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Chapter Eight: You're the Blood of My Blood
Brotherhood can't be defined…only experienced.
Unknown
April 19, 1625
Musketeer Garrison
Porthos was leaning on the door of the armory when he saw Aramis finally come out of the stable.
The marksman had been quiet at dinner and Porthos was worried his headache was worsening. Too many times over the last weeks he'd seen firsthand how quickly the worst of those headaches could bring Aramis to his knees. There had been one time that Aramis had sworn it felt as if his head was being bashed in all over again.
So when he had disappeared from the refectory while Porthos was asking Demonte about where the dead had been buried, Porthos had grown immediately concerned.
Treville had caught him looking around the yard, a bit frantically if he was honest, and Porthos had confessed his worry.
Treville had suggested he search the armory and had, himself, headed for the stable.
Porthos wasn't a fool. He lingered in the armory until he saw Treville come back out of the stables and then watched the door until Aramis appeared a few minutes later.
Aramis seemed steady enough as he climbed the stairs to the second floor barracks. Porthos watched him hesitate at the door to his quarters and then push his way inside. Porthos gave him a moment and then followed.
After two weeks of looking after the man, he couldn't fight the urge to check on him.
He was a bit surprised to see the door standing ajar when he reached Aramis' quarters. After a moment of hesitation, he decided that could be taken as an invitation.
He nudged it open and leaned against the frame.
Aramis was stone still in the center of the room, facing one of the beds. It was as if he'd walked in and frozen where he stood.
"I wondered where you'd gone off to," Porthos greeted carefully.
For a moment, Aramis didn't seem to have heard him. But then he drew in a breath, as if coming back to life.
"I went to see Esmé," he replied simply.
Porthos nodded even though Aramis wasn't looking at him. That was information he already had. For several moments he watched Aramis continue to stare at the bed. It took longer than it should have for him to realize why the marksman had fixated on it, something he blamed on his own exhaustion.
Aramis had shared this room with another Musketeer. That had been Marsac's bed.
"Do you want to stay in my room?" Porthos asked carefully. Such an offer would either get reluctant acceptance or angry refusal – it was impossible to predict which given the turbulent nature of Aramis' moods lately.
Aramis finally moved, turning to glare darkly at Porthos through the dimness of the room.
"No," came the blunt refusal. "I can stomach sleeping in this room, Porthos. I'm not so tragically broken as you seem to think."
Anger then.
"I didn't mean anythin' by it," Porthos said, putting up a hand in defense. "Just offerin'. Do you need anythin'?"
The offer seemed to just incense him further.
"Are you my keeper, Porthos?"
The words were spoken in a low and chilling tone. Whatever attempts he'd been making to pretend all was well had apparently been abandoned for the moment. Porthos couldn't decide if he was relieved Aramis wasn't pretending anymore or worried that perhaps he wasn't able to pretend anymore. He had a horrible feeling that it was the second, that being in this room – Marsac's room – had triggered something in the marksman.
"No," Porthos answered carefully. "Not your keeper. Just your brother."
Something in Aramis' gaze darkened dangerously.
"You and I," Aramis gestured between them, "are not brothers."
He advanced on Porthos, coming to stand toe-to-toe with him. Porthos fought not to rise to his full height, instead forcing himself to stay relaxed and non-threatening where he leaned in the doorway.
"You got me back to Paris. You can stop pretending now."
Porthos blinked.
"What?"
"No one is watching, Porthos!" Aramis hissed. "Am I'm not fooled. Just go and leave me alone."
Porthos stared at him, completely confused.
Pretending? Fooled? What was Aramis talking about?
"No one is pretending, Aramis," Porthos replied cautiously but firmly. No one but Aramis, at least, though even he wasn't bothering with his charade right now. "I'm not trying to fool you."
"Stop," Aramis snapped, his fingers shifting to press against his temple, just above the healing scar. "Just stop."
Aramis drew in a deep breath and seemed to mentally rally himself. His hand dropped back down and reached instead to push Porthos back out onto the balcony. Unwilling to force his presence on the smaller man, Porthos allowed it.
Aramis stood there in the doorway for a long, silent moment. He stared at Porthos with dark, haunted eyes, but didn't speak. He looked confused, as if Porthos was confusing him.
"We are brothers, Aramis," Porthos insisted quietly. "It was you who said so, you who made me believe it."
For a brief moment, Aramis looked like he was about to collapse into tears.
"That was before," he said instead, voice shaking.
Porthos risked a step closer, dipping his head a bit to catch Aramis' lowered gaze.
"Before what?"
Aramis lifted his chin, sudden resolve hardening his features.
"Before I learned the truth about brotherhood."
Then Porthos found himself staring at a closed door. Every part of him wanted to kick it down, to march into the room and wrap Aramis in the tightest hug he could, to make him trust the bond between them.
But he didn't.
He knew of Marsac's betrayal, or guessed at it at least. There was only one conclusion to be drawn when the man was missing and his pauldron was left behind. Aramis' fevered pleas had only made the picture clearer.
Don't leave me here.
Porthos felt his hands clench to fists.
He hadn't considered what that betrayal would mean to Aramis. He hadn't imagined it would shake his faith in Porthos, his faith in all of them. They had not been friends long, but their bond had been solid and true. Marsac's betrayal had poisoned everything.
Porthos had never hated Marsac more than he did in this moment.
And though Porthos was now more determined than ever to remain at Aramis' side, to prove himself a true and loyal brother, he would never forgive Marsac for what he had done.
Never.
Aramis pressed his forehead against the door, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to ward off the headache that had been brewing all day.
Porthos' confusion confused him.
He'd been sure, when called out, Porthos would give up the pretense. But instead, the man had looked nothing short of bewildered.
It didn't make sense.
Why carry on with the illusion now that he knew Aramis had discovered it?
He was still there, on the other side of the door; Aramis could sense it. Part of him wanted to fling the door open and ignore all of his misgivings. He wanted to accept the friendship, the brotherhood, Porthos was offering and pretend it was real.
He had never questioned his brotherhood with Marsac. He had believed, from the very beginning, that Marsac held him as closely in his heart as Aramis did him. Marsac had not been the perfect friend. He had his vices, as all men do. Pride and an easily sparked temper; those had been Marsac's failings. But Aramis had stood by him. He had talked him down when his temper flared. He had fought beside him when talking failed and Marsac's foolish mouth escalated arguments into brawls. He had always had Marsac's back and had always believed that devotion would be fully returned.
He had been a fool.
But he would not be taken in so easily again.
With a weary sigh he pushed away from the door and decided to ignore that Porthos still stood on the other side.
Instead, he moved slowly to his bed, methodically removing his garments until he wore nothing but his underclothes. Then he moved to stand in front of the old mirror on the wall. It was a vain indulgence that Marsac had teased him mercilessly for. But Aramis had found that trimming his beard with the aid of the reflective glass had significantly improved the precision of his shaving.
Now, though, he stood farther back, tracing his fingers over the healing scar on his side. The wound had been shallow, and the scar would likely fade to nothing with time. It barely even ached anymore and he tended to forget it was even there.
He stepped closer, stooping slightly to see his face in the glass. He rubbed a hand over his head, fingers brushing through the short, prickly mess. His hair would grow in time, that was not his worry. Even now it covered half the width of his fingers as he pushed his hand through it. His eyes instead were drawn to the ugly scar on the side of his head.
This one, he knew, would never fade. It would be hidden beneath his hair as it grew, but it would always be there. He would always know it was there. Every time he looked in the mirror, no matter how his hair hid it, he would see it. He would see and be reminded.
Of Savoy.
Of twenty dead Musketeers.
Of Marsac.
He hooked his hand over the top of the mirror and yanked it from the wall, turning to walk away even as it fell, shattering on the floor. The sound sent spikes of agony through his throbbing head, but he ignored the pain.
There was a shuffling step out on the walkway beyond the door. But no knock came, no voice called out to him. It was a relief, really…and a disappointment.
He moved next to the hearth, positioned equally between the two beds. He spent the next several minutes building a fire, stoking it with wood until it was roaring.
Even so, he shivered.
He was always cold. No matter what he did, he could never seem to warm.
He returned to his bed and carefully ripped away a strip from his bedsheet, easing himself down onto the mattress and staring at the cloth in his hands.
The dreams had been unrelenting. There'd been nothing he could do on the journey to the Garrison but endure them. Porthos, he knew, had grown to anticipate them as much as Aramis did. Every time Aramis ripped himself from the nightmare and clawed his way back to reality, the larger man had been there, already awake and waiting to calm him, to quiet the screams and shouts.
Aramis hated to admit he'd grown to count on it.
But he couldn't very well beg Porthos to stay by his side. Not when the man didn't even really want to be bothered with him anyway. Not when Porthos' devotion was born of guilt and nothing more.
Left to himself, Aramis didn't know how loud the screams would be or how long they would last. So there was really only one solution if he wanted to save himself the humiliation of waking the entire Garrison with the sounds of his nightmares.
He fitted the cloth between his teeth, tying it behind his head.
The gag would not stop all sound, but it would do well enough. The walls weren't overly thick, but they were made of solid wood. Between the two, he stood a chance at keeping his horrors to himself until he found reality on his own, without Porthos to guide him.
Without another thought about it, he retrieved his dagger from his weapons belt and slid it under his pillow. Then he shifted himself down across the bed and pressed his back to the wall. The position forced him to stare at Marsac's empty bed, but the alternative of leaving his back exposed was far worse. Even with the solid security of the wall at his back, he still found his hand reaching under his pillow to wrap tightly around the hilt of his dagger.
Porthos was still there, still silent outside the door.
But Aramis ignored it.
Marsac's bed sat empty across from him, mocking him with the memories of the years they'd spent sharing this room.
Aramis closed his eyes.
He welcomed the blood and steel that greeted him.
Treville stood at the window to his office, staring across the yard to the second level barracks.
Porthos sat alone outside the door to Aramis' room. He'd been standing for a long time, at one point making a move to open the door, looking alarmed, but had never actually gone further than putting his hand on the door handle. After that, he'd slid to the wooden deck, leaning back against the door and burying his head in his hands.
The sight of such devotion was comforting, especially in the face of his own spectacular failure in facing Aramis himself.
He had known it would be hard. He had anticipated his own guilt would be crippling.
He had not expected Aramis to pretend everything was fine.
He should have, though; he realized that now. Aramis was a master of masks, after all. Treville knew that even he had never truly seen Aramis in his entirety. He had never actually seen all the parts that came together to make the man he knew. Aramis had always worn a mask of sorts, even with him.
He led the world by the hand with his persona. He only ever let people see what he wanted them to see. Some would swear Aramis was the kindest, gentlest person they had ever met. Others would claim just as fiercely that he was a ruthless warrior who would kill without hesitation. Others still would insist he was loud and gregarious, quick to laugh and quicker to draw out laughter in others. Further, some would say he was a cunning, fast talking con man likely to get himself killed for his silver tongue one day.
Treville had been privileged enough to know all of these sides of him at one time or another. He knew, as few did, that they were all the same man – parts to make a whole.
Aramis always wore masks. It was who he was.
But the mask he wore with Treville had always been a simple thing. It had only ever hidden one part of himself – his past. A history kept closely guarded and never to be disclosed, not even to him. But not since Medina had Aramis truly tried to fool Treville with the persona he showed the rest of the world.
Treville had been ready for heartbreak and devastation. He had barely been able to look at the young man for the anticipation of it. He still carried the weight of the truth that must be shared between them. He had dreaded seeing the suffering in Aramis' eyes and had hated that he would only add to it.
But then, Aramis had looked at him and smiled. He had kept the mask in place and dared Treville to question it.
And to Treville's shame, he had been relieved.
He had grasped at the excuse to hold onto his confession a while longer. He had looked away from the false smile and the poorly hidden suffering in Aramis' gaze and told himself to keep his truth just a little longer.
It was selfish, he knew. Aramis would not blame him, would never hate him for what he'd done. But he would never look at him the same again either. Once he knew the truth, Treville would forever be a reminder of twenty dead, a reminder of a captain's failure to protect his men.
As selfish as it was, he wanted to preserve the image Aramis had of him for as long as he could.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow after he'd met with the king and put straight what had happened, he would tell Aramis everything. He would explain the whole awful truth of his letter to the duke revealing their position and of the duke's subsequent betrayal.
Then, together, they would prepare for the war with Savoy that would likely follow. It wouldn't matter now that the king's sister was the Duchess. The massacre had been an open act of aggression. Such a thing would merit swift and decisive retaliation.
Treville would be ready to deliver that justice with Aramis by his side.
Aramis woke to screams.
It was only when the cloth between his teeth had him choking on the sound that he realized the screams were not just in his dreams.
He tried to breath around the gag. But found that in his state of panic, the task was made too difficult.
He clawed at the cloth until he was able to pull it free, leaving it to hang loosely around his neck. Finally, able to draw in sufficient air to clear his muddled thoughts, he closed his eyes and focused just on breathing.
It took him longer than it strictly should have to calm himself. And it was then that he realized he was shaking. Not just a minor tremble, either. His entire body was violently shivering against the cold he could feel settled deep in his bones.
With a trembling hand, he pushed aside his sheet and blanket, climbing gingerly out of bed to stoke the fading fire. Once he had it raging brightly once again, he just stood before it, trying to let it warm his shaking body. But even with the heat of the flames bringing a flush to his skin, he still felt cold.
He rubbed at his arms as he moved back to his bed. He huddled beneath his blankets and tried to stop himself from trembling.
Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on the warmth he knew the fire would be spreading into the room. He tried to draw that warmth into his bones.
But still the cold remained.
With a resigned sigh, he climbed back out of bed. Tucking his pillow under his arm and retrieving his dagger, he shifted to lay down on the floor before the hearth. He tugged his blankets down on top of him and stretched out on his back. Resting the dagger across his chest, he breathed out a sigh.
It wasn't the most defensible position, but he could still see the door and the window and at least he was starting to feel somewhat warm again.
Eventually, he felt the shaking start to fade.
But in its absence, the silence of the world around him became impossible to ignore.
The first thing he heard were the echoes of clashing steel. The sound was quiet at first, but steadily grew louder. Then explosions of gunfire seemed to shake the walls. Soon the screams of the dead and dying mingled with the sounds of battle.
He clenched his eyes, searching the room for anything to distract him from the memories.
But there was nothing.
He was alone with them, just as he had been alone in Savoy.
Porthos rubbed at his sore neck, sitting forward away from the door he'd been sleeping against. He didn't know what exactly had woken him – or consequently when exactly he had fallen asleep in the first place – so he went still, listening.
He heard it then, gasping breaths.
Shifting up to his knees, Porthos rested his hand flat against the door and leaned closer.
He could just hear the sound of Aramis adding wood to the fire.
There were slight sounds of movement, then silence. Then, too soon, movement again. That, too, settled eventually and silence followed.
Porthos chewed his lip and pushed up to stand.
Aramis had kicked him out earlier, bluntly and clearly.
But some instinct was urging Porthos into the room. Some whisper in his mind was telling him that no matter what he claimed, Aramis shouldn't be alone. A tightening in his gut told him his brother needed him.
Closing his eyes and taking in a fortifying breath, Porthos eased the door open.
The room was cast in an orange glow from the roaring fire and the heat of it made the air stiflingly hot. Porthos immediately missed the coolness of the night outside, but he did not turn back.
Aramis was laid out before the fire – as close as he could get without laying in the flames – with a dagger clenched in the hand that lay across his chest. His eyes were closed but his breathing was unsteady.
Still not sure of his welcome, Porthos closed the door and leaned against it. He didn't know what he would do if Aramis told him to leave. He was needed here. He could feel it. But forcing the issue could end up only furthering the distance that Aramis was placing between them.
So he waited to see what Aramis would do.
"Porthos."
It was a simple acknowledgment, spoken in barely a whisper. But the tone of it was not simple at all. Porthos could hear, wrapped in every piece of his own name, how much Aramis wanted – needed – him to stay. But at the same time it was laced with bone-deep frustration. Frustration, perhaps, that Porthos had come or, maybe, that Aramis needed him to at all.
Porthos slid down to sit against the door, mirroring the position he'd claimed outside.
"I'm here," he assured quietly.
Through the silence of the room, he thought he might have heard Aramis sigh in something like relief.
April 20, 1625
The Road to the Louvre Palace, Paris
Treville rode out of the Garrison just as the men started to stir from their beds and come out in search of breakfast. He'd barely been able to sleep, his mind troubled by both his worry for Aramis and his anticipation of his audience with the king.
Porthos hadn't been out on the landing this morning when Treville finally gave up on sleep an hour before dawn. He hoped that meant the young man was getting some rest. The exhaustion had been rolling off him in waves from the moment he and Aramis returned yesterday. In all honesty he'd looked only a little better than Aramis himself. If the man showed for morning muster, Treville would send him straight back to bed. Aramis, he knew, would be pulled aside by Henri, the Garrison physician, as soon as he appeared to ascertain when he would be fit to return to duty. The outcome of that meeting would determine if Aramis, too, would be sent straight back to bed.
When the Louvre palace gate came into sight, Treville forced himself to focus on the coming conversation and to put Aramis, for now, out of his mind.
Soon enough he was handing off his horse and being escorted to the king's council chamber. Treville was unsurprised to see Richelieu standing at the king's shoulder.
For several heavy moments they all just stared at each other.
Louis looked somewhat troubled.
Richelieu, however, looked as impassive as ever.
"I offer my deepest condolences, Captain, on the loss of your men," Louis finally spoke.
Treville lifted his chin slightly and squared his shoulders.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Louis gave him a slight nod, his eyes flashing with something like regret.
"A great loss for France," he added, glancing to the cardinal and then returning his gaze quickly back to Treville.
Treville felt his heart start pounding in his chest at the telling gesture.
Louis was still young, despite his already long tenure on the throne, and he had not yet quite mastered hiding his thoughts from those who knew him best. Treville had served him since he took the throne as a child king and had served his father before that. He knew Louis well, well enough to know when he was hiding something.
"Such a tragedy," Richelieu put solemnly, but there was no real sympathy in his gaze. He looked, instead, as if this outcome was no shock at all.
As if he had known, all along, this would happen.
A vision of blood-stained snow and a forest of frozen bodies rose, unbidden, in Treville's mind. A memory of Aramis, cradled carefully in Porthos' arms, followed swiftly after.
Aramis.
The boy had been something like a son to him over these last six years. Aramis had been so very young when they had met. He had been full of fierce fire and passion and courage. Captain Barteaux had used that to his own ends, risking the young soldier's life recklessly. But Treville had seen Aramis' heart clearly the moment they met and he'd known, just as quickly, that the young marksman was meant for something more. Falling into the role of mentor had been an easy thing after that.
When the order had come to create the Musketeers, Aramis had been the fifth and final addition to the new regiment. He had been the youngest of them by nearly two decades, but his youth hadn't mattered. He had been loved by all of them, taught by each seasoned soldier in different ways as they poured lifetimes of wisdom and training into him. From one moment to the next, even now, Treville could see each of his original Musketeers in Aramis. He could see the training they had passed down, the wisdom they had shared.
From the beginning, he had been meant to be their future.
Then, somewhere along the way, Treville had stopped being just his mentor and had become something more instead. Aramis had stopped being simply the future of the Musketeers, the man destined to lead them. He had become Treville's legacy instead – the son he would never truly have.
He stared at Richelieu's impassive, unaffected gaze and found himself speaking.
"You knew this would happen."
Both Louis and Richelieu stared at him in surprise, perhaps shocked by his audacity. But the realization had come too swiftly, had struck him too deeply, for him to have a chance to rein his tongue.
"You forget yourself, Captain," Richelieu scolded firmly. "You would accuse your king?"
Treville shot a glance at Louis, knowing that to do so could, and likely would, have grave consequences. But the fleeting look of guilt Louis slid to Richelieu told Treville the truth of it.
"Your Majesty," he spoke calmly, careful to keep his voice respectful and reverent. Louis' gaze met his, eyes wide and expressive in response to his sincerity. "I have served you, and your father before you, with pride for most of my life. I am, and shall always be, your faithful servant. You commanded me to inform the duke of where my men made camp and I obeyed this command. My King, I beg you now for the truth. For the sake of the twenty men who died, I must know if I condemned them to that fate."
Louis' gaze softened.
"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.
"It is for these things that those men died," Louis went on, forcing Treville to open his eyes and hear the rest. "Take comfort in the knowledge that they died in service of a greater purpose."
A greater purpose.
Such was the fate of every soldier – to die for a cause.
But there was a difference between marching to battle willingly for King and Country and being murdered in the shadows, cut down by a game of lies and deceit you didn't even know you were a player in.
He felt sick. His gut twisted and he had to look away just to maintain his composure.
"They were your soldiers," Treville found himself saying. He raised his gaze back to meet Louis'. "Your most trusted men…men who loved you. Twenty men who now lay beneath the ground."
His voice was too sharp, too accusatory. Louis would have every right to tear him down for such brazenness, but Treville could not hold his tongue. For the sake of his men, he could not let this pass quietly.
Louis' gaze hardened with something. Perhaps guilt, perhaps just defensive superiority.
"I will forgive you your insolence, Captain, in deference to the grief you must feel at this tragedy."
Treville clamped his mouth closed against the words he wanted to say. It was a warning he did not deserve. He spoke instead with his eyes, letting Louis see in his gaze the depth of his grief and confusion. He watched the king slowly soften under the weight of that knowledge.
"We received word that my sister's duplicity had been discovered by Cluzet, the duke's chancellor, who incidentally is a Spanish spy," Louis explained quietly. Treville took in this new information with a blink. "We had to act quickly to ensure this never reached the duke's ears." Louis held Treville's gaze, eyes pleading for understanding. "Sacrifices had to be made. The only way for the cardinal's men to extract Cluzet quietly was for the duke to be drawn out and distracted. As a military man, you must understand the need for such measures." He finished in a rush, his tone bordering on frantic.
Treville glanced at Richelieu and then back at Louis.
"My men were the distraction," he realized quietly.
"The duke heard a rumor that men had been sent to assassinate him," the cardinal revealed. "And further that they intended to place his infant son on the throne."
Treville felt sick all over again. His men, his faithful soldiers, had been painted as assassins. The dishonor that laid on their memories was nearly enough to gut him right then and there.
"When he received word of their location, he did exactly as we needed him to. He acted."
"A rumor." Treville stared hard at Richelieu. "Your rumor."
The cardinal's chin lifted slightly and it was all the confirmation Treville needed.
His men had been pawns in a larger game. He himself had been little more.
"It was necessary, Treville," Louis pleaded. "You must see that. For the sake of France, it had to be done."
Treville stared at him but refused to condone this horrible choice. He refused to offer approval for a decision that had cost twenty innocent lives. He saw Louis' eyes well with moisture at his silence, but just as quickly, the king clenched his jaw and lifted his chin in defiance.
He was King. He did not need approval from a man like Treville. Such things had been whispered to him many times through the years, every time Treville refused to lie to spare Louis' feelings. He would always tell the king the truth, even if Louis refused to hear it.
Richelieu's cool voice broke the silence that had fallen.
"There is the matter of the two survivors, Your Majesty."
Louis composed himself further and cleared his throat.
"Yes, Treville, twenty-two men were sent to Savoy. You said there were only twenty dead." The king looked at him expectantly.
Silently incensed by the cavalier tone with which Louis spoke of his murdered men, Treville hesitated a moment before replying. He held his tongue until he was sure his voice would be level.
"One, the Musketeer Marsac, is missing," he finally revealed.
"A deserter," Richelieu sneered.
Treville thought of the uniform that sat in his office and remembered Aramis' fevered pleas.
Don't leave me here.
He could not deny the accusation, no matter how much he wanted to.
"Is this true?" Louis asked.
"We found his uniform abandoned on the field of battle," Treville revealed quietly.
"And the other?" Richelieu pressed. "Aramis, I believe?"
Treville's gaze narrowed in suspicion. The cardinal had eyes everywhere. He supposed he should not be surprised the man knew the identity of the survivor of Savoy.
"Returned yesterday and is now recovering amidst his remaining brothers," he told them vaguely.
"His injuries?" Louis asked. It wasn't quite concern in his voice, rather something closer to curiosity.
"He was stabbed in the leg and cut on his side, though both seem to be healing quickly. He also suffered two severe blows to the head."
"So his memory of events is likely…" Richelieu seemed to search for the right word, "muddled."
Treville suddenly realized why he was here. This had nothing to do with condolences about his lost men. Louis' confession of this deadly intrigue had not been planned. He had not been here for that at all.
"You want to know if he can identify his attackers," he stated, once again finding his stomach turning. "You are worried he will shed light on what you've done."
Richelieu's eyebrow arched, but he didn't deny it.
"He's not spoken of it," Treville told them gruffly. And it was the truth. When asked, Porthos had quietly informed him that Aramis did claim to "remember" what had happened. However, the quality of those memories, the scope of them, was unknown because Aramis refused to speak of it.
"He must be thoroughly questioned," Richelieu decided.
Treville felt his heart pound when Louis nodded. He knew what Richelieu's kind of questioning looked like. The thought of Aramis…
"No," he refused sharply, drawing both their gazes to him.
He saw fury rise in Louis' eyes to match that which Treville felt burning in his heart. Refusing the king was unacceptable. It wasn't done. To do so, and in such a tone, invited swift punishment. So Treville drew in a steadying breath and let it out carefully, forcing his voice to be level and reverent once again.
"Aramis joined your infantry when he was just sixteen," he explained. "It was with him at its core that the Musketeers were founded. He is loyal and devoted and would do anything for you." He had already done so much, given so much. "He deserves more than to be interrogated as if he were your enemy."
Louis was not a cold man; he never had been. Treville's plea must have struck a chord in him because his eyes softened.
"I understand your concern, Treville, and admire your loyalty to your man," he assured kindly. "But this situation is too precarious, too vital. I must be sure this Musketeer will not undo all that has been done. I would not have twenty of my finest men sacrificed in vain."
"He would not betray you." Treville knew that for a certainty. Aramis breathed and bled loyalty.
"And if he partakes too heavily in a tavern? Your Musketeers are not known for their humility," Richelieu argued. "If this man starts to boast of his miraculous survival? Rumors would spread in an instant. And this Musketeer, I'm told, is known for his verbosity."
Treville did his best to burn Richelieu to the ground with his glare.
"He's right, Treville," Louis agreed, but his tone was not triumphant.
"Then let me find out what he remembers," Treville suggested, hoping he did not sound as desperate as he felt. "He suffered a grievous head wound. Even if he knows something dangerous, I will be able to convince him otherwise."
"What would you tell him?" Louis asked, something that might have been like hope in his eyes. Louis, Treville realized, was in no hurry to condemn another Musketeer. This was good news; it meant Treville stood a chance at protecting Aramis from this.
"The Spanish," he decided, thinking quickly. "They've been raiding the border lands for years."
"Will he believe you?" Richelieu asked bluntly. Treville was relieved to see the deadly focus – which had been aimed at Aramis – had faded from the cardinal's gaze.
Treville thought of Aramis' clearly Spanish features, of the murmurings of Spanish he'd heard the marksman utter more than once. Treville didn't know much of Aramis' history, not beyond his military service and a few off hand comments here and there. But he knew there was Spanish blood in the young man's veins.
There was every chance, if Aramis remembered the wrong thing, that he would spot the lie before it even left Treville's mouth.
But Aramis trusted him completely. If Treville handled it correctly, Aramis would sooner doubt his own memory than Treville's words. It was manipulative. It was exploiting the trust Aramis had always so willingly given him. But if it meant keeping him safe, Treville would do it.
"He'll believe me," he replied firmly. "Leave him to me," he turned his gaze to Louis, "please."
Louis held his gaze for a long, heavy moment. And then he nodded.
It was only years of training, of being hardened by battle and war, that kept Treville's expression stoic. Beneath his calm exterior, he was wilting in relief. Aramis was safe.
"All records of this mission must be destroyed," Richelieu reminded. "No evidence must ever remain to shine the light of truth on this tragic incident and it must never be spoken of again."
Treville nodded, willing to allow that concession. He had achieved what mattered most. Of the twenty-two men he'd sent to die in Savoy, he'd managed, in the end, to save at least one.
But, he feared, that salvation would come at a cost.
Porthos woke to a cool breeze brushing across his face. He twitched his nose, catching the scent of the city. While not a particularly pleasant scent, it was a familiar one. With a deep inhale, Porthos opened his eyes.
The world was sideways.
He blinked and realized it was he who was sideways, not the room. With a low groan, he pushed his hand against the floor and levered himself up. He felt the hard wood of the door at his back and his right side was tingling from having been slept on all night.
With a surprised arch of his brow, he realized there was a pillow on the floor next to him. He had no memory of retrieving it, but he remembered his head being cushioned upon waking now.
There was only one explanation, really – someone else had put it there. As far as he knew, the room had only one other occupant.
Porthos searched the room for Aramis, rubbing away a crusty residue from the corners of his eyes.
The fire in the hearth was on its last log, clearly having been left to burn out. There were the shattered remains of a mirror on the floor nearby and Porthos suddenly remembered the sound of breaking glass that nearly had him breaking down the door last night. The only thing that had stopped him was the sound of Aramis moving freely after that.
His gaze shifted to the bed he knew belonged to Aramis.
The marksman was sitting with his back pressed to the corner of the wall. He was fully dressed, save for his hat, which sat on the bed next to him. His hands were moving through the practiced routine of cleaning his arquebus. His pistols lay at his side, both looking pristinely cleaned already. His sword belt was resting at the foot of the bed, a whetstone lying next to it.
Aramis had been busy.
"How long have you been up?" Porthos asked as he used the door behind him to lever himself to standing.
Aramis didn't look up from his work even though Porthos was reasonably certain he could complete the task blindfolded.
"Dawn," he replied quietly, then even softer, "or earlier."
Porthos watched him for a moment, but Aramis still didn't look at him.
"Breakfast?" he suggested, feeling his own stomach rumble.
Aramis started to nod but a slamming door and a sudden rush of steps out on the landing had him vaulting from the bed. Porthos jumped, more from Aramis' reaction than the sudden rush of sound outside. He held up a calming hand when he found himself staring down the barrels of two pistols.
"Easy," he soothed. "Don't appreciate loaded weapons in my face this early in the mornin'."
Aramis blinked at him and after only a moment of hesitation, lowered the pistols. He looked frustrated with himself, like the only reason he'd lowered the weapons was because Porthos had asked him to.
"You're in the Garrison," Porthos pointed out carefully. "You realize that?"
"I know," Aramis agreed. "But I…" he cut himself off, shaking his head.
"You what?" Porthos pressed, taking a step closer. He was pleased that, although Aramis shot him a vague glare, the other man didn't retreat.
Aramis placed both pistols on the bed and reached for his sword belt, apparently content to ignore the question.
"Aramis."
With a frustrated huff, Aramis tightened his belt.
"I can't make it stop."
Porthos stared at him, confused. Aramis clipped his pistols to his belt a bit more forcefully than required and scowled down at his powder satchel, realizing, apparently, that he'd forgotten to put that on first. Porthos watched him rip his pistols back off his belt and slam them down onto the bed irritably.
"Aramis."
The marksman stripped off his sword belt and hooked the strap to his powder satchel over his shoulder. He didn't speak as he tightened his belt back into place over it, or when he clipped his pistols onto his belt again.
"Aramis," Porthos tried again, softer, as the smaller man snatched his hat from the bed.
"I know where I am," he insisted, turning to glare at him. "I know and yet…" He gestured helplessly with his hat and then slid a hand up into his short hair. "Every sound, every shift in the shadows…" He shook his head as if trying to banish some thought or vision and fitted his hat over his hair.
Porthos nodded, well aware of Aramis' tendency now to be overly vigilant of his surroundings. He had hoped it would fade once they returned to the safety of the Garrison. He watched Aramis rest a hand on the stock of one of his pistols and take a deep breath. Porthos imagined he could see the steel stiffening Aramis' back and straightening his shoulders.
"You should go," Aramis said as he turned, a wide, nearly believable smile on his face. "After all this time, you returned home and slept on the floor. You must feel awful." The false smile brightened. "Go. I'll meet you at breakfast."
Then Aramis was ushering him towards the door.
"Aramis," Porthos shook his head in frustration. There had been a moment when Aramis hadn't been hiding behind his mask of false smiles. A moment already gone, lost before Porthos could grasp at it.
"What do you suppose Serge has made?" Aramis went on brightly. "Perhaps we'll be lucky and escape his porridge. Either way I'm sure I can get him to part with a bit of fruit, perhaps some cheese."
Aramis pulled the door open and urged Porthos through it. But Porthos planted his feet and held his ground.
"Aramis."
"What?" Aramis asked, blinking innocently.
Porthos hesitated. He'd told himself when Aramis started this, that it would end when they got home. He had assured himself that Treville would handle it. He just needed to give the captain more time.
"Nothin'," he shook his head. "See you down there."
He moved quickly down the walkway to his own room and slid inside while Aramis continued on to the stairs. But as Porthos closed his door on Aramis' retreating back he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made the wrong choice.
Aramis made his way down to the yard with only a vague limp in his step. The few other Musketeers not on duty at the moment were sitting at the long plank table, quietly eating their breakfast. Aramis nearly faltered at the sight of them.
So few remained.
As he drew nearer, he couldn't help but tie them to those who had died. Gaston, he had shared a room with Alain. Jean-Luc – his brother Gustave had been in Savoy. Pierre and Demonte had been close friends with Laurent and Gentry.
No one had been untouched by Savoy. Every one of them had felt the blow in one form or another.
When they turned their gazes to him, he could see the despair build in their eyes. He could see the fresh grief welling.
He was a reminder, he realized, of what had been lost.
Tugging his hat down a little tighter to hide his short cropped hair, Aramis painted on as large a smile as he could manage. It would do them no good to see how shattered he was.
"What's for breakfast then, lads?" he asked as he reached them, squeezing Demonte's shoulder. "Not porridge?" he asked in a stage whisper.
Answering chuckles rose around the table and varying expressions of relief filtered over their faces. This is what they needed. They needed for him to smile and to be alright. They needed him not to be a walking reminder of the brothers that had been ripped away from them.
"He added something new," Jean-Luc replied with a grimace. "It tastes a bit like…ash?" he ventured, obviously not content with his description.
Aramis leaned closer, grinning wider.
"An improvement, then?"
This time it was full laughs that answered him. He patted Demonte's shoulder and straightened to his full height, adjusting his hat a bit.
"Well then," he cleared his throat. "Let's see what I can do."
"Thank God," Pierre breathed. "Cheese, if you can."
"A bit of bread," Gaston added.
"An apple," Jean-Luc pleaded.
"I'm not a serving girl," Aramis replied with a chuckle that left his chest feeling tight with how wrong it felt. "You'll take what I manage to retrieve and be happy for it."
They all nodded vigorously and he set off for the refectory.
If Serge wondered at his overly chipper bearing, he didn't comment. But his gaze was narrowed the entire time Aramis spoke to him. And as Aramis returned to the yard armed with his own bowl of porridge as well as a plate full of cheese and bread, he could swear he felt the old veteran's gaze on his back.
Porthos was just coming down the stairs as Aramis deposited the plate of his spoils onto the table and he gave the man a smile.
"Porthos," he held out the bowl of porridge Serge had given him. "For you."
Porthos accepted it as he reached them.
"Where's yours?" he asked suspiciously as he took a piece of bread as Aramis thrust the plate towards him.
"Oh, this is quite enough for me," Aramis held up a piece of bread and cheese pressed together. "You enjoy."
Porthos grimaced and Aramis grinned.
"Too kind," Porthos grumbled.
"Aramis!"
All of them turned to see Henri, the Garrison physician, coming out of the infirmary. Henri did no more than wave a hand, but the instruction was clear enough.
"Well then," Aramis snatched another piece of bread off the plate. "Enjoy gentlemen."
As he walked away, he heard Gaston's voice rise behind him.
"Sit, Porthos. There's room enough for you."
When Aramis smiled in response, he found it wasn't forced at all.
"It seems to be healing well, my boy," Henri sat back from where he'd been inspecting the scar on Aramis' temple. The wound was healing well, and in a few months' time the scar would be hidden beneath Aramis' hair.
"How are the headaches?" he asked.
Aramis blinked innocently back at him.
"Headaches?" he questioned blankly.
Henri raised his brow doubtfully. He had been a physician for many years and he had been treating this particular young Musketeer since the regiment had been founded. If there was one thing Aramis could always be counted on to do, it was to downplay his own ailments.
"Yes, boy, headaches. Defined as pain in your head, sometimes sudden, sometimes lingering," Henri explained with a teasing grin.
The dry glare he got in response had Henri chuckling.
"I know you pride yourself on your head being harder than most, but even you are not immune to such things."
Aramis' eyes narrowed, humor reflecting in his gaze in response to the teasing.
Henri smiled patiently and then gave his charge a serious look.
"How often and how severe?" he asked firmly.
Aramis sighed and rubbed at his temple.
"Not very on both counts," he replied vaguely.
It was Henri's turn to narrow his eyes, sensing deception.
"Would you lie to an old man, Aramis?"
Aramis held his gaze shamelessly and smiled widely.
"Of course not."
Henri didn't bother trying to stifle his disbelieving snort or his eye roll.
"Well, if you were to suffer such an ailment – as most who've endured such head injuries tend to – there are steps that can be taken to alleviate the pain."
Aramis' brow cocked curiously and Henri took that as permission to go on.
"Find a quiet, dark place. If you've access to cool water, wet cloths and place them on your neck and head. Mostly, try to sleep."
Aramis stared at him and then nodded slightly. It was the closest to an admission of pain that Henri would ever get from him, so the physician accepted it with a nod of his own.
"Now, your leg; how does it take your weight?"
"Well enough," Aramis replied, his hand drifting to lightly rub his thigh. "It hardly pains me anymore."
"Hardly pains you in the same way your headaches are infrequent and lack severity?" Henri challenged with an arched brow.
Aramis shrugged.
"You saw the wound," the marksman reminded. It had been the first part of Henri's exam.
"Yes," Henri agreed, "I did. And it has healed quite well but not completely. If you push yourself, Aramis, you risk setting back your recovery."
"If I don't push myself, I'll never regain my strength," Aramis challenged.
"Your leg was deeply wounded," Henri reminded firmly, "and those knocks to your head were no small thing. You went days without treatment, Aramis."
"I'm well aware," Aramis snapped, voice uncharacteristically harsh.
Henri held up a calming hand.
"I am your ally in this, Aramis, not your enemy. My only concern is for you and your health."
Aramis blew out a breath and looked away, rubbing at his temple again. Henri studied him for a moment.
"I know my own limitations, Henri," Aramis stated confidently, turning his gaze back to meet Henri's. "Quite well."
There was a certain something in his words, a weight, a memory of a lesson harshly learned. And though Henri doubted Aramis even knew the meaning of the word 'limitation', he didn't have the heart to challenge him.
"If you give me your word you will be cautious, you may return to light duty."
"Musket training?" Aramis pressed eagerly.
"Only if your head can take the sound. You may find it makes your not severe headaches worse." He arched his brow pointedly, letting the boy know that he was still not fooled by the lie.
Aramis looked unperturbed by the warning and Henri sighed. The young man would likely work on his musket and pistol skill even if it did make his headaches worse. In fact, he was actually smiling at what he likely saw as blanket permission to run off firing weapons left and right.
Henri rolled his eyes.
Aramis narrowed his gaze then, as if considering whether he should bargain further.
"Sword training?" he hedged carefully.
"Carefully. You need to listen to your body, Aramis. It will tell you when to stop."
Aramis grinned happily. Probably imagining all the ways he would ignore his own body's warnings.
"But absolutely no hand-to-hand until those head and leg wounds have had more time to heal," he added firmly.
"Fine," Aramis waved a dismissive hand.
Henri rolled his eyes.
"And," he stated sharply, drawing Aramis' gaze back to his, "I will be watching you. If at any point I tell you to stop and rest, you will."
Aramis scowled.
"I know my o-"
"Your own limitations, so you said. I don't believe you," Henri replied bluntly. Aramis frowned in offense, but Henri went on without apology, "You forget, I have known you for quite some time. I've seen how terrible you are at looking after yourself."
Aramis opened his mouth to argue, but Henri held up a hand.
"Defer to me in this, Aramis," Henri pleaded. "I would very much like you well enough to drive me to madness for years to come."
The teasing got what he'd hoped for – Aramis grinned.
"Well if it means that much to you," Aramis allowed. "I will bow to your wisdom…for now."
Henri smiled gratefully. He started to stand from his stool. But when Aramis didn't make to rise from the cot he was sitting on, Henri slowly eased back down.
"Is there something more?"
"I've a favor to ask you, old friend," Aramis began carefully.
Henri nodded in encouragement.
"Would you teach me battle medicine?"
Henri blinked in shock.
"Battle medicine?"
"Stitching, setting of bones, digging out musket balls…" Aramis explained with a vague wave of his hand.
"Yes, boy, I know what battle medicine is. What reason have you to learn it?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth, then Henri knew. He felt his chest tighten as he watched a darkness sweep through Aramis' normally warm and friendly gaze. But just as quickly as it came, the expression disappeared, hidden behind an easy smile.
"Seems a valuable skill," the marksman shrugged slightly. "One that might serve me well in the future."
Henri studied the young man before him. The captain had told him what Aramis had been through, what he'd known of it at least. He'd warned him what injuries the boy had suffered so he could be prepared to look after him.
But looking at Aramis now, Henri was certain there were gaps in the story, things only Aramis knew. Whatever had happened, it had prompted this request. For that alone, Henri could not deny him.
"Of course I'll teach you," he assured. "Though you may find yourself called upon when my old bones demand a rest," he teased. "Or perhaps just when I'm feeling lazy."
The Musketeer smiled vaguely at the joke, but mostly just looked relieved.
Henri felt concern prick in his chest, but before he could think too much about it, Aramis stood.
"When can we start?"
End of Chapter Eight
My headcanon, of course, is that Aramis had to learn to be a medic somewhere and that it was unlikely something he learned on a whim or for fun. Savoy seemed a natural trigger for such an undertaking. Treville also knows the awful truth now, that his men were pawns. A heavy burden of truth to carry, poor man.
As always, I would love to hear from you all!
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
"Stop."
Aramis went still, staring at Porthos as the large man loomed over him.
"Just stop, Aramis. You may be foolin' them," he gestured vaguely back towards the yard, "but I see through it. So just stop."
Aramis couldn't force himself to react. He was too startled to do anything but stare dumbly.