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Chapter Ten: Brother, Let Me Be Your Shelter

He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal.
Gregg Levoy

April 20, 1625
The Musketeer Garrison, Paris

Aramis wasn't terribly surprised when he was assigned to maintenance and inventory in the armory. He was restricted to light duty, which meant he wasn't likely going to be given a duty outside the Garrison. When he found himself in such a situation, the armory was on the list of his favorite 'light duty' assignments – Treville knew this.

He was, however, surprised that Porthos was assigned the duty with him.

"What? Why?" he asked a bit too loudly as he stared at Treville from his place in the muster line.

The yard fell silent in the face of his outburst and Tristan, at Treville's shoulder, shook his head, casting his eyes towards the heavens as if seeking strength. Porthos shifted uncomfortably at Aramis' side, but didn't otherwise react.

Treville's sharp gaze cut through the space between them, snapping Aramis' mouth closed.

"The rest of your duties are on the posting," Treville finished, though his glare stayed with Aramis. "Dismissed."

The rest of the men fell out, anxious, it seemed, to flee the impending scolding lest they get caught in the crossfire. Porthos, though, stayed steady at Aramis' side.

He couldn't decide if the steadfastness infuriated him or comforted him.

He wasn't given time to sort through the conflicting emotions before Treville was marching towards him. Aramis held his ground and lifted his chin defiantly as the captain came to stand nose to nose with him.

"Something to say to me?" Treville nearly growled.

"I don't need a nursemaid," Aramis snapped back recklessly.

"Hey now…" Porthos grunted in offense.

"I could have you confined to quarters, if you prefer," Treville threatened.

Aramis bristled.

"I'm not an invalid."

"Really?" Treville challenged. "Because here I thought the only way you would show such blatant insubordination was if you had taken leave of your senses!"

Aramis' jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

"You'll take the duty your assigned and be happy for it," the captain ordered. "As for Porthos, what duties he's assigned are not yours to question."

After a moment longer of burning Aramis down with his glare, Treville spun on his heel and marched away. Tristan offered Aramis a rueful shrug and followed in the captain's wake.

"Bit of a relief, actually," Porthos commented idly. "I'm exhausted."

Aramis shot the larger man a fleeting glare and headed for the armory. After their explosive conflict before muster, Aramis was wary of spending the day with him. He had been waiting, longing even, for Treville to see him, to pull him from behind his mask of smiles and cheerful words and just…just be there to deal with whatever pieces of Aramis were left.

Instead, it was Porthos who had started pulling at the mask; it was Porthos who was seeing beyond it.

It made Aramis infuriatingly angry. So angry that scathing, cruel words were on the edge of his lips, ready to be unleashed to drive the other man away. He knew it was unfair, to be directing that anger at the only person who was even bothering with him. But no matter how well Aramis knew that, he couldn't help the anger.

Because it shouldn't be Porthos. It was supposed to be Treville.

But even in his unfair fury, Aramis felt a contradicting emotion simmering beneath the haze of rage.

Relief.

Relief that even if it was the wrong man pulling him from his hiding place, even if he couldn't allow himself to trust that Porthos wouldn't eventually do as Marsac had done and betray him, he was not alone.

More than anything he didn't want to be alone, not ever again.

Porthos watched Aramis run an oiled cloth along the barrel of a musket. It was the last one. Aramis had already cleaned the others with confident, steady hands that moved with a surety born of a lifetime of performing that very task.

Porthos had set himself to tending the blades that lined the wall, making sure each was sharp and solid, ready for battle if needed. But it was an easy task, as familiar to him as a musket was to Aramis. So while his hands had worked, his eyes had studied his companion.

As the hours had worn on, the tension in Aramis' shoulders had eased away to almost nothing. The charged silence between them had softened to something more companionable. Aramis had barely spoken but there still seemed to be a lingering annoyance in his voice when he did. However if he was annoyed with Porthos or something else it was impossible to determine.

Porthos set aside the freshly sharpened sword and reached for the next one, watching Aramis continue his steady work.

Aramis seemed calm, almost relaxed even.

Porthos decided the conditions were steady enough to take a risk.

"You knew Tristan well? When he was a Musketeer?" he asked casually, with a lightness to his voice that he hoped would set Aramis at ease.

"He's still a Musketeer," Aramis corrected immediately, but his tone wasn't hard or angry. He shifted on the bench and adjusted his hold on the musket he was tending. "And yes," he went on, mouth curling into a slight grin, "I knew him well."

"How did he get injured?"

Aramis didn't look up from his work but answered anyway.

"He and several other Musketeers, myself included, were tasked with retrieving stolen gunpowder. The thieves had taken it to Calais and were intending to smuggle it away on a ship. Two of our men, Pascal and Maurice, were killed in the ensuing altercation. Tristan was gravely wounded. We succeeded in the end and retrieved the gunpowder, but at a cost."

Porthos blew out a slow breath, conjuring imagined visions of the battle in his mind.

"Tristan survived, but his lung, as he said, was damaged. He struggles to draw proper breaths even now, years later," Aramis rested the musket across his lap and looked up to meet Porthos' gaze. "He would have stayed on though, I think, if Marie had let him."

"Marie?" Porthos wondered.

"His wife," Aramis explained. "He's a daughter too – little Colette."

"The reckless, wild one with no hint of caution," Porthos remembered with a grin. He was pleased when Aramis chuckled.

"Yes, I believe he blames me for being a bad influence."

Porthos answered with a chuckle of his own. He had no problem believing Aramis had, indeed, been a terrible inspiration in that regard.

"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. But then his expression softened. "No, Tristan taught me something much more valuable."

Porthos studied him, waiting.

"He taught me what true brotherhood means…" Here, Aramis trailed off, eyes fading as his mind drifted from the moment. Porthos frowned in concern when Aramis' brow furrowed and his mouth curled downward.

Porthos knew exactly what he was thinking of now.

Marsac and a brotherhood betrayed.

Desperate to stop that train of thought, Porthos spoke up, a bit too loudly and too brightly.

"Well that explains some things," he smiled.

It took a moment, but Aramis' gaze refocused on him, brow cocked curiously.

"Someone as good at that as you? Had to learn it somewhere," he finished warmly.

Aramis blinked in shock, surprised, it appeared, by the words.

"You teach that lesson to everyone within these walls," Porthos went on sincerely. "You taught it to me from the day we met and no matter how you doubt it now, I think you still believe in it. I know I do."

Aramis stared at him, eyes narrowed and intense as he studied Porthos. He imagined he could feel that keen gaze seeing through to his very soul, judging his sincerity. Whatever Aramis saw, he didn't seem to know what to do with it, because he cut his gaze away and tension returned to his shoulders.

When he looked back at Porthos, there was an easy, false smile on his face. Porthos was growing to hate that smile. The difference between it and the smiles he remembered from before Savoy were small, but they were there. He saw them clearly and did not know why no one else seemed to.

It was in the eyes.

Before Savoy, when Aramis smiled – whether it be an easy one, a bright and cheerful one, mocking, or sarcastic – you could see it in his eyes as clearly as you could in his mouth. But now, though his lips curled upward, his eyes did not match.

"Meal time is upon us," Aramis announced. "I'm finished here, what about you?"

Porthos nodded and returned the sword in his hands to the rest. He watched Aramis replace the musket and together they left the armory and walked the short distance to the refectory.

He was not surprised when Aramis greeted Serge with a wide smile and cheerful words. He was even less surprised when the few Musketeers who had returned to eat smiled in response and responded merrily to Aramis' bright demeanor.

He reckoned, as he and Aramis took seats at the table with the others, that he was the only one who noticed that there was no smile in Aramis' eyes. He was likely the only one who saw the tension in his shoulders or the weariness hidden behind the laughter. The others seemed to bask in Aramis' good humor, embracing it.

Porthos supposed he was the only one who found it worrying.

Aramis rubbed a hand up through his hair, startled, even after two weeks, to find it so short. He shook off the momentary surprise and returned his hat to its place, tugging it a bit lower over his eyes to block the sun as he followed Porthos out into the yard.

The headache was a near constant thing, had been since he woke in that inn a fortnight ago. It had dulled in intensity – though at times it crested and threatened to send him to his knees – but was almost always there. He hoped to distract himself from it by focusing wholly on something else.

"We've finished with the armory," Porthos commented idly as he braced his hands on his hips and leaned back to stretch his back, blinking up at the midday sun. "Suppose that means we've the rest of the day off?"

"I'm sure the captain won't mind at all," Aramis replied with a grin. "He'd likely invite you to his office to put your feet up and have some of his finest wine."

Porthos sent him a sideways glare that bore absolutely no heat.

"What do you suggest, then?"

Aramis tipped his head towards the infirmary.

"Henri has agreed to tutor me in battle medicine. I intend to spend the afternoon under his instruction."

Porthos cocked his head curiously.

"Battle medicine?"

Aramis reached up to tug his hat off, threading his hand through his hair. His mind threatened to conjure up the memory of Remy, dying silently as Aramis could only watch. Of Michel, gasping and clinging to him, begging for help as he died. His hand twitched down to rest on the stock of the pistol he kept clipped at his hip while the other hand fitted his hat back onto his head.

"A valuable skill," he managed to explain, though his voice was tight and too strained for him to have hope it had gone unnoticed.

He felt Porthos' dark gaze settle on him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet it.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed quietly, his voice impossibly gentle, as if Aramis were a frightened colt in need of soothing, "I suppose it is."

Aramis felt his eyes drawn to meet the larger man's despite his fervent wish not to. He was dreading the warmth he would see there, the promise, the steady strength. He dreaded it because he knew it couldn't be trusted. Even worse was the heartfelt sincerity since he couldn't figure out how Porthos was managing to fake that.

And he was – faking it, that is. He had to be.

Brotherhood was nothing but an empty promise, after all. Porthos had said Aramis taught the lesson of brotherhood to every Musketeer, that he had taught it to Porthos. But Aramis had learned a greater lesson in that cursed snow-covered forest. Marsac had taught it well. Brotherhood was fleeting.

And yet, despite it all, Aramis couldn't bring to life the words he knew would finally drive Porthos away. All of the familiarity, the inherent comfort, that sense of home, that he had felt in the other Musketeer's presence before Savoy was still there. It lingered, just below the mistrust and wariness that ruled Aramis' world now.

He found himself greedy for Porthos' presence, even as he fought the urge to reject it completely, to protect himself from the betrayal that was sure to come.

For now, though, with Porthos' kind and warm gaze on his, the greed won out.

"I was going to get dinner at The Wren," he commented, and saw the curiosity spark in the other man's gaze. "It'll likely be late, but if you're willing…"

"I'll meet you there," Porthos promised immediately.

Aramis nodded and tore his gaze away, making for the infirmary without another word. He would regret it. He was sure of it. Porthos, no matter how sincere he seemed, would be like Marsac in the end. He would leave. Just as Tristan had. And now Treville, who was there in body but had abandoned him all the same.

They all left, in the end. It was only a matter of when and how much devastation they would leave in their wake.

Porthos had been absolutely certain Aramis would not come. He had been convinced of it right up to the moment the marksman pushed through the door and started searching the tavern with his gaze.

Porthos shifted in his seat, lifting his chin in greeting when Aramis saw him.

The marksman looked briefly surprised that Porthos had kept his promise, but then made his way towards him and slid into the seat across the table.

"They've meat or stew tonight," Porthos announced as Aramis removed his hat and rested it on the table in front of him. The marksman braced an elbow on the table and leaned to card a hand through his hair, pausing briefly to massage the side of his head just above the scar.

A serving girl appeared next to them. Though 'girl' seemed a misleading description. She was tall and willowy and obviously of a ready and willing age.

"Wine, Aramis?" she offered in a sultry, melodic voice.

Aramis shifted, glancing up at her. Porthos waited for the seductive smile, the telling glint in the marksman's eyes. Aramis' reputation always seemed to precede him. No matter what tavern they'd gone to before Savoy, he'd always been greeted in such a fashion by at least one woman, sometimes more.

But tonight Aramis just smiled wearily and shook his head.

"Something to eat then?" she suggested, her eyes drifting over him with unrestrained anticipation and unabashed appreciation.

"Nothing tonight, Sophie, save perhaps a bit of bread."

Porthos narrowed his gaze, studying Aramis a little closer. He could see it now that he was looking. The slight squinting of his eyes, the weary posture, the lack of appetite, the way he was perhaps a shade too pale – it all pointed to the same affliction that had plagued Aramis for the past two weeks.

Headache.

"Anything else, mon chéri?" she pressed with a sensual purr and a suggestive curve of her lips.

Aramis hesitated, either considering her offer or trying to figure out how best to turn her down. The fact that he hesitated at all told Porthos that Sophie would likely be finding someone else to warm her bed that night.

They all looked to the door when it burst open, heralding the arrival of a group of Red Guards. Aramis had taken a seat that put his back to the wall – Porthos had left it for him on purpose – and only had to slightly turn his head. But it was enough. Porthos saw the exact moment Sophie saw the scar.

Her eyes widened and her hand drifted to lightly cover her mouth.

"Mon Dieu, my poor Aramis," Sophie gasped, her slender fingers reaching towards the wound. Or perhaps she only meant to brush her fingers through his hair. They would never know because Aramis never let her get that far. In a move so lightning fast Porthos was hardly able to track it, Aramis' hand caught her wrist, halting her searching touch before it ever reached his head.

She gasped again, startled pain flashing through her gaze.

"Aramis," Porthos rumbled lowly.

It had been a defensive, instinctive, move and for a moment Porthos feared he'd have to forcefully remove Aramis' grip from her. But then, the marksman's eyes were widening and he released her as if the touch burned.

"My apologies," Aramis murmured, fixing his wide, doe eyes on hers. "Pardonne-moi, ma chérie."

Sophie rubbed at her wrist but Porthos watched her soften under the weight of Aramis' gaze. When Aramis held out his hand, she slid hers into it. Then she was blushing and smiling as Aramis tenderly pressed his lips to her wrist where the marks left by his fingers were still fading.

"How can I make it up to you?" he practically purred.

She smiled a bit wider and turned her hand in his, grasping his fingers and pulling him from his chair.

Aramis shot him an apologetic glance as he let himself be led back towards the store room. Porthos responded with a wave of his hand. He didn't mind. It was good to see Aramis back at it, honestly. Though he was vaguely concerned the only reason the marksman had agreed was out of guilt for grabbing her so roughly. It was too late for Porthos to do anything about that now, though he doubted he could have done anything at all.

Porthos watched the store room door close behind them and then waved at another girl to get her attention. A few moments later he had a bottle of wine and a promise of some meat, bread, and cheese. While he waited and sipped his wine, Porthos studied the other patrons – a habit from his days in the Court. In the past he would be searching for a mark, now he was assessing for possible threats. From a thief to a soldier. Someone should write that story, he mused with a chuckle.

His gaze settled for a bit on the table of Red Guards. He hadn't been a Musketeer long enough to know many of the cardinal's men. In fact, he only knew one or two by name. What he did know, was he'd had fewer racial slurs thrown at him when he was a thief than he did whenever the Guard were around. Aramis, he knew, fared only a little better. Looking Spanish when most took issue with Spain was nearly as horrible an offense as being born with skin as dark as Porthos'… Nearly.

Glaring at them for an extra moment just for the sake of it, Porthos finally forced his gaze to move on. The tavern was full, only one or two tables were left open and those looked to have only been recently vacated. There was a card game near the back that drew his attention and beyond that a solitary figure not even bothering with a glass and instead swallowing his wine straight from the bottle.

Porthos shifted his attention back to the card game, wondering if he had enough coin to get a seat at the table. Only the arrival of his dinner drew his attention away from them and back to his own table.

Once he was finished, he glanced back to the store room.

The door was still firmly closed.

He looked to the card game again and motioned for the nearest serving girl.

"Keep my table. My friend'll be back in a bit and he's not eaten."

She nodded and Porthos stood, making his way over to the game. As his luck would have it, another man was bowing out, having lost all his coin, and Porthos was allowed the vacated seat without much convincing.

He was deep into the third hand when Aramis finally emerged from the store room. Sophie, looking flushed, sauntered out ahead of him, working to pin her hair back into place. Aramis, for his part was stuffing his shirt back into his breeches and had his doublet cast over one shoulder. He looked a bit more relaxed than he had before and Porthos was suddenly grateful for Sophie's intervention.

Aramis looked briefly confused when he got to their table and Porthos was gone, but his gaze rose unerringly to the card game, flashing Porthos a knowing grin and lightly rolling his eyes.

Porthos grinned back and refocused on his task. The king he had hidden up his sleeve burned at his skin, but he wasn't ready to risk it just yet. He had to wait until he had just the right hand.

Movement at the Red Guard table caught his eye and he watched a tall, black-haired man with light skin and pale eyes make his way towards Aramis. Frowning, Porthos watched Aramis notice him and immediately rise.

The two came toe-to-toe, hissing at each other too lowly for Porthos to hear over the din of the rest of the tavern patrons. And then, just as it seemed they would come to blows and Porthos prepared to cast down his cards and vault from the table, the two of them went still.

And then they grinned.

And then they hugged.

Porthos watched, slack jawed, as the Red Guard gripped the back of Aramis' neck and then urged him back into his chair. Then the Red Guard sat down with him.

Porthos blinked, hardly believing his eyes.

He recognized the Red Guard now as the one Aramis had lied to about those horses just before Savoy. He'd sent him to Chartres, something about pigs and shit, he'd said.

"Hey," a gruff voice drew Porthos' attention back to the game, "you in or out?"

"Yeah. Raise," Porthos distractedly tossed a few more coins to the center of the table.

He glanced back at Aramis and watched him roll his eyes and smile at something the Red Guard said.

"HEY!" The same gruff voice was punctuated by a hand smacking on the table, drawing Porthos' wandering attention back one more. "Show your cards."

Porthos did, frowning when he realized he'd lost…badly.

"Not even sporting," the gruff man grumbled.

"I'm out," Porthos decided, too curious about this Red Guard to pay attention to a card game.

He pushed his chair back and stood, dodging backwards to avoid running into a serving girl bearing a tray full of food. His thigh banged against the table in the corner, sending the silverware rattling and the wine bottle wavering.

"Oi," he turned, settling a firm hand on the table to steady it. "Sorry for that," he offered to the table's sole occupant.

An icy blue gaze shifted up to regard him from beneath a deeply furrowed brow and a bent head. The stranger was gripping at something at his neck with one hand and the other had reached out to rescue the bottle of wine.

"All good?" Porthos asked, glancing around to make sure he hadn't knocked the man's food to the ground or something like that. But it seemed the man didn't have any food; just the wine and unused silverware.

The mop of straight brown hair dipped slightly, and then the man returned his focus to his wine.

Shaking his head at his own clumsiness, Porthos turned away, heading back for Aramis.

"…shit next time, just you wait for it," the Red Guard was saying.

Aramis looked decidedly unconcerned about whatever threat had just been delivered and glanced up at Porthos.

"Porthos," he greeted with that same easy smile that didn't touch his eyes, "welcome back."

"Who's this?" the Red Guard asked curiously.

"You remember Porthos," Aramis replied. "He was with me when I sent you shit hunting."

"Ah," the Red Guard sat back, looking enlightened, "I remember now. Your pet half-breed Treville fished out of the gutter."

Porthos barely even had a chance to process what had been said before Aramis was reacting.

The marksman leaned forward in a flash, taking a fistfull of the Red Guard's doublet and pulling him halfway across the table. The friendly expression he'd worn moments ago had been replaced by simmering fury.

"I allow you certain freedoms I do not afford your comrades because of our history. But speak of him like that again and I'll make you regret it," Aramis warned in a low, chilling voice.

Porthos wasn't sure who was more shocked – himself or the Guard.

The captive man blinked in surprise and then inclined his head slightly in acquiescence. Aramis released him with a slight shove and the other man took a moment to dramatically straighten his doublet as he sat back.

"Now, now, Aramis," the Red Guard soothed with a sarcastic grin, "don't let that filthy blood of yours get too hot. I only meant he's fitting company for a Spanish mongrel like you."

Porthos looked back and forth between them, half expecting Aramis to lunge across the table and start a brawl. He was less surprised than he should have been when Aramis' stern expression melted into a twisting smirk and an eye roll. He'd never once seen Aramis react to the slurs thrown his way. Apparently only Porthos warranted defending in the marksman's eyes.

"Fitting enough for your sister, wasn't I?" Aramis shot back with a wicked grin. Then, with an arch of his brow, "and your mother."

Porthos tensed, ready to intervene when the Red Guard would undoubtedly lash out.

But instead, the Guard threw his head back and laughed. Then, still chuckling, he turned to Porthos and held out his hand.

"Marc Defrain," he introduced himself. "My apologies for my earlier words."

Porthos shook his hand warily.

"Marc and I served in the infantry together," Aramis explained. "Back before I was commissioned by Treville and he sold his soul to the cardinal."

"You're just jealous we aren't as restricted as you lot who live with your noses in the air and a stick up your ass," Defrain shot back.

"Right," Aramis challenged with a sarcastic huff, "those inconvenient things like honor and duty and, I don't know, common decency. How nice it must be to live unshackled by such things."

Defrain made a sound of offense, dramatically pressing his hand to his heart and Porthos was forced to hide his grin behind his cup of wine. Defrain glanced at Porthos and smiled slyly.

"Annoying isn't he? With all his morals?"

Porthos saw Aramis roll his eyes, but he didn't look the least bit offended. Porthos felt the need to speak in his friend's defense anyway.

"Inspiring, I'd say." Then he casually took another drink of wine.

Aramis' gaze snapped around to his, wide and surprised and perhaps also a bit…touched.

Defrain chuckled and shook his head.

"You've infected another one, Aramis," he said.

All three of them glanced up when a man stumbled past their table, their soldier's instincts insisting they stay tuned to their surroundings. It was the man from the back corner, Porthos realized, making his way towards the door with his wine bottle in one hand and his sword belt in the other. If the sway in his step was anything to go by, he'd probably dipped into more than just that one bottle.

But the moment passed and Defrain leaned forward to brace an elbow on the table, waving a vague finger in Aramis' direction.

"The new look's a dramatic one. Sophie didn't seem to mind terribly much, though."

Aramis shrugged a shoulder and offered a roguish smirk.

"If the woman is worried about your hair, then you're either doing something wrong or very badly."

Porthos grinned at the same time Defrain did. But then the Red Guard sobered, eyes flitting over every inch of Aramis' face, searching for something.

"Stop that," Aramis huffed, leaning forward and turning his head. "Have your look and be done with it."

Porthos watched Defrain's jaw clench as he leaned forward and took in the scar, a surprising amount of worry flashing through his pale blue gaze. But just as quickly, he cleared his throat and let out a low whistle, sitting back in his chair.

"Used up one of your nine lives with this one, didn't you, gato."

Aramis glared but it lacked any real heat behind it.

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"What's it mean?" Porthos asked curiously.

Defrain smirked.

"Cat," he answered, "in Aramis' mother tongue."

Porthos frowned. That was the second time today he'd heard someone compare Aramis to a cat.

"He thinks he's clever," Aramis said, his tone suggesting he believed the opposite.

"I am clever," Defrain defended with a grin, though it wavered a bit as he met Aramis' gaze. "Have they allowed you back to duty?"

"Yes," Aramis snapped. "Would you stop worrying before your dogs over there start thinking you've got a heart still beating in there." He thumped Defrain on the chest and smirked. "We both know such a thing goes against the Red Guard standards."

"Now who thinks they're clever?" Defrain shot back, pushing away from the table. He glanced over his shoulder only to see what Porthos, and likely Aramis, already knew. The table of Red Guards was empty; they'd slipped outside a few moments prior. "Bloody hell, where've they gone?"

"Lose somethin'?" Porthos teased.

"Red Guards," Aramis shook his head mockingly and reached for his hat. "So easily they wander off if not properly fed, watered, and tethered. You've been lax in your duties, Marc."

Then he glanced at Porthos as Defrain stomped to his table to retrieve his cloak and hat.

"Ready?"

Porthos wasn't, but he nodded anyway when he remembered Aramis had been suffering a headache. His time with Sophie seemed to have tempered it, but he still hadn't bothered trying to eat and his eyes bore tight lines of pain around them.

So they both stood and moved to the door. Aramis stepped out into the night first and before Porthos could follow, a hand caught his elbow. He turned back to see Defrain crowding in close to him, red cloak around his shoulders and hat in hand. Porthos eyed him warily and waited.

"What happened out there?" the Red Guard asked bluntly. "We were told it was a Spanish raiding party and that Aramis alone survived."

"That's about the measure of it," Porthos replied, starting for the door again, but Defrain held him back.

"I've known him a long time," Defrain explained. "I just want to know if he's alright."

Porthos arched a brow.

"If you've known him a long time, you should know the answer to that."

Defrain deflated a little and Porthos wondered if he had seen the falseness of Aramis' many smiles as clearly as Porthos had.

"He's surviving," Porthos took pity on him, "as best he can for now."

Defrain sighed.

"He always has," the Guard replied.

Porthos remembered Treville saying something similar back when Aramis' fate had been uncertain. He wondered, now, just what sort of life Aramis had led before now to have earned such a reputation.

A jeering laugh had them both glancing at the door. Forgetting Defrain, Porthos pushed his way out into the night. He growled in fury and charged forward when he saw Aramis, pistols drawn, facing off with four Red Guards.

A curse rose up behind him and then Defrain was shoving past him.

"What the hell is going on?" Defrain snapped, pushing his way past his men and standing between them and Aramis. Porthos barged past to take his place at Aramis' side.

"Calm yourself, Marc," Aramis spoke up. "We were just having a friendly chat."

"I've seen your kind of friendly chat," Marc replied, glancing warily at the pistols Aramis had not lowered.

"They started it," the marksman defended. Then, with a sly smirk, "I was merely intending to finish it."

"With a pistol?" Porthos wondered doubtfully.

"If necessary," Aramis answered.

"I'm finishing it," Defrain snapped. "Go, all of you."

He shoved at his nearest man and soon had them all grumbling their way down the street. He turned back on Aramis with a glower.

"Must you always?" he challenged in frustration.

"With them? Yes."

"What did they do this time to offend your delicate sensibilities? Cough too loudly?"

"Oh stop acting so righteous," Aramis shot back. "You need only to throw a stone and you would hit a Red Guard proving himself worthy of my fury. You know what kind of men they are."

Defrain bristled but didn't make a move, not with Aramis still brandishing twin pistols. Porthos shifted uncomfortably, wondering if the situation would still descend to violence.

"You chose your side a long time ago, Marc," Aramis pointed out firmly, "and I chose mine. Don't act as if this still comes as a surprise after all this time."

The Red Guard drew in a breath and then let it out. He shook his head and muttered something too low for them to hear before storming after his men. Porthos watched him go, a bit taken aback by the abrupt shift between the two supposed friends.

"Don't mind him," Aramis spoke up, finally lowering the pistols and hooking them onto his belt. "He hates it that I'm right."

Then Aramis turned and crouched down next to something on the ground. It was then that Porthos noticed the sprawled figure in the shadows.

"The Guards said something that apparently offended his honor," Aramis explained as he grabbed the man's arm and hauled him up. Porthos watched a pair of icy blue eyes shift from Aramis to Porthos then back. It was the same drunk whose table Porthos had bumped into earlier. "He had only just drawn on them when I came out, going on about 'honor' and 'satisfaction' and things of the like."

Aramis tilted his head towards the sword laying on the ground. Porthos leaned to pick it up and then found the scabbard abandoned a few paces away.

"Quite a sight you made, my friend," Aramis spoke to the stranger as he steadied him. "Wine bottle in one hand, sword in the other – might have been fearsome if not for the way you swayed as if aboard a ship."

Porthos slid the sword back into its covering and wrapped the attached belt around it, wandering back over to Aramis and the stranger.

"I had it well in hand," the man challenged in a quiet, unconcerned tone. "Until you interfered."

"Until I saved your life, you mean," Aramis replied, but there was no humor in his voice. He just sounded annoyed.

The man shifted his grip on the wine bottle in his hand and glowered darkly.

"Oh good," Aramis chirped sarcastically, "you saved the wine. Glad to see you've got your priorities straight."

Porthos held the sword out to the man and it was snatched immediately from his hand. He watched the stranger wobble as he tried to step away from them, but he stubbornly kept his feet.

"You need help gettin' somewhere?" Porthos offered.

The man just continued away from them without looking back.

"Yes, you're most welcome. Any time!" Aramis called after him with a shake of his head.

"Should we follow him?"

"Why should we?" Aramis replied, looking cross.

"Because he's obviously drunk off his ass and can barely walk. Not to mention he tried to duel four Red Guards – at once."

"A bed of his own making," Aramis replied cynically. "Sometimes a man needs to pay the reckoning for his own actions and sort out his demons himself."

Porthos blinked, taken aback by the sharp words. He stood frozen for a moment, even as Aramis stalked away in the direction of the Garrison. Shaking his head in confusion at the gloomy shift in his friend's mood, Porthos jogged after him.

"Did you see that sword?" Porthos whistled lowly, hoping to lighten the moment. "I've seen less expensive weaponry on nobles."

Aramis didn't reply, just shot him a quelling glare and kept on walking.

Porthos fell silent after that, but kept pace with him step for step.

Aramis didn't know what darkness had swept through him, turning his mood sour in the space of a breath. Of course they should have made sure the drunk stranger got home; it was the only decent thing to do. Instead, they'd let him stagger off down the street to likely end up sleeping in a gutter…or worse. All because Aramis had swung from calm to furious in a moment.

His moods had done that since Savoy – shifting drunkenly from one emotion to another. He couldn't explain it. He definitely couldn't control it. It was all he could do to keep up with it.

Such a dour disposition did not bode well for restful sleep, though he hadn't truly had a 'restful' night in weeks. Even after Porthos had slipped into his room yesterday and passed out against the door, Aramis hadn't been able to get back to sleep.

Sleep had become somewhat of an enemy; a nemesis of sorts.

But he knew he could not avoid it tonight. The headache that had plagued him through the day left him feeling drained. He needed rest. His body would demand it no matter what Aramis had to say about it. Sleep would bring the dreams, the memories. It was bad enough he saw it all in daylight, triggered through the day by one thing or another. At least then he could come out of it, return to the present.

But there was no reprieve in the darkness of the night. The ghosts seemed to scream the loudest then.

He woke and he was haunted.

He slept and he dreamed.

There was no escaping Savoy.

He was struck, then, with a sudden urge to ask Porthos to stay with him. The silence was not so oppressive when the larger man was around. His presence alone seemed to sooth Aramis' ravaged and weary soul.

And, above all, he did not want to be alone.

As they strode through the Garrison gate, Aramis glanced at Porthos, even opened his mouth to put words to the request. But the soft candle light illuminating the window of Treville's office stayed his tongue.

What was it Treville had told him after Medina? When his mind and soul had been just as troubled and wounded as they were now, though in a different way?

"In your darkest moments, when you feel the weakest, it falls to you to remember your strength. I cannot fight these battles for you, Aramis. You must win this war alone."

Aramis looked down at his boots as he took to the stairs. He heard Porthos following closely behind.

Alone.

After Medina, he had been in a dark, dangerous place. Treville had done what he could, but in the end, it had been up to Aramis to set himself right again.

Perhaps this was not so different. Perhaps, this too, he had to do alone.

Even with that conviction ringing in his head, it took him up until he was standing before his own door to turn and block Porthos' way.

The large man shot him a confused look, opening his mouth to say something.

"I don't want you in here," Aramis insisted bluntly, even though his heart raged against the claim.

Don't go, came the treacherous whisper in his mind.

"I want to be alone."

Please stay.

The memory of those lonely days amongst the dead haunted him and left him never wanting to be alone again. Part of him silently pleaded for Porthos to challenge him, to force his way into the room and refused to be moved.

Another part felt furiously vindicated when Porthos took a step back and seemed to bow to his wishes. He had been right about Porthos, then. He would abandon him just as Marsac had. It was as satisfying and infuriating as it was devastating.

He reached for his door, ready to shut Porthos out, but froze when the larger man spoke.

"No you don't," Porthos challenged quietly, softly even. "I don't think you want that at all. In fact, I think every part of you wants the opposite."

Aramis couldn't move, could barely breathe. He remained, completely frozen, his back to Porthos as the other man continued.

"But I'm not your keeper, Aramis. You don't need one. You don't need me to hover over you. You don't need me to play nursemaid, you said so yourself."

Porthos was rejecting him at last, was withdrawing the steady support Aramis had repeatedly pushed away. The sudden feeling of loss left him reeling. He almost didn't realize Porthos wasn't finished, that he'd dropped his voice even lower, pitched his words even warmer.

"But I am, and will always be, your brother, Aramis. I'm here, if you want me to be. I'm here, Aramis, and I'm not goin' anywhere."

Aramis clenched his eyes closed at the steadfast promise in those words, the vow.

I'm here.

How many times had Porthos said that to him since the inn in Savoy? How many times had he stood in the face of Aramis' rejection or terror or panic and said those two simple words?

I'm here.

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that promise so badly it hurt. But the memory of Marsac's back as he walked away, as he left him to die, hurt far worse. Porthos was here now, but would he remain when the worst happened? Would he stay steadfast or would he flee as Marsac had?

Aramis couldn't take the risk, not ever again.

"I don't want you to be," he stated firmly. He turned, pressing his back to his door and meeting Porthos' gaze. "I want you to go."

"Aramis…" Porthos shook his head, denying Aramis' words.

"Just stop," Aramis demanded. "You keep saying you're 'here', but I don't want you." He watched Porthos flinch. "I don't want you," he said again. "Just leave me alone."

Porthos, for being such a beast of a man, tended to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Aramis could quite clearly see the pain his words inflicted. Steeling himself, Aramis drew in a breath to deliver the final blow.

"We were never friends Porthos, never brothers. You were nothing but a pathetic, lonely man I took pity on because no one else would bother with someone like you."

Porthos flinched, eyes cutting away and down to study the wooden planks beneath their feet.

Aramis was sure that was it, that he'd succeeded. He was certain Porthos would walk away now and never look back.

But instead, Porthos drew in a slow, shaking breath and raised his eyes to meet Aramis' again.

"That's not true," he challenged with a telling sheen of moisture in his eyes. "I know in my heart it's not true and so do you."

"It is," Aramis insisted.

Porthos shook his head sadly, expelling another trembling breath.

"It's not," he argued. "I'll not be so easily driven away, Aramis. No matter what you say or what you do. No matter what masks you wear or what lies you tell, I'll not abandon you."

Aramis nearly scoffed. Easy? No part of this was easy. He wasn't a cruel man, but he had a ruthless streak that he usually kept carefully in check, only to be used when needed. It made him a wild fury in the heat of battle and when channeled into his tongue, it made his words as venomous and lethal as the bite of a snake. It usually took a lot for him to direct such ruthless fury at another living being.

But even in the midst of Aramis' biting words, the other Musketeer was standing as tall and firm as an oak.

"What's wrong with you?" Aramis asked lowly. "How can you just stand there and take this? How are you not running in the other direction?"

Porthos looked so world-weary and beaten down in that moment that his sad smile cut straight to Aramis' heart.

"I've taken a lot worse," he said with a sigh, "from a lot crueler than you for a lot less reason."

Aramis hated himself then for being so selfish as to add to a lifetime of hurt and mistreatment. He had never, in all his life, unleashed that sort of ignorant hatred on someone else. He was under no illusions. He knew that the bigotry he'd faced for his Spanish blood had been nowhere near the realm of what Porthos had faced and survived. But even so, he knew what it was to be mistreated for nothing more than the way he looked.

He knew and he had dared say those words anyway.

His mother would be ashamed of him.

With that weight bearing down on his already heavily burdened shoulders, Aramis pushed his door open and backed into the room, refusing to meet Porthos' gaze.

"Aramis," Porthos pleaded quietly, "don't do this."

Aramis drew in a breath and raised his eyes. He held Porthos' gaze.

"I'm sorry," he offered sincerely. And he was. Sorry for his cruel words. Sorry for not being brave enough or strong enough to trust Porthos' promises. Sorry for being such a burden.

Porthos didn't look away until Aramis closed the door between them.

He engaged the lock, knowing the sound would be heard on the other side.

For a long moment he stared at the door, half anticipating Porthos to try and break it down. Instead, there was a slight shuffling outside and then Porthos' voice reached him through the wood.

"I forgive you," the other Musketeer stated quietly. "If you need me, you know where I am."

Then Porthos walked away.

Aramis didn't know why, now that he'd gotten what he'd fought so hard for, he felt nothing but empty and drained.

It was what he wanted, what he needed.

He had to learn to fight these battles alone.

But he felt Porthos' absence so keenly it was a physically painful thing.

Desperate for distraction, he moved to the trunk at the foot of his bed and pulled it open. He dug through it until he found what he was searching for.

He sat back onto his heels and let the old, worn cross dangle from his fingers by its cord as he studied it.

He'd carved it himself years ago, a few weeks after coming to live with his father. He'd needed the comfort then. He'd missed his mother. He'd missed the friends he'd grown up with. He'd even missed his hateful brother and sister who had done nothing but despise him since the day he was born. They, at least, had been familiar.

Nothing in his father's world had been familiar. He'd been under the care – if it could even be called that – of a man who was a stranger. He'd been thrust into a world of formal speech and high propriety when he was used to street slang and running wild. Even his name had been taken from him, replaced with another that had always felt foreign, even after years of use. But the worst change had been the exchange of his mother's fierce love for the harsh cruelty and lies of his father.

He'd clung to this small token for the comfort it gave him, for the way it brought his mother's voice to mind as she recited scripture to him. His father had not been religious, but those six years he'd spent in Julien d'Herblay's house, if nothing else, had cemented Aramis' faith even more deeply.

When he had finally fled a few short months after losing both Isabelle and their unborn child, Aramis had stuffed this cross into the deepest part of his pack and had never drawn it back out.

He hadn't wanted anything to remind him of his father, not even the one thing that had brought him comfort in those long, lonely years.

It was fitting now, with his soul again lost in turmoil due to the cruelty of the world, that he cling to it once more.

He shifted back, pushing himself along the floor until his back hit the wall. Then he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped the worn, frayed leather cord around his hand, clutching the slightly unevenly crafted cross in his palm. He'd never been good at woodwork. His skill lay in fighting with knives, not whittling with them.

He'd always turned to his faith in the darkest moments of his life. He'd always found comfort and guidance in his prayers towards the only loving father he'd ever known. He had never been the strictest in his beliefs, he knew. But there were so many rules and laws in the Catholic faith that he could not reconcile their ideals with a loving God. He chose, instead, to believe in the God his mother had been devoted to. The God who loved without restraint or judgment, who forgave freely and saw all men as equals. The God who heard the prayers of a woman like his mother when most would say she was unworthy. The God who heard the prayers of a man like him who had dispatched more souls to hell than he'd guided to heaven.

That was the God he chose.

That was the God who had never forsaken him.

But would God forgive him now? For leading twenty innocent souls to death? How could such a thing ever be forgiven?

He clenched his hand around the cross, feeling the wood press into his palm.

His God would forgive him as he had forgiven him so many things before. He knew that with sudden surety.

But he could not ask God to forgive him when he was unworthy of such absolution. He would not forgive himself for his failure and until he could, he did not dare ask the same from God. There was only one thing he could do now.

Penance.

Not a penance to God, but to himself. Then perhaps he would find peace – with himself first and then with God.

He realized then, as he sat in the cold corner of his room with the sounds of Savoy rising in his mind, that perhaps he was already paying it.

Maybe his survival was his penance.

He would atone for his failure by being the lone survivor, left behind by his brothers to suffer the memories of Savoy. He would find his way to forgiveness by enduring the weight of those memories alone.

He no longer despaired the absence of Porthos. He no longer feared being abandoned and alone. He yearned for it instead.

If he had any hope to find peace, he would have to do this himself.

He, alone, had failed those twenty lost souls and he, alone, must pay the price for it.

End of Chapter 10

So Aramis got harsh here - he finally got really nasty. He, of course, hated himself for it immediately. And Porthos, of course, knew it wasn't truly Aramis speaking. But still...really low moment there and getting lower with Aramis' penance spiral. What's that they say about rock bottom? Gotta hit it before you can start to climb? If that's not a phrase it should be. Aramis is spiraling down towards rock bottom at a frightening pace here so...there's that. There might have been something else significant this chapter...some passing thing, perhaps a character that hasn't gotten a true introduction yet (and don't worry that wasn't it) I wonder who that could be... :P

Next time on In the Darkness Is Born the Dawn

"You've not touched your sword but to put it on your belt since the sparring session," Porthos accused. "Memory sneaks up on you and drags you back there without warning," he went on. "You go pale and start shaking all over and won't come out of it until I call your name. Sometimes saying it quietly is enough; sometimes I have to thunder it like an order."

"Stop," Aramis snapped, but Porthos ignored him. Now that he'd started he couldn't stop.

"You get angry for no reason and it frustrates you because you can't control it. You can never relax unless you've a weapon in your hand, and even then you keep your pistols always loaded. And you clean them all the time,even when they've not been fired. You're aware of everything around you, threat or not, and it exhausts you."

"Stop it," Aramis warned again. Porthos stepped closer and went on.

"You insist on sleeping in that room even though it does nothing but cause you pain. You've let his betrayal poison everything in your life, and because of what he did you don't know how to trust that I won't betray you, too."

"Stop." Aramis was getting angrier, but Porthos wouldn't – couldn't – stop now.