Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Eight: lizard1969, Arlothia, MashiMoshi, pallysd'Artagnan, twaxer, Deana, Grantaire32, LordLady, Aednat the Fourteenth, enjoyedit, Rosey Malone, X4uth0r, and DalamarF16
Sorry we're a bit later tonight - got caught up doing some work stuff!
Chapter Nine: We Can Get Through It All
Brotherhood is not just a bible word. Out of comradeship can come and will come a happy life for all.
Heywood Brown
April 20, 1625
The Musketeer Garrison, Paris
When Treville returned to the Garrison, he found those few of his men who weren't on night duty already sitting around the table in the yard. Aramis, however, wasn't among them.
"Where's Aramis?" he demanded gruffly, looking to Porthos.
"Infirmary with Henri," the large Musketeer replied immediately.
It was then that Treville realized that Porthos was sitting with the others. He was a bit distanced from them, but at the table nonetheless. Treville had to force himself out of the surprised stupor from that realization. It was a good thing, a very good thing, and a welcome change amidst all the havoc that had been thrown their way recently.
With a sharp nod of thanks, Treville crossed the yard to the infirmary. He found Henri rolling bandages, but he looked up when Treville strode in.
"Captain," Henri greeted. "What can I do for you?"
"Aramis?" Treville asked, searching the room.
"Captain?" Aramis appeared from the adjoining room – Henri's office – with a bundle of leather in his hands. He crossed the room to hand the rolled leather to Henri and then looked to Treville in question. "You were looking for me?"
"Do you have a moment?" Treville ventured carefully.
Aramis stared at him and then looked to Henri.
"Don't look to me, boy, your time is your own," the old doctor replied with a flippant wave of his hand.
Treville frowned, not entirely certain what situation he'd walked into. Aramis turned back to him and motioned for him to lead the way out of the infirmary.
They walked together through the yard and Aramis leaned to snatch the last piece of cheese off a plate on the table, much to the immediate frustration of those sitting.
"I'm the one who procured it, so keep your complaints to yourself," Aramis replied with an easy grin and a teasing glare. Then he joined Treville at the steps that would lead up to his office.
"Can you take the stairs?" Treville asked, realizing he was not entirely certain about Aramis' current condition. He'd have to ask Henri since Aramis could hardly be trusted to be honest about such things.
"Captain, please," Aramis replied easily with a roll of his eyes. Then he proceeded steadily up the stairs. Treville trotted up to catch him and they entered his office together.
"Your leg seems strong," he commented as he motioned Aramis to a chair and took his seat at the desk.
"Strong enough. Too long in the saddle causes issue, but after a night's rest, it's fit enough."
"What did Henri say?"
"Cleared me for duty," Aramis replied immediately and brightly. "Said I could return to training right away."
"Did he?" Treville challenged doubtfully.
Aramis met his gaze steadily and just smiled.
"You do realize I'm going to speak with him myself before assigning you to anything," Treville pointed out with an arched brow.
Aramis rolled his eyes.
"Light duty," he admitted. "But he did say I could return to training."
Treville stared at him.
"Fine, musket and sword training so long as I'm cautious, but no hand-to-hand."
Treville nodded. That sounded more likely.
"I'll not assign you anything substantial today. I want you to rest."
"There's no need, Captain," Aramis argued, eyes wide and earnest. "I'm quite well."
"You stopped being able to lie to me years ago, Aramis."
Treville was a bit surprised to see a flash of anger sear through Aramis' gaze before it was hidden away behind a dramatic huff as he rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. The jarring motion seemed to awaken some pain in his head because his hand drifted up to his temple, fingers ghosting over the healing scar.
"Does it pain you?" he found himself asking.
Aramis' brown eyes snapped up to meet his gaze and he abruptly dropped his hand.
"Not much," he replied.
A lie if Treville had ever heard one.
He let it pass, though. What was one more lie between them now?
The king's confession echoed through his head as he stared at the marksman across from him. Just this morning he had been prepared to tell Aramis everything. He had resolved himself to a confession of his own, if only to ease the burden he knew Aramis would carry over this. He had planned to share the truth so that he could meet Aramis' gaze without feeling like his gut was being twisted in a knot.
And now…now the only thing he would be telling him was another lie.
"You wanted to speak to me?" Aramis prodded when Treville remained silent.
"Yes," he managed, clearing his throat and looking down at the papers on his desk. "I need to know what you remember."
"What?" Aramis sounded honestly shocked and it had Treville looking up again.
"Come now," he forced himself to meet Aramis' wide, suddenly vulnerable, gaze, "you must have known this was coming."
Aramis just continued to stare, fading away before Treville's eyes. His gaze grew terrifyingly distant, his skin paled, and his right hand closed compulsively around the stock of one of his pistols.
"Aramis?"
The young soldier blinked and came back to himself with a shuddering breath.
"I'm fine," he stated firmly before Treville could even ask. "I don't remember much," he said, answering the original question. "It's mostly flashes…feelings." His right hand drifted up to touch the scar on his head again and lines of pain tightened around his eyes.
"Do you remember anything about the men who attacked you?" Treville pressed. He prayed for a negative answer. He hoped that he wouldn't have to twist Aramis' memory to his own ends.
Aramis lowered his head, rubbing at his brow.
"Masks," he said after a moment, eyes fixed down on his boots. "They wore masks."
That was good. Masked attackers were anonymous. It would be easy to assign a label to them.
"You don't remember voices?" he asked. "Specific clothing? Anything like that?"
Aramis frowned, gaze still downcast.
"I remember screams…the clash of steel…pistol fire…" he paused and for a moment there was only silence between them. But then Aramis went on, his hand gripping his thigh. "The leader, I fought him…wounded him."
His voice, usually so vibrant and full of life, was haunted now and dangerously distant. Pain and anguish seemed to bleed into the air around him and Treville had to look away.
He had done this. He and Richelieu and the king had done this.
"Marsac," Aramis stated suddenly, lifting his gaze and drawing Treville's back. "I saw him walk away. He's alive."
Treville nodded.
"We found his pauldron abandoned. No one has heard from him."
Aramis inclined his head, seemingly unsurprised by this news.
"He left me there."
Now it was Treville who was transported. He saw a vision of Aramis writhing from fever, pleading in a hoarse voice for the brother who had forsaken him.
Don't leave me here.
Marsac had deserted more than his duty. He had abandoned his brother. The life he would have, after a choice like that, wouldn't be much of a life at all. Marsac may have survived Savoy, but he had died there just as surely as the others.
Today, his focus was on the one who lived, who had come home. Today, his only concern was ensuring that Aramis would be safe from the cardinal's ever-watchful eye. It was all that mattered now. It was the only thing Treville had left to hold on to in this whole awful mess.
He would protect Aramis, no matter what it cost.
"The attackers, Aramis," Treville brought his wandering focus back to the point. "Do you remember anything else?"
"No," the marksman replied quietly. "I'm sorry."
If Treville's heart was not already shattered in his chest, the quiet apology would have done the job.
"Don't," he scolded gruffly. "Don't do that. This is not your fault."
But as Aramis stared at him with those deep, haunted brown eyes, Treville could see the guilt festering. Aramis had been in command of the mission. In his eyes, the blame lay squarely at his own feet.
Treville found himself opening his mouth, ready to confess everything. Every protective instinct he had demanded he reveal every sordid detail to spare Aramis that misplaced guilt. Carrying the lives of twenty dead was a burden too heavy, as Treville well knew.
But instead, he clenched his jaw closed. To reveal the truth, even in secret, would only put Aramis in danger. He knew, without question, that Aramis would never betray the king, but carrying the burden of such a truth was too much to ask. There would forever be the lingering threat of the cardinal's suspicion. Richelieu, Treville knew, would do whatever it took, would sacrifice whoever he had to, to ensure that the king and France were safe and secure. Aramis was nothing to a man like Richelieu. He was a problem to be handled, a possible threat to be eliminated. If he ever even suspected that Aramis knew the truth, he would never be safe.
Perhaps one day, when Savoy was a distant memory and its truth no longer a threat, Treville would be able to tell him. But he knew that day might never come.
It would be lies between them now, lies where once there had been trust and truth.
"We've received reports," Treville stated, "of Spanish raiding parties in that area."
Aramis blinked at him.
"The Spanish?" the marksman asked.
Treville nodded.
Aramis' brow furrowed and his gaze grew reflective.
"They didn't speak Spanish," he muttered a moment later.
Treville felt his heart start to pound. If Aramis spotted the lie, this would all be for nothing.
"Did you hear them speak?" he asked sharply.
Aramis frowned more deeply and rubbed at his head again.
"I…I don't know."
Treville kept his expression impassive, even though his heart clenched at the uncertainty in the marksman's voice.
"Aramis, whatever happened to you," he motioned at Aramis' head, "it's obviously muddled things."
Aramis' fingers lingered at his temple.
"Even if you heard them speak, you may simply not remember."
The young soldier frowned in self-annoyed frustration.
"And that is not your fault," Treville added. "None of this is. This was a tragedy beyond your control."
Aramis didn't look convinced of that by any measure, but he didn't argue with anything but his self-recriminating gaze.
"Do you think it was the Spanish?" Aramis asked, his gaze weary but trusting.
Treville held his gaze without flinching.
And lied.
"I do."
Aramis nodded and sighed, scrubbing a hand across his eyes and then up into his too-short hair.
"I should have been on my guard," Aramis went on with a shake of his head. "I should have anticipated the Spanish might be in the area."
Treville found himself suddenly unable to hold Aramis' gaze, he looked down, instead, to rearrange some papers on his desk.
"You could not have anticipated such a brutal attack," he insisted.
"The Spanish have been raiding the border lands for years," Aramis disagreed. "They're always brutal. It was careless not to be on my guard."
Treville could hear the self-judgement in his tone. He could hear the pain at the knowledge that he had cost twenty men their lives. The captain could not raise his gaze, no matter how much he wished to offer assurances and comfort. He knew, with surety, that if he looked up again, if he saw the suffering in Aramis' eyes, he would not be able to hold back his confession
"This was not your fault," he repeated, eyes on the papers.
Aramis didn't reply and Treville let silence fall between them. It only lasted a few moments before Aramis was shifting in his seat.
"I'm to start studying with Henri," he announced suddenly, voice too light and cheerful considering how the last several minutes had gone. "He's going to teach me how to treat wounds in the field."
Treville looked up and could only smile in sad understanding when he saw the easy smile and shuttered gaze. The mask had returned, full force. Treville wished he didn't feel so relieved to see it. It was easier to face him when Aramis was pretending. If his suffering and pain were hidden, Treville felt he could actually look him in the eye without feeling the overwhelming need to confess everything.
"A valuable skill," Treville allowed.
"I've a steady hand, he says, likely good for needlework." The proud grin that lit Aramis' face was a touch too bright to feel real, but Treville smiled in return anyway.
"I've no doubt," he agreed.
Aramis fell silent again, staring steadily at him. There was a challenge in his gaze, a silent dare for Treville to sit there and let this pass.
This was the moment of reckoning. Here was when he must commit to this path he'd chosen. If he kept up the pretense, allowed Aramis' charade, it would change things between them forever. He would be putting a distance between them that hadn't been there since their early days. If he turned him away now, Aramis would never look to him in this way again, would never look to him for comfort or understanding. Treville would be saying, without ever using the words, that Aramis' pain was not his concern.
Perhaps this was the greatest lie of all.
But he could not keep Aramis at his side. He could not shepherd him through this tragedy. He couldn't do it because he was weak. He was too weak to hold back the terrible truth if he had to face Aramis' suffering and undeserved guilt every day. If he had any hope of keeping this secret, of protecting Aramis from the threat the truth entailed, he had to do this.
From this moment on, he could no longer be the mentor – the father – he had been. He could only be his captain.
"You're dismissed," he said steadily.
Aramis went absolutely still, barely even seeming to breath.
Then he smiled – a sad, resigned little thing that cut Treville to his core – and nodded his head once as if some private point had just been proven.
Then he stood and straightened his spine to attention.
"Then by your leave, Captain." He dipped his chin in a formal show of respect.
Treville dipped his own in return.
And Aramis was gone.
Treville told himself, as he forced his gaze back down to the papers on his desk, that he didn't feel the loss deep into his soul.
Aramis closed Treville's door behind him and leaned back against it, certain, in that moment, that without its support, he would go to his knees.
Then he just stood there, forcing himself to breath.
He felt unsteady and off center, as if his entire world had just been altered irreparably.
For six years, Treville had been his constant, his rock. From the moment they met, the captain had gone to great lengths to prove he was someone who could be relied on. He had seen the mask Aramis wore and stripped it away, forcing him to honesty.
Aramis had always been one prone to masks, to adapting to whatever situation he found himself in. If he needed to be convincing, he turned on the charm. If he needed to instill fear, he let his inherent ruthlessness shine through. If he needed to inspire confidence, he showed the steady, strong soldier.
The day he met Treville, he'd been balancing a combination of the three.
He'd been seventeen and walking across France on his way back from Spain. He'd been combatting broken ribs and a twisted knee – the unhappy result of having his stolen horse shot out from under him. He'd been tired, hungry, and anxious to get back to his regiment to pass on what he'd learned.
Then, out of nowhere, a soldier had ridden over the horizon and cut him off.
His own military sword, left behind initially but recovered once he'd crossed back into France – and incidentally the weapon he'd used to kill his pursuers – had given away his own occupation.
Treville had thought him a deserter and had threatened to arrest him right then and there.
Aramis had done the only thing that he could think of short of disclosing the clandestine nature of his mission.
He'd drawn his sword and dared Treville with a vicious grin to try and take him.
It had been, admittedly, a reckless and foolish thing to do. But desperation tended to paint the world into odd colors and made certain choices more appealing than they should be.
Treville had been surprised by his skill, that had been obvious. Common soldiers weren't often tutored in the finer points of swordsmanship. However, the fight had been short and had pushed Aramis well past what little endurance he had left. In the end, he'd been dragging himself up for the third time when Treville had put an end to it.
"Who are you?" Treville had said with something like awe in his voice.
"Aramis, of His Majesty's esteemed infantry, at your service," Aramis had replied with a smirk.
And then he had promptly fainted.
He'd woken to a stern, but concerned, glare, and by the end of it, Aramis had somehow confessed everything. No matter what he had tried, what lie he'd told or distraction he'd presented, the captain had seen right through it. Treville had never allowed him to hide behind such things again. He had urged him to face the challenges life presented head on, always with the understood promise that Treville would be at his side.
But today, Treville had looked him in the eye, seen the mask…and had let him hide behind it.
And just like that, a gulf opened between them.
With nothing more than two simple words – "You're dismissed" – Treville had severed the bond they shared and left Aramis adrift and alone.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aramis straightened away from the door.
The mask was all he had now.
Whatever brotherhood Porthos appeared to offer couldn't be trusted or relied on. Treville's support had been summarily withdrawn. The rest of the Musketeers had their own grief to tend to.
And all of them seemed content, even relieved, to let Aramis hide behind his smiles and laughter.
It was better this way, he realized. He needed the talking and the laughter to fill the silence anyway. He needed it to keep his sanity intact.
It was best for everyone if he just painted on the smile and continued on as he had before Savoy.
With that resolve, Aramis forced a grin and headed for the stairs.
Porthos watched Aramis trot down the stairs. He stared on quietly as the marksman smiled and greeted the small group of them.
"Who's up for a short bout of sparring? I've not had a good workout in ages," he questioned brightly, hand resting on his sword.
The others shared a look, silently debating who would volunteer. Before Savoy, Aramis had been arguably one of the best swordsman in the regiment. He was a bit dramatic and tended to be more flamboyant with his style than most, but there was no denying his skill. Porthos had also learned, the hard way, that he could fight just as well with his left hand as his right. Agreeing to spar with him used to be agreeing to lose.
But that was before Savoy. Before a deep leg wound and a devastating head injury.
When Gaston stood and offered an answering grin, he actually looked fairly confident.
But Porthos didn't stay to watch them move out into the yard, instead, he started for the stairs.
He had counted on Treville to fix this. He had waited, as patiently as he could, for the captain to see how precariously Aramis was holding it together and to do something about it. But instead, Aramis had come out of his office with the same false smile painted across his face.
He knocked once on the door, waited for the call to enter, and then stormed into the captain's office.
"Why are you allowing this?" he demanded.
Treville sat back in his chair, regarding Porthos with a cool, calm gaze. The reprimand was written all over his face and Porthos felt the sting of it though the captain never spoke a word.
"Forgive me," he muttered. "I spoke out of turn."
Treville stood and slowly rounded the desk to face Porthos eye to eye.
"He needs it." Three simple words that showed the captain knew exactly why he was here.
Porthos shook his head in denial.
"It's not right," he insisted. "He's drowning in this and if you don't see that, then you're blind."
"That's enough," Treville snapped. "I'll forgive your insubordination once because you care about him. But this is not your concern."
Porthos stiffened his shoulders, glaring across the space between them.
"He is my concern. And I thought he was yours too."
For half a heartbeat, Treville looked completely devastated, but just as quickly, he turned away, rounding his desk again.
"Aramis is strong. He'll be fine."
Porthos shook his head in disbelief.
They both looked to the window at the sound of someone calling Aramis' name in warning. Porthos realized now they had been hearing the sound of clashing steel for several minutes now.
Porthos started immediately for the door and ripped it open, stepping out onto the landing to look down at the yard. He hardly noticed Treville step out next to him.
They both watched Aramis disarm Gaston in one skilled, smooth move and then ruthlessly slam the hand guard of his own sword into the other man's chin. Gaston hit the ground hard, stunned, and Aramis brought the blade down, the point pressing to Gaston's exposed throat.
"Aramis!"
A few minutes earlier…
"Now, Gaston, it's been some time since I properly sparred." Aramis grinned and winked. "Be gentle with me."
Gaston chuckled and drew his sword, twisting the handguard up to his chin and saluting properly.
"I'll defeat you with the utmost care," the other man promised.
Aramis grinned wider and drew his own rapier, returning the salute.
He'd needed something to do, something to focus on while he waited for morning muster. Left to his own thoughts he would only dwell on the radical shift between him and Treville.
Freshly cleared to train, a quick, light sparring session seemed a proper solution.
He pulled off his hat and tossed it to Pierre, who dutifully placed it on the table.
Then he faced Gaston.
He waited, content to let the other man make the first move. Gaston did not disappoint. So when he lunged, Aramis was ready for him.
What he wasn't ready for was the abrupt shift in the world around him the moment their blades crossed. The Garrison was gone in a blink and in its place was a snowy forest. Instead of Gaston, he saw the masked leader of the men who had attacked them.
A heartbeat later, reality righted itself and Aramis barely managed to defend Gaston's next advance. He blinked rapidly, feeling a bit as if the ground was wobbling beneath his feet. When his blade clashed with Gaston's again, the Garrison flashed from existence and he was in the forest of Savoy again.
This time, realty wasn't so quick in returning and before he realized what he was happening, Aramis was fighting for his life. He stopped defending and advanced, pushing aside the lingering weakness in his leg and ignoring the ever-present aching in his head.
He bore down on his enemy with all of his considerable skill and had him disarmed in a matter of moments. A sharp strike with his hand guard put the man on the ground. He swung his blade down, ready to end it.
"Aramis!"
He froze.
Porthos.
Reality returned in a heady rush, leaving him dizzy with the sudden change. He blinked down at Gaston, who had a hand pressed to his chin, and quickly removed his blade from its threatening position. A glance around showed the others staring on with wide eyes.
Aramis stepped back and forced himself to smile.
"It seems it's I who should have used a bit more care. Are you alright, Gaston?"
He offered a hand to the Musketeer on the ground. Gaston hesitated, then smiled in relief, letting Aramis pull him up.
"I've been a bit overzealous," he admitted. "Too long without a good bout and I found myself caught in the moment. You have my apologies, my friend."
Gaston waved him off.
"I might have known you'd be no easy contest," the other Musketeer admitted with a chuckle. "You've never been one to do anything half speed."
Aramis laughed in response and heard the others chuckling as well. A glance around showed eyes shining with mirth and relief.
"Go, have Henri look at you for the sake of my conscience," he urged. "I owe you a drink tonight."
Gaston nodded and smiled.
"I'll hold you to that." Then he turned and headed towards the infirmary, hand still pressed to his chin. The others dispersed as well, all suddenly quite absorbed with one thing or another.
Aramis tossed his sword up, caught the blade and then fed it into his scabbard. Once the sword was safely stowed, he realized his hands were shaking.
Somebody dropped something on the table and he resisted the urge to draw his sword again.
Feeling suddenly overly exposed and anxious, he headed quickly for the nearest source of privacy. Once he was beyond the doorway, he looked around to find himself in the armory. His hands twitched in anticipation and he reached for a musket and a cleaning kit.
He settled on a bench and almost immediately felt a blanket of calm settle over him.
This was something familiar and practiced, something he could lose himself in and forget everything else. He had known how to properly clean and care for a musket since he was ten years old and it had always been a task he found peace in. But even wrapped in the catharsis of cleaning the weapon, he sensed immediately when Porthos joined him in the armory.
"You left this."
Aramis suddenly found his hat hovering before his eyes. For a moment, he could only stare. But then he drew in a breath and lifted his gaze, drawing up a smile from somewhere within.
"All the excitement," he explained. "It's been too long since I've felt the rush of good combat, I must have gotten-"
"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.
Porthos dropped to a crouch, getting closer to Aramis' level, and held his gaze.
"I've been at your side for two weeks, Aramis," he went on softly. "I've been there through the nightmares. I've seen the way you always keep a weapon close at hand. I've drawn you back when you lose yourself to memory. I've been there and I've seen all of it. You don't have to hide it from me now."
Aramis clenched his jaw, feeling a swell of emotion rise in his chest at the quiet, heartfelt words. How was it that Porthos, whom he had known scarcely a month before Savoy, was the only one not willing to let him carry on the charade? These men he had served with for years were all content to let him go on pretending. Treville was more than happy to let Aramis hide behind his mask. Even Henri and Serge had let him carry on as if all was well.
But not Porthos.
The swell of emotion was quickly replaced by an irrational wave of anger.
How was it that only Porthos was unwilling to leave him to his demons? Was he worth so little to everyone else?
"Aramis…" Porthos rested a hand on his arm.
Aramis stood abruptly, withdrawing from the touch as quickly as he could. The musket clattered to the floor between them.
"I'm not the one pretending," he accused.
Porthos stood to face him, Aramis' hat still clenched in one hand.
"I've told you," Porthos replied steadily. "I'm not pretending."
"Of course you are," Aramis shot back, his anger igniting in a rush of heat that left him feeling dizzy. "Why else would you follow me around like a lost puppy? Are you so pathetic, Porthos? Or do you just think me pathetic? That I would fall on my knees and thank you for your friendship? Is that what you want?"
"No," the larger man denied firmly.
"Then what? What do you want, Porthos? I'm not a fool. I'll not be taken in so easily again."
Aramis suddenly found his back cracking against the wall. His hat was on the ground and two strong hands were fisted in his doublet.
"I'm not Marsac," Porthos growled. "I'm not the one who abandoned you!" A sharp shake had Aramis' head thudding against the wall. "I'll say it in every way I can until you hear me. I'm not pretending, Aramis. I'm not trying to fool you. I will never abandon you as he did. I'll say it every day, in every way I can, until you understand it. Until you believe it. Because one day you will. One day, you'll trust our brotherhood again and I'll still be here, waiting."
Another sharp shake and he was released. Porthos leaned and snatched his hat off the floor and then shoved it against his chest.
"You'll not drive me away. And I'll not stop standing at your side. So get used to it."
Aramis had nothing to say. He felt as if Porthos had taken his defenses and trampled them. Every part of his heart urged him to just trust in Porthos, to let him in and accept the brotherhood he was offering. But his head cried out the opposite. His head warned him of betrayal and false promises.
For a moment, he was back in that damned forest, watching Marsac walk away and leaving him to die.
The memory left him gutted every time.
He would never feel that betrayal again. He would protect himself from it in every way he could.
So without a word, Aramis fitted his hat onto his head and brushed past Porthos to the door. He heard a deep sigh and the sounds of Porthos following him. Aramis just kept moving, trying, and failing, to muster the expected smile before he made it to the yard.
As it turned out, the others were all distracted anyway.
There, standing at the Garrison gate with a wide smile and leaning lazily on a cane, was another of Treville's original five Musketeers.
Aramis slowed to a stop, jaw slacking with shock.
"Tristan."
"Tristan."
Porthos came to stand at Aramis' side. The other man sounded awed and disbelieving and relieved all at once. Across the yard, near the gate, a man with long blonde hair, knotted back at the nape of his neck, started towards them, moving carefully with the aid of a smooth brown cane.
"Aramis," the stranger – Tristan, Porthos assumed – greeted, holding out an inviting arm.
Aramis immediately moved forward to meet him, pulling off his hat as he went. They met with a fierce and firm embrace that lasted long enough that the others moved back to whatever they'd been doing. Porthos drifted closer, curious at the open display of affection given how Aramis had kept all others at arm's length since they returned. He saw Tristan's mouth moving near Aramis' ear, voice pitched too low for Porthos to hear. Aramis shifted his head in a nod and then they finally drew apart.
Tristan kept a hand on Aramis' shoulder and leaned on his cane. Porthos arched a brow curiously when Aramis didn't shrug away the contact.
"What's this?" Tristan teased, shifting his hand off Aramis' shoulder to brush through his short hair. "The women of Paris must have flooded the Seine with their tears."
Aramis chuckled, earning a surprised glance from Porthos, and rubbed a self-conscious hand through his hair. It was as if the marksman grew younger before his eyes. The tension in his shoulders eased and something within him grew lighter as he met the older man's gaze. When Tristan caught his chin and turned his head to clearly see the scar, Aramis allowed it without protest.
But instead of commenting, Tristan just dropped his hand back to Aramis' shoulder and squeezed it. Something silent passed between them then. Porthos couldn't say exactly what it was, but it made one thing abundantly clear: Tristan was not held to the same standard as Porthos or the others. Where there was distrust and wary caution hidden in the marksman's gaze around the other Musketeers, there was nothing of the kind with Tristan. There was trust and old familiarity.
Despite the vein of jealousy such a realization inspired, Porthos found himself equally intrigued. Was Tristan not also a Musketeer? Capable of the same failure of brotherhood that Aramis feared from the rest of them? Perhaps it was simply that Tristan was no longer an active member of the regiment and thereby would never be in a position to betray Aramis as Marsac had done. Or maybe Aramis had held Tristan as something closer to a mentor, like Treville, and less a comrade. Or perhaps it was simply that Tristan had been gone a long time and held no tie to Savoy, no reminder.
Porthos couldn't guess what the truth of it was.
He was drawn from his musing when, all at once, Tristan turned his focus on him.
"Tristan Moreau," he greeted, shifting his cane under his arm so he could extend a hand to him. "Formerly of the King's Musketeers."
Porthos met the hand with a firm shake.
"Porthos du Vallon," he replied. "Currently of the King's Musketeers."
Tristan smiled warmly, resting his weight back on his cane.
"You were of the original five, weren't you?" Porthos wondered. Everyone in the regiment knew the story of Treville's original Musketeers. Even now, with Aramis the only one of them remaining in service, their names were not forgotten.
"I was indeed," Tristan replied, looking back at Aramis, "along with this one. Though he was just a little kitten when we started out," he added with a teasing wink.
Aramis rolled his eyes and knocked Tristan's hand from his shoulder.
"He never did like that comparison," Tristan offered to Porthos in a loud whisper. "I always told him that if he didn't want to be compared to a kitten, he shouldn't spend so much time preening and taking such pleasure in getting a nice pet." Tristan reached to rub at Aramis' hair again, only to have his hand pushed away for a second time.
Porthos didn't even bother trying to hide his grin.
"Kitten, huh?"
Aramis pinned him with a dark glare.
"Repeat that to anyone and you'll regret it."
Porthos held up his hands in surrender.
"Ah, these look familiar." Tristan poked at one of the pistols hooked on Aramis' belt. Without being asked, Aramis pulled it free and offered it to the veteran Musketeer. "You've taken good care of them. Though that's no surprise. I knew you would." He glanced at Porthos again. "This one's always been a bit obsessive about weapons maintenance. I can only blame myself, really. I always told him 'Respect your weapon and…'"
"'It will respect you,'" Aramis finished, taking back the pistol and hooking it on his belt.
"I've heard him say the same a time or two," Porthos replied.
Tristan smiled proudly at the marksman and returned to gripping his shoulder. Aramis allowed it this time.
"Tristan retired some time ago," Aramis explained with a glance at Porthos. "He's been living the easy life of husbandry and fatherhood ever since."
"Easy?" Tristan scoffed. "You try worrying after a recklessly impulsive six-year-old who would sooner defy death itself than do anything with a measure of caution." A teasing smirk turned up his lips. "At least I had good practice looking after you."
Porthos chuckled and Aramis rolled his eyes.
"Collette is well then?" the marksman asked with a grin.
"Drives her mother to distraction with her wildness, but yes, quite well," Tristan answered.
For the moment, everything felt simple. Aramis wasn't looking as if one wrong move would shatter him and Porthos felt lighter and calmer in the face of Tristan's open warmth.
"What made you retire?" he asked, eager to prolong the peace.
"A sword," he poked a finger at a spot on his chest, "just here. It was a miracle I survived at all. My lung was damaged and never healed properly after that. I find myself quite short of breath most days, hardly a condition conducive to running around France playing the dramatic hero. So I resigned my commission and left Aramis to carry on the mantel of the king's first and finest alone. Well, alone with Treville at least."
"What happened to the others?" Porthos asked, though he'd heard the stories.
"Dujon and Thierry were killed back in '21 at Montauban," Aramis replied. "Etienne retired in…" he looked to Tristan for confirmation.
"Twenty three," the veteran replied. "Then I met my fate in December of that same year and let Aramis take over as best shot in the regiment, a position he'd coveted from the beginning."
Aramis scoffed, but didn't outright contradict the bold claim. Tristan smiled and squeezed Aramis' shoulder.
"I gifted him those pistols on my last day as a Musketeer," the older man went on warmly. "We were always kindred souls when it came to gunplay, he and I."
Porthos blinked in shock. Those pistols were ornate and had likely been expensive. It was an extravagant gift to give when you were the one leaving. It wasn't the kind of thing you gave to a mere comrade in arms, but rather between something more akin to family.
"You were a marksman," Porthos realized, "like Aramis."
Tristan chuckled, the hand he had on Aramis' shoulder tightening.
"None have ever been quite like this little kitten," the older man replied, smirking at the glower Aramis sent his way. "I was good, but despite my bold claims, this one has always been the best. I was able to leave secure in the knowledge that the regiment was in good hands."
Porthos watched Aramis go pale, tension tightening his shoulders and a darkness sweeping through his gaze. He shifted closer, arm brushing Aramis' as he considered reaching out his own hand to grip Aramis' other shoulder. Tristan, too, seemed to recognize the change and he came a step closer. The veteran's eyes were wide and he look stricken by how his words had been taken.
"Aramis…I didn't-"
"What brings you back to Paris?" Aramis cut him off, speaking too cheerfully and with a smile too bright. "Not coming out of retirement are you? Is my title as the regiment's finest marksman, once again, under contest?"
Porthos saw clearly that Tristan was not fooled. Up until this moment the returning Musketeers had worn an easy smile and open expression, but now his eyes were sad and his mouth turned down in a worried frown. But instead of voicing his concern, he shifted his weight more heavily on his cane, though his hand stayed steady on Aramis' shoulder.
"Treville sent for me," he answered. "Once a Musketeer, always a Musketeer, and so I heeded the call."
"Then you best not keep him waiting," Aramis replied and though he was still smiling, there was an edge to his voice. It was slight, but Porthos heard it. So, it appeared, did Tristan.
There was obvious conflict playing out in the older man's gaze as he weighed his response. But, in the end, he just nodded.
"Best not," he agreed mildly. His hand slid from Aramis' shoulder, but he hesitated before moving away. "We'll catch up later," he added resolutely, but with a gentle warmth that gave away his concern. "I'm sure you've many new stories to tell."
Aramis' easy grin did not fade and he looked unconcerned by the promise of conversation to come. When Tristan finally walked away from them towards the steps that would take him to Treville, Aramis did not move.
Porthos shifted, purposefully brushing his shoulder solidly against the marksman's. He was rewarded by a fleeting glance in his direction.
"You know he didn't mean it like that," Porthos pointed out quietly.
He was relieved with Aramis sighed, some – but not all – of the tension fading from his shoulders.
"I know," he admitted, lifting a hand to brush through his short hair before fitting his hat onto his head. "But the implication is no less truthful."
Before Porthos could react, could fervently remind Aramis that what happened in Savoy was not his fault, Aramis shifted away from him.
"We've only a few minutes until muster," Aramis commented. "I need to speak with Henri."
And once again, Aramis was gone.
Treville stared at the infirmary entry from his office window. Aramis had only just vanished through that door and even now Porthos was drifting after him, obviously debating if he should follow.
The sound of his office door opening without invitation had him pulling his attention to his visitor.
"Tristan," he greeted warmly, crossing the office to meet his old friend with a brief, firm hug.
"Jean," Tristan squeezed his shoulder tightly and offered him a friendly smile. "It's been too long."
"No one forced you to retire so far from Paris," Treville reminded gruffly as he offered Tristan a seat and rounded his desk to sit in his own.
"My wife did," Tristan replied with a chuckling huff, "I think she feared I would not remain retired if we were too close to the city."
"How is Marie?" Treville asked, remembering the short, lean woman who had been the only person so far to tame Tristan's thirst for adventure.
"Exhausted," Tristan replied with a sly grin, "and often feeling ill. Though that should pass in a month or two."
Treville blinked, surprise rendering him momentarily silent. Tristan's joyful grin took away any question that may have lingered.
"Another?" Treville wondered, finding himself unable to resist smiling.
Tristan nodded.
"She's convinced it will be a boy this time." Tristan chuckled nervously. "Colette is wild enough on her own, hardly pausing to acknowledge little things like sewing or cooking. No, she would rather be swinging through the trees and taming wild animals. Adding a boy to the mix is a bit…terrifying."
"Stop pretending you aren't counting the days until you'll be able to put a pistol in his hands," Treville teased. Tristan laughed but didn't deny it.
He shifted in his seat, sighing deeply.
"When I received your letter, it was Marie who told me to come. When I told her what had happened, and that Aramis' fate, at the time, was still uncertain, she packed my things herself."
Treville smiled sadly, unable to stop himself from glancing to the open window and the infirmary door that lay somewhere beyond it. He had sent letters to Tristan and Etienne directly from the inn they'd brought Aramis to in Savoy. He had known any help they could offer would be needed. Etienne had replied that he was too ill to travel, confined most days to bed due to crippling arthritis.
"She remembers him quite fondly," Tristan went on, his voice soft, but then he smiled. "She's already insisting that if our child is a boy, his name will be Aramis."
Treville could not help but smile at that. Aramis, no doubt, would be deeply honored and thrilled to be the namesake for Tristan's son.
"I'm here, Jean, for whatever you need."
Treville looked back at him, feeling his own focus narrow back to the matter at hand.
"We lost more than half our number in Savoy," Treville revealed. "We stood at nearly forty and now we have a mere fifteen, not enough men to fulfill all the duties for which we are now responsible."
"So recruitment is a priority," Tristan nodded.
Treville nodded.
"The cardinal has agreed to have his Red Guard take on some duties for now until we can rebuild. And though I hate to show such weakness, I have little choice. The men who remain need to sleep sometime and there simply aren't enough of them."
"We've done the job with less men," Tristan reminded. "There were only five of us, and you, in the beginning."
"Yes," Treville sighed, rubbing at his weary eyes, "but those were the days of nothing but guarding Louis and delivering the most important missives. We patrol the streets now, have taken responsibility for the security of the palace grounds, offer escorts to the king's favorite nobles, and investigate the more worrisome crimes, just to name a few. Fifteen men is not enough, fourteen, really, with Aramis restricted to light duty."
"So you need men," Tristan agreed. "And quickly. How?"
Treville could not express how much he appreciated Tristan's single minded focus.
"I am going to request special authority from the king to issue commissions without his blessing, as it was in the old days. That will give us a bit more freedom."
"What do you suggest?" Tristan pressed. "Sifting through the infantry and cavalry?"
"I've sent letters to the various commanding officers, asking for recommendations, but at best, that will only yield a handful of men ready for immediate commission."
"So? What do we do?"
"Something we've never done before," Treville replied. His idea was a new one, something that would surely give them more able bodies while not being forced to offer commissions immediately. "I want to create a cadet system."
Tristan's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"The application process would be open to any soldier who wishes to earn a commission," Treville continued. "We would assign each cadet to a Musketeer for training and, hopefully, over time they will earn the promotion by their own merit. It increases our strength in one move."
"Without having to offer commissions to unproven soldiers." Tristan nodded, looking thoughtful. "What do you need from me?"
"General training," Treville replied immediately. "The remaining men can teach methods and protocols and things of that nature. I need you to ensure that each cadet can meet the physical and skill requirements – musket training, fencing, hand to hand, and horsemanship. I will not see our reputation for excellence sacrificed out of desperation."
Tristan was nodding again, gaze determined.
"I would have authority to dismiss a cadet who doesn't meet the standard?" he asked seriously.
"If you believe they cannot improve enough with training, yes," Treville agreed.
"It's a good plan, Jean. One you might consider keeping in place even when the numbers are replenished. Giving men a chance to earn their commission, to work towards it, will serve as a great motivation."
Treville hummed noncommittally. He would consider continuing the cadet program once it had proven its value. For now, his focus was on the moment.
"I wonder, though," Tristan drew his attention back and Treville could tell by his tone exactly what was coming, "why you need me for this. Aramis has proven many times how competent a trainer he is."
Treville clenched his jaw and his gaze chilled as Tristan stared at him expectantly.
"Aramis is on light duty."
Tristan's eyebrow arched skeptically.
"For now, perhaps. But he looked fit enough, more fit than I am for such a task." Tristan raised his cane demonstratively. "You've trained him as your second, however unofficially, since the day you founded this regiment. Why are you not looking to him now?"
"You've spoken to him," Treville pointed out, not caring if it gave away his earlier spying, "so you know why."
"He's just survived hell," Tristan pointed out. "He's earned the right to have unsteady footing. But it won't always be so. If he's to lead one day…"
"He's not," Treville snapped bluntly. "Perhaps before, but things have changed."
Tristan's bright green gaze hardened to an accusing glare.
"Do you blame him for what happened? Fault him in some way?"
"No!" Treville denied sharply. "Of course not."
"Well he blames himself," Tristan spat back. "Anyone with eyes can see that. If you are seen to doubt him, he'll never trust himself again."
"Tristan," Treville warned lowly. He didn't want to talk about Aramis. He didn't want to dwell on how spectacularly he was failing as a captain, a mentor, a father.
"He needs to know you still trust him."
"He needs to take a step back."
"Who decided that? You?" Tristan sat forward, eyes blazing angrily. "That boy is a born soldier, he always has been. But something like this could shake the very foundation he's built his life on. You need to steady him, Jean! You need to support him, not doubt him, until he can find even ground again."
"I can't!" Treville snapped, standing abruptly and pacing to the window. Porthos was lingering near the infirmary, Aramis must still be inside.
"What's going on, Jean," Tristan asked carefully. "You've never let him carry on like this before. You allowed his masks when they were necessary, but you never let him hide behind them."
Treville closed his eyes against the truth of his friend's accusing words. He was grateful Tristan was behind him and could not see the anguish that was surely written on his face.
"You've always forced him to face such things, straight on, like a man. Why are you allowing this now?"
"There are pieces to this, Tristan, that you do not understand. Things I cannot tell you. Please trust me when I tell you that I am doing what I must."
He heard Tristan shift and then the sound of his cane on the floor as he approached. He came to stand next to Treville at the window, looking out at the yard with him.
"You know what Aramis means to me," Tristan stated quietly.
Treville nodded solemnly. Tristan and Aramis had been close from the beginning, bonding over their mutual love of muskets and pistols. While Treville had been the father Aramis needed, Tristan had been, unequivocally, the brother. Tristan had been the one to spend hours in target practice with him. Tristan had been the one to joke and laugh with him the most. Tristan had listened to the exaggerated stories Aramis loved to tell and had often suggested clever ways to exaggerate them further. Treville had never truly been friends with Aramis, but Tristan had. Aramis, Treville knew, had spent many nights eating dinner at Tristan's house and getting fussed over by Marie. Aramis had doted on Colette and was responsible, Tristan had often claimed, for her wild nature.
"He can't go on like this," Tristan insisted. "Do you remember Medina? Do you remember what he was like after that?"
"Of course I do," Treville replied gruffly.
He didn't like to dwell on that time, on how close they had come to losing Aramis, even after he returned to them. Darío Medina would forever be a cursed name for Treville.
"You pulled him out of that, Jean," Tristan reminded. "He needs you to do that again."
Treville just shook his head.
"There is nothing I can do for him."
Tristan huffed in annoyance and muttered a curse under his breath. For a moment they watched the men start to gather for morning muster. Treville watched Porthos shift towards the rest of the men, though his focus appeared to remain on the infirmary.
"Then perhaps someone else can do what you can't." Tristan was angry with him, furious even, but he sounded resigned now. "Porthos du Vallon. Who is he?"
Treville glanced at Tristan warily, his mind falling back to a kind and strong young woman staring at him in confusion as he left her in the Court of Miracles with a baby in her arms.
"He's a recent recruit from the infantry," he answered carefully.
"What is he to Aramis?"
Treville saw, now, where this was going.
"I assigned him to Aramis when he was recruited for several reasons, the least of which being he's quite skilled and I wanted that properly fostered."
"They're friends?"
"You know Aramis," Treville answered. "He's a friend to everyone he meets."
Tristan hummed his agreement and smiled slightly.
"But even I was surprised by how quickly the two of them seemed to bond," the captain went on. "Porthos has been devoted since Savoy. He stayed with him while he recovered and traveled back with him. He claims Aramis as a brother with both words and actions."
Tristan nodded as if he'd suspected this all along.
"Then perhaps there is something you can do for him, Jean."
End of Chapter 9
As you can see with Henri, Marc, and now Tristan, I enjoy creating original characters to add some more layers to the story. Rest assured they are not here to steal the spotlight from the main characters but hopefully rather to enhance their stories instead. That's the goal at least.
As always, I'm anxious to hear what you think!
Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn
"I wish he'd stayed, sometimes." Aramis surprised him by going on, though his attention went back to his task with the musket.
"So you were close, then?" he guessed, hoping to turn Aramis' thoughts to happier memories.
Aramis' smile now was small, but warm.
"Very. Each of them, the others Treville had chosen, taught and trained me in their own ways, but Tristan most of all. Besides Treville at least."
"With muskets?" Porthos theorized, given what Tristan had revealed earlier.
Aramis smirked, eyes lighting up with pride as he glanced up.
"As if I needed help with such a thing," he boasted.