted.
Aramis seemed immediately aware of what the problem was and grimaced. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for his head again, and Porthos preemptively caught it in his own again.
"Sorry," Aramis mumbled. "I can't… I don't always realize…"
"No harm done," Porthos assured.
"What…" Aramis paused, wincing against some hidden pain, and clenching his eyes closed. A breath later he forced them open again. "What happened?"
Porthos considered him carefully.
"You don't remember?"
"I, uh…" Aramis blinked and frowned. His hand, still trapped by Porthos', twitched again. "I don't…" His frown deepened and the confusion in his gaze told the truth of the of matter well enough.
"Easy," Porthos soothed as he saw agitation rising in his friend's dark eyes. "It'll come back soon enough, no need to rush it. Just rest now. I've a draught for pain if you need it."
Aramis shook his head slightly only to pale dangerously and clench his eyes closed.
"Yeah, best not be jostlin' that head of yours around too much. You took quite the knock. Changed your mind on that pain draught?"
They stayed in a tense silence while Aramis took carefully controlled breathes. His hand, previously restrained by Porthos, was now gripping Porthos' so tightly his fingers were going numb.
"'Mis?"
"Not certain I could keep it down," Aramis finally admitted as he forced his eyes open and met Porthos' gaze. "Actually fairly certain I couldn't."
"Bloody head wounds," Porthos grumbled in sympathy.
Aramis hummed a vague agreement, eyes falling closed again.
Porthos might have thought he'd fallen back asleep if not for the crushing grip of his hand. He didn't complain, though, instead just waited patiently. If squeezing the life out of Porthos' hand gave Aramis some comfort, he'd gladly make the sacrifice and then offer up his other hand as well.
"Porthos?" Aramis asked eventually.
"Hmm?"
Aramis opened his eyes again, weary brown gaze finding Porthos'.
"What happened?"
Porthos sighed and lightly returned a bit of the grip Aramis had on his hand. He'd meant it as a comfort, but it seemed only to draw Aramis' attention to their joined appendages. A moment later, Aramis' hand withdrew.
"Don't worry about that now, 'Mis. Just rest."
Aramis looked for a moment like he would argue, but exhaustion seemed to win out in the end.
"'Mis…" Aramis mused as he let his eyes fall closed again. "My mother called me 'Mis."
"I'm sorry," Porthos offered contritely, not sure if him using the nickname was altogether welcome now.
"No," Aramis sighed. "Don't mind it from you so much…"
"Generous of you," Porthos teased gently.
He saw a ghost of a smile twitch across Aramis lips before he relaxed against the mattress and his breathing evened out in sleep.
The first thing Aramis was aware of when he forced away the shroud of sleep again was a nagging, throbbing pain in his head, focused somewhere above his right ear. Nothing to be done for that, he did his best to ignore it. In doing so, he became aware of a few more things.
A gnawing hunger, a faint stench of sweat, a less intense ache of pain in his leg, a vague ache in his side, a weight of something on his wrist, and something coarse brushing against his arm. Intrigued now, Aramis forced his eyes open.
Or he tried to. It took several attempts before he actually succeeded.
He didn't understand how he could feel so exhausted before he'd even properly woken up.
Finally, though, he got his eyes open and found himself looking at a dirty, slightly rotted ceiling. Frowning – because the ceiling in his quarters at the Garrison were neither dirty nor rotted – he opened his mouth to call out for Marsac.
A vision, fragmented memories really, flashed through his mind – Marsac staring at him from the midst of a forest of bodies. Marsac dropping his uniform. Marsac walking away even as Aramis called out for him.
Snapping his mouth closed, Aramis felt an unfamiliar feeling rise in his chest: betrayal.
Marsac, his closest friend, the man more like a brother than his true brother had ever been, had left him to die alone. The brotherhood they'd built had meant nothing in the end.
Aramis swallowed and closed his eyes as more memory filtered in slowly as broken, disjointed pieces. He saw flashes of a battle, images of men in masks, memories of his dead brothers all around him. Pain flared in his leg as he recalled pieces of his battle with the leader, his hand twitching as he remembered slashing the man across the back. He had to clench his eyes closed again when a sharp pain lanced through his head – though he couldn't remember what had caused it.
They were all dead. All twenty men he'd led into Savoy, save Marsac. Marsac was gone, had abandoned his duty, had abandoned him when he'd needed him the most.
Aramis lifted his hand, mindless of the weight on it and reached to touch his head, trying vainly to ease the throbbing within his skull.
A sharp intake of breath nearby startled Aramis into opening his eyes again. He found a familiar pair of brown eyes blinking down at him in sleepy confusion.
"You're awake," Porthos realized blearily.
Aramis stared at him.
When had Porthos gotten here? When had he…? Another memory, even vaguer than the others, drifted across his mind. A voice. A constant voice amidst his nightmares, grounding him, guiding him back.
"You don't remember being awake before, do you?" Porthos asked suddenly, perhaps seeing something in Aramis' face.
Aramis started to shake his head – because no he didn't – but aborted the movement immediately when it sharpened the pain there.
"Yeah," Porthos sighed out a weary chuckle, "if you did, you'd remember not to do that again any time soon."
Aramis frowned at him.
"Why are you here?" Aramis asked, only to wince when he heard the hoarseness of his own voice.
"Here," Porthos offered, retrieving a cup from somewhere beyond Aramis' view. He reached for Aramis' head, likely to lift it so he could drink, but Aramis found himself shying away from the touch.
Porthos blinked at him in confusion.
"Would you rather I propped you up with pillows?" Porthos guessed, brushing off the reaction. A moment later, Aramis found himself being gently levered up and new pillows being stuffed in behind him. Porthos eased him back against them and offered the cup again.
Aramis took it, glaring at his hand as it shook, and then glaring at Porthos when he reached to help. He ended up spilling a fair bit down into his beard, but managed to drink some as well. Porthos took the cup back before Aramis could attempt to set it aside himself – or drop it as would likely have been the actual result.
"Think you could eat?" Porthos asked. "The 'keeper brought some broth. Still warm now, I expect."
Aramis stared at him again, wondering for the second time when exactly Porthos had gotten here.
"'Mis?"
Aramis' gaze sharpened to a glare. His mother had called him 'Mis, no one else.
"Don't call me that."
Porthos blinked in surprise, looking genuinely shocked.
"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately.
"What are you doing here?" Aramis demanded, eyes flashing to the door at the sound of boots out in the hallway. He tensed, waiting to see if the sound heralded a new attack, but the boot steps faded away. He turned his gaze warily back to Porthos.
"We came for you," Porthos explained slowly, "after what happened." He paused. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked hesitantly.
Aramis glared and let that be answer enough.
"You do," Porthos realized, something like sympathy rising in his gaze.
Aramis didn't know why, but the sight of it angered him.
"Where's Treville?" he demanded. If they knew what had happened, if Porthos was here, then Treville would have come too.
"He's not here," Porthos revealed. "He's on his way back to Paris with…" he hesitated, "with the others."
Aramis blinked and Porthos was gone. In his place, Aramis saw frozen bodies, blood stained snow, and oppressive trees. His breath caught and he brought up a hand to cover his eyes, trying to banish the memory.
"Aramis?" Porthos' voice was rich with worry and concern.
Something ignited in Aramis, something dark and angry. He couldn't even say where it came from, only that it was suddenly there. He knew that he was not a cruel man. He was not, by nature, harsh or cold.
But he also knew that he had a temper.
It was not easy to spark; his easy going, cavalier personality usually balanced any negative feelings before they could become anything more than a thought. But, when his temper ignited, it burned hot and fast. Marc had told him once, back in their shared infantry days, that Aramis was like gunpowder. On his own, he was cool and loose, seemed from a distance no more dangerous than a grain of sand. But up close, he was darker and held an air of undeniable danger. And most importantly, when sparked – he exploded.
He didn't know why Porthos' genuine concern for him, his sympathy and worry, grated at him, but it did.
"Go," he hissed, dropping his hand to glare at the wall across from him.
"What?" The shock in Porthos' voice was real and the large man froze where he sat.
"Go. Leave. I don't want you here."
As soon as he said it, something in his chest tightened, rebelling against his own words. The thought of being left alone, even just in this room, sent his heart thundering against his ribs.
"Aramis…" Porthos tried again.
Aramis clenched his jaw, closing his eyes as his emotions went to war within him. The anger, hot and bright, was still there. But there was fear as well. Heart pounding, breath stealing fear.
"Leave me!" he snapped, the anger making his voice hard and sharp. He did not want Porthos to witness his weakness. He did not want his concern or his worry. He was having a hard enough time holding himself together as it was.
But…even as he felt the rage burning through him, another traitorous thought whispered through his mind.
Don't leave me here.
The very thought of Porthos doing as he had demanded and walking out that door sent his hands trembling and brought sweat to his brow.
When Porthos shifted in his seat, Aramis had to fight back the urge to reach out and grab him, to hold him in place, to beg him to stay.
Porthos went still again and Aramis wondered if he'd given away the conflict raging inside him.
"You asked me not to," the larger man revealed.
Aramis frowned. He had done just the opposite.
"When?" he demanded.
"When you were taken with fever," Porthos admitted. "You begged me to stay."
Aramis frowned, missing the furrow of confused concern in Porthos' brow.
Don't leave me here.
Had he said the words aloud in his delirium? Had he begged Porthos to stay by his side like a frightened child? Surely he hadn't. Surely he hadn't been that weak. His father's voice rumbled lowly through his mind, reminding him of the lessons so firmly taught in his youth.
If you cannot stand alone, you do not deserve to stand at all.
The d'Herblay name represents strength not weakness.
Weakness. A forbidden trait in his father's world.
Are you weak, Rene?
He had never been allowed the chance. His father had gone to great lengths to ensure his son would never be an embarrassment to him.
You will not be weak.
He wouldn't be.
"Hardly in my right mind, then," he hissed defensively at Porthos.
Aramis clenched his mouth closed after that, barely believing his own words. Porthos was his friend, had been well on his way to being as much a brother as Marsac had been. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Marsac had betrayed him, betrayed their brotherhood. If he could not trust Marsac when it mattered most, then how could he ever trust anyone else?
"I'm not leaving," Porthos decided, tone unyielding.
"Fine." Aramis fixed his gaze on the wall and tried to sort out if he was relieved or angered by Porthos' resolve.
They sat in a charged silence for a moment.
"Aramis what's wrong?" Porthos asked quietly.
Aramis cut his eyes over to glare at the other man.
"What kind of question is that?" he spat lowly. Everything was wrong; that should be obvious.
"Easy," Porthos held up a hand in surrender, eyeing Aramis warily. "I only meant you weren't like this before."
"Like what?"
"Angry."
Aramis frowned. He had every right to be angry, hadn't he? He'd seen twenty of his brothers cut down like animals. His best friend, his brother, had betrayed and abandoned him.
He slid a hand up into his hair in agitation and froze when his fingers skimmed across bare scalp.
"My hair…"
"Physician had to cut it away," Porthos admitted. "The wounds on your head were nasty business."
Wounds. Plural. As in more than one. Carefully, Aramis slid his hand back to the base of his skull, feeling the cloth bandaging wrapped there. The he shifted his attention to his temple – his greatest source of pain – fingers drifting across that bandage as well. He didn't remember receiving either at the moment. And it was no wonder, honestly. With two severe blows to the head, it was a blessing he had any senses left at all.
A door slammed down the hall and Aramis tensed, his unoccupied hand clenching in the bedsheets as his eyes darted around the room in search of his weapons.
"Easy," Porthos soothed, rising from his seat and moving to the other side of the small room.
He rummaged through a pile of things on the table, his body blocking Aramis from seeing exactly what. A few moments later, Porthos spoke again.
"If I give you this," the large Musketeer turned, brandishing one of Aramis' pistols in one hand, "do you promise not to use it on me?"
Aramis rolled his eyes and channeled the unexpected pain that action caused into the glare he leveled at Porthos. He held out his hand, forcing it to stay steady by pure will power.
Porthos approached again and handed over the weapon without hesitation.
"You're safe here, you know," the larger man pointed out as he sat down again, eyeing Aramis with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
"Am I?" Aramis challenged darkly as he focused on checking over the pistol. It needed to be cleaned and oiled. "Have you got…"
A small pouch – one he recognized as his own – dropped into his lap. He knew it to contain his cleaning tools.
He shifted a glance up at Porthos through his lashes.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
They fell into an uncomfortable silence as Aramis began the practiced task of cleaning his pistol. Though he couldn't quite stop his hands from shaking, his movements were sure and true. It was calming in a way he hadn't even known he needed until now.
He hardly even noticed when Porthos moved again and could only blink in surprise when his second pistol – the twin of the one he held now – slid onto the bed next to his leg.
"I'd bet that one could use a clean as well," Porthos commented. "Then some food, yeah?"
Aramis slid another glance in Porthos' direction and nodded his agreement.
A loud, raucous laugh rose from down in the common area, and without meaning too, Aramis stiffened, his hands stilling with the cleaning rod and cloth still down the barrel of the pistol. He found himself mentally calculating how quickly he could get the weapon loaded – not very since he had no ammunition handy – and whether that would be fast enough if it came down to it.
But the laughter died down a moment later and his wariness was proven unfounded.
He felt Porthos' gaze on him and lightly cleared his throat, forcing his hands to start moving again.
"You know I'd defend you, right? If it came to it?" Porthos abruptly told him, drawing Aramis' gaze up to his.
Aramis twitched his lips into a smirk, patting his hand against the pistol still resting by his thigh.
"I'm quite capable," he pointed out.
"I've no doubt," Porthos agreed. "It's not a matter of if you need me to, simply that I would."
He'd thought the same of Marsac not so long ago. He'd believed, without reservation, that Marsac would always have his back. Events had proven him a fool in that regard. Marsac's betrayal had quite clearly taught him that he could rely on no one but himself.
So he merely shrugged in the face of Porthos' promise and went back about his pistol cleaning.
He felt the other Musketeer's gaze steady on him as he worked, but did not look up.
End of Chapter Six
As you can see, Aramis pre-Savoy (or at least memory of it) and Aramis immediately post-Savoy are two very different people. Have the same patience with him that Porthos undoubtedly will. The poor man's been through the ringer.
Those of you wondering, yes, Athos WILL be in this. Just not yet. They will all three come together, promise. I wanted him to have a fitting entrance into their lives, not just 'show up'. You'll know what I mean when we get there ;)
Until tomorrow, please take a moment to drop me a line to let me know how you're enjoying it!
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
"Are you sure about this?" Porthos asked doubtfully as he hovered over Aramis' shoulder.
The smaller man was sitting up in the bed, feet swung over the side and pressing against the floor.
"Quite," he replied simply.
"But…"
"Either help me, or leave me."
Porthos snapped his mouth closed and blew out a frustrated breath. He debated marching across the village to retrieve the physician and inform him of his patient's reckless disregard for his health. Before he could decide whether such intervention would be needed, Aramis was levering himself up.
He wavered immediately and might have fallen right back if not for Porthos' quick step closer to brace him.
"Bloody, stubborn fool," he hissed as he shifted to support Aramis' back with one arm and grip his nearest elbow with the other.