Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Six: MashiMoshi, Arlothia, Deana, UKGuest, The Grandeurs of Despair, pallysdeeks, lizard1969, Alison Kirkham, twaxer, Aednat the Fourteenth, GremlinX, SnidgetHex, enjoyedit, Grantaire32, Rosey Malone, and X4uth0r
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Chapter Seven: Brother, I'm Right Here
"Brotherhood" isn't just a word, it's a total dedication to each other or your club, not just when it's convenient…many people say it but very few live it.
Unknown
April 7, 1625
Outlying Village, Savoy
Porthos toed open the door to the room he shared with Aramis and nearly dropped the tray he was carrying. Aramis, who had been moodily cleaning his pistols again when he had left, was now curled towards the wall, an arm hooked over his eyes and his shoulders tense in a way Porthos had come to associate with a silent, involuntary admission of pain. Considering he hadn't seen the man put his back to the door – or even to him – since he'd woken, alarm tightened further in his chest.
"Aramis?" he called in concern as he entered the room.
He watched the marksman twitch at the sound of his voice. Confused, and more than a bit worried, Porthos dropped the tray onto the table, frowning deeply when Aramis twitched again. Realizing the loud noises were apparently making whatever was wrong worse, he pitched his voice in a low whisper.
"What's wrong?" he asked, kneeling to retrieve the cleaning rod and cloth that had fallen to the floor. He reached over Aramis' legs for the pistol, oil, and brush next, shifting them over to the small table beside the bed.
Aramis didn't answer him, just curled further towards the wall and tightened the arm he had over his eyes.
Chewing his lower lip, Porthos glanced around, trying to work out what had caused this. Aramis was obviously in pain and the problem was clearly with his head. But he'd been alright not more than ten minutes ago. Porthos eyed the window, curtain thrown open to allow in the bright mid-afternoon light. Aramis did have his eyes covered…
His lack of attention on the marksman left him caught completely by surprise when Aramis suddenly shifted.
"'m gonna be sick…" was all the warning Aramis was able to give him before the wounded Musketeer was twisting away from the wall.
Porthos couldn't do more than fall back onto his rear before Aramis was violently expelling his breakfast down the front of Porthos' shirt. Grimacing, Porthos pushed himself back up and rested a hand on the nape of Aramis' neck.
The marksman groaned.
"'M sorry," he offered miserably.
Porthos rubbed his hand across Aramis' tense shoulders.
"And after I lent you my spare shirt," he teased gently.
Aramis huffed in what Porthos hoped might be amusement, rolling back onto the bed. His eyes were tightly closed, but even so, he immediately draped his hand over his face to cover them.
Porthos stood, moving as silently as he could to the window to draw the curtain closed. He thought he might have heard Aramis sigh in relief.
"Your head, is it?" Porthos whispered as he peeled off his soiled shirt.
"It…" Aramis swallowed thickly and slowly withdrew the hand he had over his eyes, but didn't open them. "It was building all morning, I think."
"You didn't notice?" Porthos wondered as he knelt next to the bed to use his shirt to mop up what little of the mess had made it to the floor.
"Well, my head is constantly hurting Porthos," Aramis pointed out sourly. "So you can see how it might have escaped my notice."
Porthos drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully, refusing to let his temper be baited. He was used to such responses already, even after only a day.
Aramis had…not been himself since he had woken with memories of the massacre painfully intact. He'd been short tempered and anxious, almost painfully vigilant of everything going on beyond the four walls of their room. How he'd managed to analyze the various inn patrons by just listening – and he had because he'd gone over them with Porthos only this morning – was a skill Porthos already envied, even if it was a bit frightening. When he slept – which was often since he was still recovering – it was restless and riddled with nightmares. The worst though, that Porthos had seen, were the waking nightmares – the moments where it seemed as if Aramis had been transported back to that snowy forest and was reliving all that had happened there. His gaze would grow distant in those moments, terrifyingly so, and it always took a firm call to draw him out of it. He'd be shaky and pale for easily an hour after those spells and he'd flatly refuse to talk at all for at least half that time.
Porthos was not entirely unfamiliar with such behavior. He'd been in the infantry for three years before Treville had found him and in that time he'd seen a few nastier skirmishes. Some men who had been in the worst parts of those battles had acted in a similar way for a time afterwards. Some had remained affected even longer.
"Every man reacts to the violence of battle in his own way," Treville had said of the sniveling scout, Anton.
Porthos suspected, though, that it was the particular nature of this violence that was causing such distress.
What had happened to Aramis, what he'd witnessed and survived, was unlike anything Porthos had ever faced in his time in the infantry. He found himself at a loss now about how to help.
He hadn't been there. He didn't know what Aramis had gone through during the massacre or the five days that had followed. And Aramis, for his part, would not speak of it.
A door slammed down the hall. Porthos reached out to lightly touch Aramis' arm even as the man's hand flew unerringly towards the pistol on the side table without ever opening his eyes.
"Easy," he soothed softly.
But it wasn't until quiet reigned around them for several moments before Aramis relaxed.
"Rest now," Porthos instructed as he stood. "I'll be back."
He was surprised when a strong hand wrapped around his wrist as soon as he started to move away. He looked down at Aramis, but the marksman's eyes were still closed. As Porthos watched, Aramis clenched his jaw and uncurled his fingers from Porthos' wrist. Porthos wondered if he'd even meant to reach out in the first place.
"I won't be long," Porthos promised quietly, offering reassurance that had not been asked for.
Aramis didn't respond. Instead he reached again towards the side table. Porthos grabbed the pistol and slid it into Aramis' hand.
He received no thanks, but the slight easing of tension in Aramis' face was enough for now.
He made his way quietly out of the room, not even remembering he was shirtless until the innkeeper's wife blushed as he asked about the cost of having his shirt washed. Red faced, she agreed to wash it free of charge and suggested a cool cloth for Aramis' head. She claimed it eased her own headaches when she had them.
Armed then with fresh cloths and a bowl of the coolest water he could find, Porthos returned to his room. Aramis didn't react when he opened the door, but then he never seemed startled by Porthos' arrival. This was a man who analyzed inn patrons by their boot steps and the way they closed their doors, after all. He likely recognized Porthos' approach before he even made it near their room.
The marksman's eyes were still closed with his pistol resting lightly across his chest. His free hand was pressing against his brow, fingers inching towards the bandage that covered his temple.
Porthos put the bowl onto the small table by Aramis' head and gently caught his searching fingers.
"Leave it," he whispered.
Aramis scowled but didn't argue. His scowl deepened when Porthos rested the first of the chilled cloths against his brow, resting it over the bandages as well.
"Easy," Porthos soothed. "It'll help."
He said nothing more after that, and Aramis didn't either. After a time, the marksman slowly relaxed and the tight grip he kept on his pistol loosened. He shifted a little, head angling towards Porthos, before he settled further, going still.
Porthos continued to replace the cloths, one after the other, for a long time after that.
April 8, 1625
Outlying Village, Savoy
Aramis shivered, reaching blindly for his ever-present mound of blankets that had somehow drifted to his waist as he slept. He found the frayed edge of fabric and jerked it up, frowning when it met resistance.
Perhaps Porthos had fallen asleep at his side again and was weighing it down. The large man tended to sleep always close at hand.
Aramis pried his eyes open, wincing at the moonlight shining through the open window.
Sure enough, a head of curly black hair was pressing against his hip.
Aramis pulled experimentally on the blanket again, but it didn't budge.
"Porth's," he mumbled sleepily as he nudged at the other man. He realized belatedly that perhaps he should have just suffered the cold and let the poor man sleep. God knew Porthos deserved a reprieve after his long day of dealing with Aramis' injuries and moodiness.
He was relieved, in the end, when Porthos didn't respond to his nudge or his call.
He started to shift, ready to find a comfortable position to return to sleep, when he noticed something odd about the way Porthos was lying.
He was a facing away from Aramis, not towards him.
A small thing, perhaps, to most, but for Aramis it was a warning beacon.
Every time he'd been caught asleep at Aramis' side, Porthos had always been facing him, as if he'd fallen asleep watching over him.
"Porthos?" Aramis called warily as he levered himself up onto his elbow with a wince. The wound on his side pulled and ached, but he shoved the pain aside. "Porthos," he called again, more firmly as he reached to touch the other man's shoulder.
The light pressure sent Porthos tilting away from him, falling in a heap to the floor.
Aramis clawed at the edge of the bed, nearly throwing himself to the floor in his haste to see what had befallen his comrade.
Porthos stared up at him from the floor with sightless eyes. His face was pale, almost blue, and his throat was laid open with a bloody slash.
"No…" Aramis blinked, willing the image away, but it remained. "No."
Aramis.
Aramis flinched at the sound of the large man's voice as it echoed around him, though the body's lips hadn't moved.
"Porthos!" he called sharply, trying to climb from the bed to check the man for life. Surely he wasn't dead. Porthos hadn't been there. Porthos had been safe. "PORTHOS!"
He hit the ground with a jarring crash, pain pulsing through his head even as his wounded leg cried out its own objection.
Aramis!
"PORTHOS!" He twisted his hands in the larger man's shirt, shaking him roughly. "¡Despiértate!"(Wake up!) he shouted.
Wake up, Aramis! His voice mocked him, echoing loudly around him.
"PORTHOS!"
I'm here!
Aramis shook the body before him again.
"Porth…"
Or perhaps he was the one being shaken. An ache settled in his arms as if strong hands were wrapped around them.
Aramis, wake up! I'm –
Aramis shuddered as the whole world shifted around him.
"-here! Wake up, Aramis!"
"Porthos!"
Porthos' face, once still with death, was replaced by one flushed with exertion. Eyes that had been staring without seeing changed to a familiar brown gaze, filled with worry and their own measure of fear.
"I'm here!" Porthos assured breathlessly.
Aramis reached out instinctively, hands twisting into the man's shirt, frowning when he realized he was still in the bed, never having left it at all. He felt the warmth of Porthos' skin through the thin material and it grounded him.
He was warm and alive, not cold and dead.
Not dead.
"Estas vivo," Aramis realized with a relieved gasp. Then again because he wanted to be certain, "You're alive."
"I'm alive," Porthos assured firmly. "I'm alive and I'm here, all right? I'm right here."
Aramis felt the bruising grip of Porthos' large hands on his arms now. He felt his own body betraying him as he trembled within the other man's grasp.
It had been so real.
"You're alive," he said again, unable to help but fixate on that. It was the most important point after all.
Porthos seemed to heave a sigh of relief so large it filled the entire space between them.
"Yeah," he assured again.
Finally, Aramis tore his eyes away from where his hands were fisted in Porthos' shirt to meet the man's gaze.
He wasn't sure what he expected.
Pity, perhaps. Judgement or annoyance.
All he found was warmth and worry.
He didn't know what to do with that.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he tried to push aside his own lingering fear. "I woke you," he realized.
"I don't care about that," Porthos replied sternly, hands still tight on Aramis' arms. "Are you alright?" he demanded, voice thick with warmth and compassion.
"I'm fine," Aramis replied, ignoring the way his voice shook and exposing his weakness.
"Aramis…"
"I'm fine," he said again, stronger this time. An embarrassed blush colored his neck when he realized he still clutched at Porthos' shirt like a child. He averted his gaze, pried his fingers out of the folds of fabric, and eased away, forcing Porthos to either release his own hold or follow him as he slid back to lean against the wall.
Porthos, though he looked reluctant, loosened his grip and let Aramis pull away.
Aramis rested his head back and drew in a slow breath, trying to calm his still frayed nerves.
It hadn't been real. It had only been a dream. A horrible, gut-wrenching, awful dream.
It wasn't real.
"Aramis."
Porthos hadn't been in Savoy with them. He had been safe back in Paris, far away from men in masks and forests of snow.
"Aramis?"
Porthos hadn't been there. And yet, he was here now. He was worrying and coddling. He was losing sleep dealing with Aramis' nightmares and spending his days seeing to Aramis' every need.
Why?
They'd barely known each other before. Their friendship had been a new thing; flourishing, yes, but too young to merit such devotion. Why had Porthos chosen to stay behind with him?
Was it guilt?
Did he feel guilty for not being with them in Savoy? It made sense, Aramis realized with a jolt. Any soldier would feel the same when so many brothers had been lost while they remained safely away from the conflict. It was guilt that kept Porthos at his side now, nothing more.
It wasn't true compassion in his eyes, in his voice. It was a lie to spare his own conscience.
It was false brotherhood, just as it had been with Marsac.
Marsac had seemed to be all the things Porthos was now. He had appeared to care, to worry, to be concerned about Aramis' fate. But in the end, all that was between them had been proven false.
Their brotherhood had been worthless, meaningless. He had convinced himself into thinking he had found in Marsac that which his blood brother had always denied him. Acceptance. Devotion. Loyalty. All the things Aramis gave so freely to others. Things he had believed Marsac gave back just as deeply.
But it had all been lies. He had been naïve to think that a chosen brotherhood could mean any more than Vincent's had. If his brother by birth could never accept him, then how could he believe that anyone else could? Blood had meant nothing to Vincent and years of history with Marsac had amounted to nothing.
How could he ever expect more from Porthos, whose history with him spanned mere weeks? It was obvious now. Porthos remained with him out of nothing but guilt and well hidden pity.
There was no true brotherhood between them. Just as there had been none between him and Marsac.
Brotherhood was nothing but a fleeting lie. He had failed to learn that lesson twice now. He would not be fooled again.
"Aramis!"
A hand touched his shoulder and Aramis reacted instinctively. Defensively.
A muffled grunt and then thud.
A glance found Porthos sitting on the floor, holding a hand to his nose.
"Bloody hell," Porthos muttered, pulling his hand away to reveal blood. "Fine thanks, that."
Aramis swallowed, feeling a swell of remorse.
"I'm sorry," he offered. "I hit you," he added as if that hadn't been clear.
"Yeah," Porthos rolled his eyes. "You did. Again with the bloody obvious. Aramis, would you…would you look at me," Porthos growled.
Aramis snapped his gaze back to meet the larger man's guiltily.
For as much as he couldn't let himself trust Porthos' motives, he didn't wish the man any harm. He hadn't done anything to merit violence.
Porthos opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then sighed.
Finally, he pushed himself off the floor and dug into his saddle bag by the door. He produced a small worn object.
"Cards?" he offered tiredly.
Too taken aback by the offer to do anything more than nod dumbly, Aramis could only watch as Porthos righted the chair that was overturned on the floor and pushed it closer to the bed.
"Kings high," Porthos dictated as he sat and shuffled the deck. "You're familiar?" he asked.
Aramis thought back to long nights on watch spent playing cards with Marc back in the infantry.
He nodded.
Without another word, Porthos dealt.
April 10, 1625
Outlying village, Savoy
"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.
"Such sweet nothings you whisper, Porthos," Aramis replied breathlessly. "You could make a weaker man swoon."
"You seem to be swooning quite enough on your own without any help from me," Porthos ground out.
"Nonsense," Aramis swallowed thickly. "Just getting my bearings."
"You're not ready for this," Porthos pointed out firmly, weighing the benefit of forcing the man back into bed.
"Porthos," Aramis replied sharply, "I need to move. I'll lose my mind if I don't."
Porthos sighed. Aramis had been restless since he'd woken hours before dawn. He'd cleaned both his pistols, Porthos' pistol, sharpened both their daggers, and fussed over his rapier, all before the sun had even risen. His dreams that night had been unrelenting, as they tended to be nowadays, but not as heart-stopping as other nights had been. He hadn't woken screaming Porthos' name, for one.
But being stuck in bed seemed to just agitate him all the more.
Porthos suspected it had something to do with feeling helpless and he couldn't quite blame Aramis for wanting to do whatever it took to rid himself of that feeling.
"Fine then," Porthos allowed quietly. "Slowly, though. One step at a time, all right? And if you feel faint or dizzy, say something."
Aramis grunted his agreement and then, carefully, Porthos supported him as he took a limping step forward.
To Porthos' relief, his injured leg didn't immediately collapse beneath him.
Aramis huffed a surprised little chuckle and then cleared his throat, trying – and failing – not to look relieved.
"Told you."
Porthos rolled his eyes.
April 12, 1625
Outlying Village, Savoy
Aramis eyed the saddled horse before him with a frown. He toyed with his hat – retrieved from the forest by Treville according to Porthos – and then settled it gingerly on his head, mindful of his wounds. The bandages were gone now, but the healing scars were still tender.
He narrowed his gaze at the horse again.
Mounting a horse should not pose this sort of a problem. A month ago it wouldn't have. Of course, a couple of weeks ago he hadn't thought he'd ever mount a horse again.
It had been a week now since he'd woken in the inn with Porthos at his side. Two in all since he'd been injured in the first place. Even though it still pained him, his leg was strong enough to bear the saddle. And his head, though a persistent aching had settled in and refused to leave, had mostly calmed and steadied. It was time to leave.
But first, he had to get onto that horse.
"Sent off the dispatch to Treville so he'll be expectin' us," Porthos announced as he joined him. Aramis felt the other man's gaze on him for a long moment. "Need a boost?" Porthos eventually offered quietly. There was no teasing in his voice, just a practical sort of logic.
Aramis grimaced and rubbed at his leg. As much as pride demanded he attempt to mount himself, common sense reminded that he'd likely end up on the ground if he did.
"Perhaps," he admitted grudgingly.
A few moments later, through combined effort, he was seated in the saddle. He took a moment to be sure he wouldn't promptly fall to the ground in a graceless heap and then turned his eyes to the innkeeper.
"Thank you," he offered, "for all you have done."
The plump man just nodded, waving away the words, and disappearing back inside. Aramis glanced at Porthos who swiftly mounted his own horse.
"Ready?" Porthos asked with a weary smile.
Aramis nodded.
Together, they put their backs to the forests of Savoy and started their journey home.
Their travel was mostly quiet. Aramis was still deeply exhausted from his ordeal and Porthos seemed almost equally weary. And though he didn't want to admit to it, the ache in his head had escalated to a persistent pounding just over the short duration of their travel. He was also fairly certain that the only reason he'd been able to keep his breakfast in his stomach where it belonged was because he had his jaw clamped tightly closed.
With neither of them speaking, there was nothing around them but quiet. The silence was broken only by the sound of hooves on the road and the occasional snort or nicker from one of the borrowed horses. Aramis had never been particularly good at silence. He'd always been somewhat of a talker, prone to chatter. His mother had found it endearing and entertaining. His father, less so. But either way, he had never particularly minded quiet, even if he was notoriously poor at maintaining it.
But this was different. In this silence, Aramis didn't hear the horses and the clomp of hooves on the road. He heard the cries of the wounded and dying, the sounds of clashing steel. His mind echoed with the memories, as if he were amidst the battle even now.
And the need to escape that, to drown it out, outweighed his worry about breakfast making a sudden reappearance.
"We should have left yesterday," he blurted abruptly.
Porthos glanced at him, a worry in his gaze that Aramis was frustratingly familiar with. He was tired of being watched like he was a strong breeze away from shattering to pieces. He hated that look. Hated it more because it was so dangerously close to the truth. How could he ever feel strong again if Porthos kept watching him like he was broken.
"We agreed to wait out that storm," the other Musketeer replied easily.
Right. Aramis grimaced. The storm. He'd forgotten about that.
Soon, the silence stretched around them and distant cries rose in the recesses of his mind again. The clash of metal on metal echoed through the air. He shivered, feeling the cold seep deeply into his bones. The cries of pain and death grew louder, the sound of crossing blades had him fighting not to reach for his sword.
He couldn't take the silence, not for another moment.
"Have you ever been to The Empty Scabbard?" he asked suddenly, just to drown out the sounds.
Porthos gave him an odd look. It was warranted, he supposed. It was an odd and unexpected question.
"It's a tavern, in Paris," Aramis explained. He rubbed a finger carefully over his eyebrow, trying in vain to combat the throbbing in his head.
"I know what it is," Porthos replied, eyes narrowing slightly in something infuriatingly like concern. "What of it?"
"Have you been there?" Aramis repeated impatiently.
"A time or two."
"They've the best stew I've ever tasted."
It seemed, now that he'd said it, a pointless piece of information. But he'd drowned out the memories for the moment, and instead of worry in Porthos' gaze, there was confused curiosity. So in the end, he'd achieved his purpose.
"Do they?" Porthos wondered, still watching him carefully.
"And their wine is worthy of mention as well," Aramis went on, forcing himself to stop rubbing at his brow. It was doing no good anyway and the action was bringing concern back to Porthos' gaze.
The silence stretched again and the sounds of the dead and dying once more rose in his memory.
"And th' stew and th' wine, that's all your reason for going there?" Porthos broke the silence now, a vaguely amused lilt to his tone.
Aramis smiled despite himself, the sounds of battle fading to the back of his mind.
"There's a barmaid," he revealed with a sigh. "Angelique. She's…a goddess amongst mortals."
What would she think of him now? With his sheared head and brutal scars…
Porthos chuckled beside him.
"I'm sure."
Aramis realized, then, as Porthos shot him an amused glance, that this was the first time since he'd woken that there had been no concern in Porthos' gaze; no worry, no fear. Instead, Aramis only saw shared mirth.
Perhaps he'd been missing an obvious solution over these last days. Perhaps his inherent ability to talk would do more than drown out the memories. Perhaps it would be the cure to Porthos' guilty worrying. Perhaps, if Aramis could keep it up, Porthos would stop watching him like he was waiting for him to break. Perhaps he would stop pretending to care if he thought everything was alright. Maybe then Porthos would not feel so guilty, so beholden to look after him. Maybe then he would drop the façade of brotherhood and just leave Aramis be.
"Have you ever been to the Prancing Musket?"
"What kind of tavern name is that?" Porthos asked with a scoff. "Prancing Musket…" He shook his head in derision.
"They've a home brewed brandy that I've known few equals to," Aramis pointed out.
"And their barmaid?" Porthos asked with a knowing glance.
Aramis smiled. It was working.
"Jaquelin is like a wild flame. Warms you well enough, but will burn you if left unattended."
Porthos laughed and shook his head again, this time in something like exasperation…or perhaps it was amusement. In all honestly, Aramis thought it might have been a bit of both. Whichever it was, both or neither, it wasn't worry and it wasn't fake.
And further, Aramis found a comfort in the normalcy of the moment. It felt, as Porthos tried to rein in his laughter, like it had before. Before Marsac's betrayal had become a poison that cast doubt on any brotherhood Aramis and Porthos might have shared.
He could do this. He could play at normal. He could convince Porthos his concern was not needed. He could release the man from his misplaced guilt.
He could drown out the sounds of battle and wash away the memory.
He could do this.
He could wear that mask.
He would do it for both their sakes.
April 15, 1625
The Road to Paris
Porthos shifted on his bedroll, peeking his eye open enough to catch a look at Aramis where he lay on the other side of their small fire. The marksman wasn't even pretending to sleep anymore, likely content in the illusion that Porthos was no longer awake to hover. Not that Porthos had been hovering exactly, not in the strictest sense of the word. But he'd remained…close at hand.
Aramis was wide awake now, staring up at the starry night sky with one arm carefully folded behind his head. The hand of his other arm was placed lightly against the healing wound on his side. Aramis had put aside the act, supposing that Porthos was not awake to witness it. There was silence now. The mask was gone, a state that had become a rarity over these last few days of travel.
Porthos noticed Aramis' gaze shifting, so he quickly closed his eyes, feigning sleep. It wasn't that he meant to deceive, exactly, but he just didn't want Aramis to start with the masks and with the talking again.
Always the talking.
He never stopped anymore, rarely letting silence fall between them. He just talked and made jokes and pretended.
Aramis pretended nothing had happened, that twenty Musketeers hadn't died under his command. He pretended his head wasn't constantly hurting him, that his leg and side didn't ache after long hours in the saddle. But no amount of words or even the most humorous mask could hide the lines of pain carved around his eyes. Porthos saw them. He knew the truth behind the pretense.
But something stopped Porthos from saying anything, from pulling at the mask or stopping the constant flow of words. He knew the truth. He knew Aramis needed it.
He needed it because there were other truths Porthos knew, too.
He knew that Aramis half-drew a weapon every time they heard a rustling in the trees. He knew the marksman glared tensely at every shifting shadow as if waiting for a monster to spring from it. He knew that Aramis rode with his hand always on the stock of his pistol.
He also knew that there were moments when Aramis was lost, trapped in his own mind with memories Porthos could only guess at.
He always talked faster after those moments, pretended harder. And in some way, it seemed to help. So Porthos let it continue. He let Aramis talk until his voice grew hoarse and then Porthos talked instead. He did what he could to help fill the silence because it's what Aramis seemed to need.
Porthos risked another peek and found Aramis staring up at the sky again. The sadness and tension seemed to bleed into the air, as if a day's worth of suppressing it now made it a tangible thing.
Porthos let out a silent sigh and closed his eyes again.
They would be back in Paris soon and back to Treville. The captain had known Aramis for years; he would know what to do. He had to…because Porthos didn't. And something had to be done.
Aramis couldn't go on like this, not forever. But he could make it back to Paris, Porthos would make sure of it.
April 19, 1625
Musketeer Garrison, Paris
Treville looked up from his desk when a knock came at his door.
"Enter," he called sharply.
Cornet leaned through the door, looking vaguely annoyed.
"A Red Guard here to see you, sir."
Treville frowned.
"Who?"
"Defrain."
Ah. Treville had been wondering how long it would take him to find a reason to check in.
"Tell him I'll be down in a moment."
Treville looked back down at the letter in his hands, the last of the condolences he would need to send to families. It had taken him a week, after they'd returned, to get them all written. He laid it carefully on the pile with the rest and rose, snatching his doublet off his chair. He shrugged into it as he headed towards the door.
He caught sight of Marc Defrain leaning against the entry gate, glaring at Cornet who was glaring back.
"Back to your duties, Cornet," Treville barked as he came down the steps.
With one last glower at the Red Guard, Cornet walked away.
"Defrain," Treville greeted with a nod, extending a hand as the man approached him.
"Captain Treville," Defrain replied gruffly, shaking his hand firmly. "Is it true?" he asked quietly and without preamble.
The captain didn't even bother feigning confusion.
"He's alive," he assured because he knew that would be the man's main concern.
Defrain cast a glance around, eyes searching.
"He's not back yet," Treville revealed.
The other soldier stiffened, clearing his throat and trying, in vain, not to look like he'd been looking.
"When?" he asked gruffly.
"I expect them this evening at the latest."
Defrain met his gaze then and Treville resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze the younger man's shoulder. The soldier's worry was written in his eyes even if his expression remained stern.
"How is he?" the Red Guard asked lowly, as if concerned about being overheard.
"As far as I know, he's recovering," Treville replied. That was what Porthos' latest dispatch had indicated at least.
Defrain nodded.
"Good. I still owe him for that pig shit business," he pointed out brusquely.
Treville nodded, allowing the excuse. Aramis and Defrain's friendship was an odd thing. Built on competition and friendly rivalry, they were more often at each other's throats than anything. But when the cards were down, Treville knew Defrain had proven himself a true friend when it mattered, and that Aramis had done the same.
The Red Guard shifted and fished something out of his pocket.
"A message from the king by way of the cardinal." He thrust a folded and sealed note towards Treville. Delivering such a thing was beneath a soldier who had been in the Red Guard regiment for as long as Defrain, but Treville didn't comment on that.
"Tell him I…" the young soldier trailed off and cleared his throat. "Never mind."
Treville gave in to his earlier urge and gripped Defrain's shoulder.
"I'll tell him you came," he assured.
The Red Guard nodded sharply and turned on his heel, all but marching out of the Garrison. Once he was gone, Treville looked down at the note in his hands. He broke the seal and quickly read the contents.
The king wanted to see him. Tomorrow.
He'd been back in Paris for a week, had requested an audience every day since and had been denied. He'd informed the king of the massacre through a letter sent ahead of them when they left Savoy. He had expected an immediate audience to discuss the tragedy and its cause.
Instead, he'd been met with a wall of silence.
Until now.
The fact that Aramis, the lone returning survivor, was due back today was not lost on Treville.
He did not believe in coincidence.
The knot of anxiety that had tightened in his stomach the moment he'd learned of the massacre, tightened further. There was something more at work here. Perhaps tomorrow he would finally find out what.
Porthos sighed wearily as the Garrison's gate came into sight, relieved to finally be home.
He cast a glance at the man riding beside him, noting the lines of weariness and pain in his face. Though Aramis hadn't admitted to it, Porthos was certain his head was paining him again. He kept his hat pulled low over his eyes to block the sun and he always seemed to be squinting. He'd lost his lunch only an hour after eating it and had tapered off in his constant chatter.
Porthos had offered to stop for a rest but Aramis had been adamant about continuing.
He wanted to be home and Porthos couldn't blame him.
It had been a very long week.
Aramis had not ceased in his charade in all the days it had taken to travel home. He was still behaving as if nothing had happened. He'd not once mentioned the fallen Musketeers or Marsac. He'd slept fitfully, often woken by pain he wouldn't admit to or horrible dreams that left him with a scream or shouted word on his lips. But even sitting there in the dark of the night, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, he'd painted on a smile and insisted all was well. It was just a dream, he would say. Sometimes he would go even further and claim not to even remember what horrors had haunted him.
He'd eaten when it was time to eat. He'd talked endlessly about the various women with which he'd cavorted over the years. He practically took Porthos on a spoken tour through the taverns of Paris.
He laughed. He joked. He smiled.
It had become somewhat disturbing.
No man who'd been through the ordeal Aramis had just survived should be so happy.
But Porthos had resolved to hold his tongue on the matter, especially with the memory of Savoy so close at their backs. So he had laughed, joked, and smiled in return, allowing Aramis to maintain the charade for now. If it was what the other man needed to get him from day to day, who was he to deny him? It was temporary, he was sure; a crutch to get them home.
But they were here now and Aramis would soon be in the company of the captain.
Treville, Porthos was certain, would sort it all out.
Porthos followed Aramis through the Garrison gate and opened his mouth to tell Aramis to wait for his help to dismount. But Aramis was already carelessly throwing his leg over the horse's head and sliding to the ground, taking care to land on his uninjured leg. He made it look quite effortless, though Porthos knew the bravado had to have cost him. Getting him in and out of the saddle had been somewhat of a challenge throughout their entire journey, especially at the end of a long day of riding.
But with the remaining members of the regiment looking on from various places throughout the Garrison, Aramis, it seemed, was unwilling to show any sort of weakness.
Porthos shook his head and dismounted, handing off his horse to the stable boy.
Aramis was already being greeted by Treville with a firm hug.
"You look much better than when I last saw you," Treville smiled as he looked Aramis over, a hand lingering on the marksman's shoulder.
Despite his knowledge that Aramis was still healing, Porthos had to admit Treville was right. In the two weeks since his rescue, Aramis' hair was already growing quickly. Porthos suspected the marksman was making it happen through sheer force of will. The scars on his temple and the base of his skull were still visible, but the promise of being one day hidden was there. He was still a few shades pale, but seemed to grow stronger every day.
"Fine and fit, Captain," Aramis assured with a wide smile. Then, at Treville's doubtful look, he added with a wry grin, "In a manner, at least."
His attention was then caught by Serge, who came limping out of the refectory to greet them.
"Serge! Good to see you my old friend. Tell me what you've planned for dinner!"
Porthos moved to stand with Treville as they watched Aramis accept Serge's hug and then limp alongside the old veteran into the refectory.
"Has he been like that the whole time?" Treville asked quietly.
Porthos nodded, not even needing to wonder what Treville was talking about.
"Since we left Savoy. All smiling and cheerful. It's unnatural."
Treville nodded slowly, but offered no words of wisdom on the matter. Instead, he just moved back towards his office, though it seemed his eyes never left the refectory entrance.
Porthos stared after him, then at the refectory, then back at where Treville was disappearing into his office. He tossed up his hands wearily and headed to the refectory. He was hungry after all, and if it gave him an excuse to keep an eye on Aramis, all the better.
Aramis moved carefully into the stable, whistling lowly to get her attention.
There was a moment of quiet, then a familiar brown head shot out of a stall like lightning.
"Hola, mi caballita bella," (Hello, my beautiful little horse,) he greeted warmly. He moved as quickly as his healing leg would allow down the row of stalls to greet Esmé as she stretched to reach him.
He met her seeking nose with his palm and immediately stepped close, letting her press her snout into his chest.
"He oído que estabas preocupada por mí." (I hear you were worried about me.)
She nickered softly and hooked her head over his shoulder, pulling him closer and nuzzling her jaw against his ear. He laughed warmly.
"Yo también te extrañé." (I missed you, too.)
He chuckled again, feeling a contradictory wetness pool in his eyes when she pulled back only to nuzzle his chest more firmly. Then she lifted her head, lightly brushing her nose against his temple. The snort that followed as she pulled back sounded distinctly worried.
"Lo sé," (I know,) he murmured. "Pero estoy bien, Esmé." (But I'm all right, Esmé.)
She shifted, tilting her head in such a way that he felt as if he were being called a liar.
His chest tightened and a frustrating pressure built behind his eyes that had nothing to do with his persistent headache.
"Yo soy," (I am,) he insisted, fighting down a burn in his eyes and nose.
She shook her head sharply, making an unhappy sound. She knew him too well.
She could sense the lie he was telling himself, the lie he was telling everyone. He wasn't all right. He wasn't fine. Physically, he was healing. But he couldn't close his eyes without being back there. He couldn't sleep without waking up amongst frozen bodies. He couldn't relax because his mind couldn't stop. Instincts honed to excellence through his years as a soldier now worked against him, forcing him to be aware of every shift in the world around him. It was exhausting and nerve-fraying.
And then there was Marsac.
His memories of the attack and ensuing fight were fractured and scattered. He'd fought the leader and wounded him, that much he remembered. He was fairly certain that had been when his leg was injured. But beyond that, there were only flashes of memory and an echo of pain.
But he remembered Marsac.
He remembered seeing the guilt and devastation on his face as he sat amidst the bodies of their fallen brothers.
"I failed them," he'd said.
And he remembered Marsac walking away.
Don't leave me here.
He could feel his own words on his lips even now, could hear himself shouting them, whispering them, begging his brother not to abandon him.
Don't leave me here.
But Marsac had. He had left him to die.
That betrayal had cast into darkness everything Aramis thought he'd believed in. Everything he thought he knew about brotherhood was torn to shreds.
How could he ever trust in such a thing again after that?
Another face flashed through his mind. A face with dark skin and a wide, toothy smile. Eyes, as brown as Aramis' own, full of warmth and compassion. A loud, boisterous laugh echoed through his mind, and for a moment Aramis thought he could feel the pressure of a strong, comforting hand tightening around the base of his neck.
Porthos.
Porthos, who had been his only constant. Porthos, who didn't miss a step when Aramis' mood swung drunkenly between irrational anger and pathetic melancholy. Porthos, who didn't retreat when Aramis found himself spitting scathing words. Porthos, who had been there every time he woke screaming with a calming hand and a soothing word.
"Easy," he'd say. "I'm here."
Aramis wished he could trust it. He wished that Marsac's betrayal hadn't made him realize that such promises of brotherhood were fleeting things, left to the whims of the promissor. They weren't to be relied on and he would never make that mistake again.
Esmé dipped her head, nudging him until he let his own forehead fall to rest against hers.
He closed his eyes and saw blood and steel.
His hands, tangled up into her mane, tightened, but she didn't pull away. As the moments passed, if Aramis ended up clinging to her all the tighter, she never uttered protest.
This was how Treville found them several minutes later.
Aramis sensed the captain's approach long before Treville actually appeared in the doorway to the stable. But he was too tired to bother lifting his head. If Treville wondered about it, Aramis would play it off as comforting Esmé.
He heard Treville coming closer, but the captain didn't speak until he was standing right next to him. A twitch of Esmé's muscles told Aramis that the man was stroking her neck.
"Porthos is looking for you," the captain told him eventually.
Aramis forced his eyes open and straightened.
"It's not as if I'm hiding," he replied with a weary grin. He cut his gaze over to Treville but the captain was looking fixedly at Esmé.
"Should I send him here?" Treville asked.
"No need to make it easy for him."
"But I thought you weren't hiding," the captain arched a skeptical eyebrow.
Aramis forced himself to smirk and was rewarded with a fleeting glance his way.
"Why waste a chance at a good game of hide-and-seek?"
Treville seemed to barely resist the urge to roll his eyes and instead gave him an obvious look over. But still, when his gaze met Aramis' it was so brief it may as well have not happened at all.
"How are you?"
Aramis didn't let himself react to the bluntness of the question and refused to be put off balance by the lack of eye contact. Instead he let his smirk grow into a grin.
"Haven't we had this conversation?" he teased. "Forgotten already, have you? It's the age, isn't it?"
"Aramis." Treville's tone suggested he wasn't in the mood for such humor. Still though, such a scolding was usually paired with a firm glare. Instead, the captain kept his gaze fixed on Esmé.
"Fine and fit, Captain," he answered cheerfully.
Finally, the captain looked at him; really looked at him. They'd known each other so long, Aramis was certain Treville would read the truth of it all in his eyes. He was sure Treville wouldn't let such a bold lie pass.
He watched Treville study him and saw the exact moment the captain decided to let him have the charade.
"Glad to hear it." Treville gave him a smile and gripped his shoulder firmly, eyes cutting away again.
It was what Aramis wanted. He wanted everyone to leave him be, to let him cope in his own way. He didn't want to be coddled and hovered over. He wanted everyone to believe the lie he was proclaiming.
So he didn't know why he was so disappointed when Treville let it pass without protest.
"I've some work to attend to," Treville stated gruffly, shifting away.
"Of course," Aramis allowed, tone no longer bright but instead hinting at something bitter. "Don't let me keep you."
Treville glanced at him, a fleeting meeting of gazes before the captain was looking away again and heading back the way he'd come.
Aramis stared after him, hardly noticing when Esmé nudged at his chest.
Had it all been lies? Had Marsac's betrayal been only the beginning?
He had accepted, from the moment he'd decided to wear the mask of nonchalance and humor, that Treville would strip it from him the moment he returned. He had expected the captain to see through the charade as easily as he had seen through it so many times in the past.
He had never even dreamed that Treville would just let it pass.
He remembered, then, the captain being unable to meet his eyes.
Understanding crashed over him suddenly, leaving him feeling raw and beaten in its wake.
Perhaps Treville couldn't bear the sight of him.
And why should he? Aramis had failed him.
He had barely let himself think about what had happened. He saw it enough, relived it enough, without actively reflecting on it. He hadn't considered the part he had played in the tragedy that left twenty dead and one a deserter.
But now, following Treville's obvious disappointment, he recognized the truth of it.
It had been his training exercise. He had been responsible for those men.
He had failed them.
And he had failed Treville.
That realization left him gutted. There had only ever been two people in his life who he truly sought to please. His mother had been one. Despite the wildness of his youth, he had always wanted nothing more than to make her proud. His love for her had been that fierce. Years after being torn from her, he had met Treville and found another. He had found, in the captain, the father Julien d'Herblay did not have the heart or desire to be.
Now he saw how unworthy he was of such a position.
He had proven a disappointment to both his fathers in the end. His mortal ones at least.
His hand drifted to his chest, seeking out the cross he usually wore around his neck. He realized belatedly that it wasn't there – just as it hadn't been there any of the times he'd reached for it during the past two weeks since waking in that inn.
It had been lost in Savoy, just as so many other things had been.
A sharp nudge at his shoulder nearly had him stumbling and he returned his attention to Esmé.
"Todavía me quieres, ¿verdad?" (You still love me, don't you?) he asked her with a sigh.
She answered with a soft knicker and a gentle brush of her nose against his cheek.
He smiled, despite himself.
With one last grazing of his knuckles along her jaw, Aramis walked away.
He paused at the door and looked back, unsurprised to see her staring after him.
"Come tu cena," (Eat your dinner,) he instructed with a grin.
She snorted and retreated back into her stall.
Some things, at least, never changed.
End of Chapter Seven
Esme is probably my favorite original character ever, lol. I love her. I'm actually working on a Whumptober prompt (yes I know its practically January) where she's written into the Modern AU i've been playing with there in a new way ;) We'll get a bit of a peek inside Treville's head next chapter as we start circling towards the tangible shift in his relationship with Aramis that has taken hold by the time we get to the show.
I love hearing from you guys so please, let me know what you think!
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
"There are things at work, Treville, beyond that which you are aware. Things of utmost secrecy and importance," the king told him.
Treville closed his eyes against the gutting pain the confession, vague as it was, caused. He had known, from the moment word of the massacre had reached him, that he had played a part. He had known his dispatch to Savoy, revealing where Aramis would make camp, had doomed his men. He had thought it a betrayal by Savoy.
But it hadn't been.
The betrayal had been so much closer. It had come from the very heart of France.