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Chapter Eleven: Never Leave You All Alone
A brother is a friend given to you by God. A friend is a brother your heart chose.
Unknown
May 4, 1625
Musketeer Garrison, Paris
Treville leaned over the railing outside his office, sweeping his gaze over the yard below him.
Tristan was running the cadets through the paces of musket training – loading, firing, and reloading. The ten hopeful soldiers were listening attentively, throwing their absolute focus into perfecting the task.
It had been over a month now since Savoy. Two weeks since Aramis and Porthos had returned to Paris.
In that time, Treville and Tristan had set to work on rebuilding the ranks. They'd had eighteen prospects come to them in the beginning. Six had since been dismissed back to the regiments they'd come from. Two more had already earned their commissions. Then there were three others who had come to him by recommendation from his old friends still serving in the infantry and cavalry.
Five men, so far, to replace twenty-one.
He had spent five years building the regiment to what it had been before Savoy. Five years of carefully watching and choosing only the best to recommend to the king. He would not sacrifice that standard now even if it took him five more years to rebuild them.
The remaining Musketeers had taken a bit of time to adjust to the idea of non-commissioned soldiers within the Garrison. But after a time, they had come to appreciate the extra bodies. None of the cadets could be allowed to carry out a duty alone, but they could accompany a Musketeer for training purposes. It was particularly useful if more than one man was needed. He could send a Musketeer and a cadet instead of two Musketeers.
Over all, the new system seemed to be working.
He watched Tristan call for the cadets to aim their weapons. A moment later the yard exploded with gunfire. Then the men were in rapid movement to reload as quickly and efficiently as they could as Tristan barked instructions and encouragements.
It reminded Treville of the old days. When the regiment had been made of only five men and the Garrison had not yet been built to house them.
How many times had he watched Aramis and Tristan compete with this very task, pushing each other to be faster and faster until both could reload a musket in nothing but a blur of movement? Aramis had never needed training when it came to muskets per se, not like the men below. The teenage soldier had been more at home with a musket in his hands than anyone Treville had ever met. He hadn't needed instruction, but he had thrived on the competition.
He couldn't remember, now, the last time he'd seen Aramis fire a musket for nothing but the enjoyment of it. He'd spent long hours training over the last two weeks with both Tristan and Porthos by his side, but there had been no playful bets or challenges. Aramis had attacked his time in training with single minded focus.
He'd finally been cleared back to full duty just this morning. Henri had taken Treville aside and confessed the boy had been fit enough a week ago but he'd been hesitant to release him. When pressed, Henri had admitted that while he couldn't precisely pinpoint why he was so worried about the marksman, he nonetheless was deeply concerned.
The disappointed stare Henri had given him when Treville had replied that Aramis would be fine had been difficult to stomach.
Aramis was not fine.
Treville knew it. Henri apparently knew it. Porthos definitely knew it. Tristan hadn't stopped reminding the captain of it nearly every day.
Even Aramis knew it.
Treville was well aware of the fact that the marksman had not practiced his swordplay once since the dramatic sparring session with Gaston the morning after his return. Not for lack of others asking, either. Aramis always had an excuse ready to avoid crossing blades with anyone. Not even Tristan had been able to coax him into it.
Treville didn't know what was wrong there, but something obviously was.
There was a time when he would have asked. A time when he wouldn't have let it rest until he ferreted out the problem and helped Aramis fix it.
But he couldn't; not anymore. He had given up that privilege. He had given up the right to know what troublesome thoughts were tumbling around in the boy's head.
The shift between he and Aramis, however necessary Treville told himself it was, had been a staggering one. He no longer rolled his eyes at Aramis' clever and unsolicited comments because Aramis no longer offered them. The marksman no longer joined him in the evenings for a glass of wine and trading of reports. They no longer discussed the duty assignments or training regimes for the men. Treville no longer assumed Aramis would lead in his absence from the Garrison and Aramis no longer stepped into the position.
They were respectful, but distant.
Treville felt the loss like a physical thing. But he had been the one to put the distance between them and so he could do nothing but endure and accept it.
It was a relief, now, to know Aramis was returned to full duty, that he wouldn't be spending all day, every day in the Garrison. Seeing him carry on with his cheerful smiles and bright disposition was gutting. He had known Aramis too long not to see right through it to the suffering beneath.
And Aramis was suffering, in nearly every waking moment.
Treville could barely stomach looking at him now. Seeing him every day, knowing he had caused this and that his forced distance had only made it worse, had become somewhat of a curse.
Yes, it was a relief to be able to send Aramis out of the Garrison for a few days.
But at the same time he dreaded his absence. Because while bearing witness to his silent suffering was a terrible burden, seeing him each day, alive, was the only thing that let Treville sleep at night. Knowing that at least Aramis had survived was the only thing that made the awful truth of Savoy bearable.
How selfish had he become, that he would send Aramis away for the sake of his guilt but then covet his presence for the same reason?
Aramis deserved better.
Thankfully he had gotten it, just not from Treville.
Porthos had been a godsend.
Whenever Treville saw Aramis lose himself in the moment and had to fight the urge to go to him, Porthos was there. He would draw Aramis back to the present with nothing more than a softly – or firmly if it was needed – spoken word. When Aramis wore his mask of false smiles and empty laughter and Treville longed to strip it away, Porthos was there. He would send Aramis a look that said he was not fooled, that he would not let it pass. He would take the anger Aramis directed at him afterward with steady resilience. When Aramis' mood swung unpredictably from one emotion to the next and Treville wanted to steady him, Porthos was there. He would adjust to whatever mood Aramis had fallen into and remain steady at his side. When Aramis' head pained him and Treville wanted nothing more than to bundle him to bed and soothe him, Porthos was there. He would tug Aramis' hat lower over his eyes to block the sun and shuffle him off to somewhere dim and quiet until it passed.
Porthos had promised him, back in Savoy, that Aramis would never have a more devoted brother.
He had kept that promise faithfully.
Even through Aramis' bouts of raging temper.
Even when Aramis firmly rejected his company.
Porthos remained, steadfast and loyal through it all.
Treville was certain that even if he had not purposefully assigned Porthos to whatever duty he gave Aramis, the large Musketeer would have requested it.
He would be Aramis' salvation in the end, Treville had to believe that. He had to believe Aramis would come through all of this one day. Porthos would be the key, he had to be.
But it had been two long weeks now and nothing had changed. Despite Porthos' devotion, Aramis was not improving and Treville was left with the lingering doubt that perhaps Porthos, alone, would not be enough.
Porthos winced as the man before him prodded the gash on his arm.
"It's deep," Aramis mused. "Needs stitching."
"Why?" Porthos growled. "Just bind it."
"Porthos, I've no time to play your nursemaid. There's the matter of your sparring partner still to tend to," Aramis scolded impatiently.
Porthos shifted his gaze over Aramis' shoulder to the unconscious man on another cot, the one he had thrown to the ground a little too roughly after he received the gash. He grimaced in vague guilt and then turned his eyes back to the man who fancied himself a seamstress now.
"Two weeks you've been workin' in here and now you think yourself a physician?" he grumbled, but let Aramis begin his task.
"Don't be ridiculous. There's much I've yet to learn," Aramis replied as he started sewing Porthos' arm with impressive ease. "But I took to needlework quite naturally."
"Who says?" he argued, though he was mostly hoping to just keep Aramis talking. For as much as Aramis chattered meaninglessly around the others, when it was just he and Porthos, Aramis had stopped bothering with the pretense. Porthos never let him get away with it anymore and so Aramis punished him by being reticent and argumentative.
Porthos did his best to keep his own temper in check and not give Aramis any excuse to push him away, any more than he already had at least. His steadfast refusal to be driven away or baited, however, only seemed to annoy Aramis more.
"Henri, for one," Aramis defended sharply. "And I've had no complaints so far."
Porthos grumbled his doubt, but when Aramis flashed a glare up at him, he smiled to show he was only kidding. Aramis only glowered and refocused on his task. Porthos sighed.
"So Henri's cleared you back to full duty," he commented lightly as he watched Aramis work. He had to admit, Aramis was good at this. His hands were steady and moved as quickly and easily as they would if he'd been doing this for years.
"Yes, I know. I was there," Aramis spat.
"Was only making conversation."
"Don't."
"Come on now," Porthos goaded as tilted his head, deciding to push his luck a bit. It'd likely end up with Aramis angry at him, but real anger was better than the fake smiles he wore around everyone else or the heavy silence he retreated to when they were alone. "You're happy to talk circles around everyone else, why not me?"
Aramis' gaze flashed up to meet his again and he could see the annoyance building in the dark eyes.
"You know why," Aramis replied lowly as he tied off the last stitch and sat back.
"Do I?" Porthos feigned confusion.
Aramis' eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest defensively.
"Stop it, Porthos."
"Stop what?" Porthos shot back, suddenly angry himself.
Two weeks they'd been doing this dance. For two weeks he had stayed by Aramis' side even as the marksman shoved him away. He'd kept his promise. He hadn't abandoned him and he never would. But he was tired. He was tired of watching Aramis hide behind false smiles and hollow laughter around everyone else only to resolutely suffer in silence when they were alone. He was tired of feeling as if he was the cruel one for not allowing Aramis his lies. He was tired of feeling as if he were the only one fighting to save Aramis from this.
"Stop refusing to believe your lies?" he challenged. "Stop forcing you to set aside the mask you insist on hiding behind? Stop remaining at your side every day and pulling you from the memories when they sneak up on you and try to drag you under? Stop being the only one who will be honest with you? Stop being the only one who sees you? What exactly would you like me to stop, Aramis?"
The marksman glared, eyes lit with silent anger and jaw clenched tightly.
"Should I stop being the only one to believe that this," he waved a hand in Aramis' direction, "is not all you're meant for? This life of lies and hidden suffering. This life of mistrusting everything you used to believe in. Is this the life you want, Aramis? Truly? Do you want to live like this forever? Do you want to spend the rest of your life hiding from Savoy? If you do," Porthos shook his head sadly, "then you've become something I never thought you would ever be." Aramis' eyes flashed in warning. "A coward."
Hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him up and spinning him hard into the wall. Porthos grunted at the force behind it but didn't try to break free or fight back. Instead, he met Aramis' furious gaze steadily.
"There you are," he goaded. "Go on, hit me. Do something, Aramis. Better this than the lies you tell everyone else. I'd take your anger any day because at least it's real."
Aramis' hands tightened in his shirt and he pressed Porthos more firmly to the wall.
"What are you going to do, Aramis?" Porthos challenged. "Keep hiding? Keep denying the ghosts of twenty dead even as they haunt you?"
"I'm not denying anything," Aramis hissed. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Before Porthos could reply, the door to Henri's office opened.
"Aramis!" he snapped. "This is a room of healing, not further harming. Let him go."
Aramis' lip curled slightly and Porthos thought he might have heard a growl, but then Aramis was shoving away from him and storming out of the infirmary. Henri might have said something but Porthos didn't hear it as he followed after Aramis.
Aramis retreated to the stables, perhaps planning on using his newly granted freedom to flee on Esmé. Porthos slammed the stable door behind him and stalked down the row of stalls.
"I don't know what I'm talking about?" he challenged as he grabbed Aramis' shoulder and pulled him around to face him. "Do you think me blind or just stupid?"
Aramis just lifted his chin defiantly.
"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.
"Worst of all, you insist on doing all of this alone. You lock your door at night to keep me out even though we both know having someone there calms you when you wake from a nightmare. You hide behind your mask so no one else can see your suffering, and then when I strip that mask away you fall back to anger and silence to keep me just as distant."
"You don't know what you're talking about!" Aramis accused again, shoving a hand hard against Porthos' chest and then whirling to pace away and put some distance between them. "You have no idea."
"Where have I been but by your side?" Porthos thundered back, watching as Aramis tore his hat from his head to dig his fingers into his growing hair. "Tell me what it is, after all this time, that I don't know!"
Aramis whirled on him, gesturing wildly with his hat.
"It's my penance, Porthos!" he exploded furiously only to spin away again with a shout of frustrated anger.
Porthos drew back as if he'd been struck.
What?
The door behind them opened and Porthos rounded on whoever was daring to interrupt them now, when he was finally making progress.
One of the cadets – Ed, from a cavalry regiment, who was actually older than both of them and seemed more like a superior than a cadet – blinked at them.
"What?!" Porthos snarled.
"The captain is asking for you both."
Porthos dropped his head back with a sigh.
"Of course he is," he huffed in disbelief.
He pulled his head back and looked to Aramis, who was still facing away from them, but was fitting his hat securely back onto his head. Porthos imagined he could see the defenses rebuilding in Aramis' posture. He knew when Aramis turned that damned empty smile would be on his face again.
He watched Aramis draw in a deep breath, then he spun to face them.
And he smiled.
Porthos wanted to punch him, and then punch Ed for causing it.
"Thank you, Ed," Aramis offered brightly, striding towards them. He passed Porthos with nothing more than a sideways glance and clapped Ed on the shoulder as he passed him.
Porthos threw up his hands in frustration and followed.
Treville looked back and forth between the two men standing before him.
Porthos was silently fuming, steadfastly staring at some spot over Treville shoulder.
Aramis was standing in a dutiful silence, the picture of the perfect, obedient soldier. His gaze was fixed on some place over Treville's other shoulder.
Aramis' attitude was expected; it was how he'd been acting around Treville ever since the familiarity between them had been severed. Porthos, on the other hand, had obviously been upset by something – undoubtedly Aramis. The whole Garrison had heard them shouting at each other in the stable, though it had been impossible to tell what they were saying.
Hopefully this new assignment would give them a chance to sort things out once and for all.
"Here," he held out a sealed letter. "To be delivered to Comte de Beauvais, no reply expected."
Beauvais was a two days' ride out of Paris at best. Delivering this letter would give the two of them twice as much time out of the Garrison. Enough to give everyone a break from the status quo they'd fallen into.
Aramis reached out to take the letter, giving a silent nod of acceptance. Next to him, Porthos tore his eyes from the wall to glance first at Aramis, then the letter, then finally to Treville. Then he nodded as well.
"Good," Treville gave them a sharp nod in return. "Dismissed."
It wasn't until he was watching Aramis walk out of the office that it hit him.
This was the first time he had sent Aramis out of the Garrison since Savoy. A wave of unease rolled through him and forced him from his chair. He paced over to the window and watched Aramis and Porthos descend the steps from his office and cross the yard to the barracks side. They both seemed to be doing their level best not to speak to each other and didn't even seem to share a glance as they disappeared into their separate quarters.
Treville shook his head with a sigh, glancing back when someone came into his office.
"What was all the yelling about?" Tristan asked as he made his way over to join him. "It sounded as if they were about to kill each other."
Treville just shook his head again.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've sent them to Beauvais. That should give them time to work it out."
"It's been weeks now, Jean," Tristan pointed out. "Do you really think a few days on the road will fix anything?"
"It can't make it worse," Treville replied. "Perhaps getting Aramis away from the others will help. He tries too hard when he's among them."
Tristan hummed his agreement.
"Are you going to tell me now why you won't get involved? Why you are content to stand by and leave this all on Porthos' shoulders?"
"Pairing him with Porthos was your idea," the captain reminded.
"Only because you wouldn't do anything. I've tried to speak to him myself but he just talks in circles and changes the subject. I've been out of his confidence too long for him to turn to me now. It should be you."
"I've told you," Treville glared at him, "there are things you don't know. Things you can't know."
Tristan held up a hand in surrender and sighed.
For a few moments they stood in silence, looking out the window together. Tristan shifted next to him and turned from the window. He didn't move away though, just hovered at Treville's shoulder.
"I feel as if we've failed him in this, Jean."
Treville lifted his chin and didn't reply. What could he say?
They had failed him.
It was up to Porthos to make it right.
Aramis glanced up from where he was saddling Esmé when Porthos slid into Fort's stall and started the same process. They worked in silence until Aramis finished first, leading Esmé out of her stall. He paused in front of Porthos and Fort and turned to meet the other Musketeer's gaze steadily.
"We'll complete this assignment and when we return I'll ask Treville to stop pairing us. Now that I'm returned to full duty it's a waste of resources given the state of things."
Porthos tightened the billet on his saddle and then leaned casually against Fort, his earlier anger seeming to have cooled in the time it took him to pack his things.
"No," he denied simply and then returned to his task.
"No?" Aramis challenged with an arched brow.
"No," Porthos repeated plainly.
"But…"
"You'll not be rid of me that easily, Aramis," Porthos replied as he finished and reached for Fort's reins to lead him out. "I made you a promise."
"I release you from it," Aramis insisted.
Porthos had gotten too close. He'd been paying better attention than Aramis had realized and now he'd seen too much. He needed distance, it was the only way.
"No," Porthos refused again. "I don't release myself."
Then he slid out of the stall and eased Fort past Esmé.
"But…" Aramis sputtered impotently as Porthos walked away, leading Fort out into the yard.
"You comin'?" Porthos called over his shoulder.
Aramis blew out a sharp, annoyed breath and followed.
It had been two weeks since he'd realized survival would be his penance for his failure. Two long weeks. He barely slept, an anxious hyper-awareness making rest elusive. When he did, he always woke to nightmares. He ate only because he had to or he risked growing weaker. He had to keep his strength. He had to be ready to fight the phantom enemy that always seemed to hover just on the edge of his consciousness. He had to be ready in case that enemy ever became real.
He found moments of reprieve by visiting whichever of his lovers would have him, but always left before sleep could creep in and claim him. He couldn't risk dreaming with a defenseless woman in the bed with him as he didn't trust his own instincts in those confusing moments between sleep and wakefulness.
Mostly he just soldiered on.
He kept up the charade for the others because they needed it, and for himself because he couldn't take the silence. But Porthos had refused to allow him the lie and when the laughter and smiles fell away and left behind only quiet, the memories crept up on him more and more. So he'd found himself turning to anger to fill the void instead. It was easier than the smiles, likely because it was often real instead of fake. It was easy to be angry at Porthos. Not because of anything Porthos had done – though having someone other than Treville see through him so easily was infuriating – but because of what everyone else hadn't done. No one else noticed that his smiles were forced or his cheerful words were lies, or perhaps they just didn't care. Even Tristan let it all pass with nothing but the occasional long, sorrowful look. And Treville…Treville had washed his hands of him.
So Porthos became the target of his anger by simple proximity.
It wasn't fair or even rational, but it got Aramis from one day to the next, and right now that was all he could hope for.
But now Porthos had thrown every piece of Aramis' struggle into the light and dared him to deny it. In his frustration and anger he'd confessed something he hadn't meant to and now he knew Porthos would never let it rest.
Aramis sighed and pulled himself up into Esmé's saddle once they reached the yard. Porthos was already astride Fort, waiting near the gate. Aramis nudged Esmé toward them, frowning at the easy smile fixed on Porthos' face.
Whatever his game was, Aramis knew he wouldn't like it.
It was going to be a long few days.
Porthos slid a look towards the man riding next to him when he saw Aramis shift his hand from his thigh to the stock of his nearest pistol for the third time in the last half hour. While Porthos watched, Aramis' gaze swept the countryside around them and his hand tightened around the decorative wood. Then, a moment later, he unclenched his hand from the pistol and returned it to his thigh.
It had been the same sort of thing since they'd left the Garrison. Aramis was wound so tightly Porthos was sure if a rabbit dared cross their path it'd be shot for its daring. It had gotten worse the further into the countryside they got, worse still if they passed through a patch of trees.
It seemed as if he was expecting to come upon some threat around every bend. It was exhausting just to watch him.
"Bread?" Porthos asked brightly, stretching his hand towards his companion, the proffered bread between his fingers.
Aramis gave him a glance that was both irritated and suspicious and shook his head in refusal.
Porthos shrugged.
"Suit yourself." And then he popped the entire piece of bread into his own mouth, chewing even as he smiled cheerfully.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis studying him. There was a slight frown turning down the marksman's lips and a crease had caused a furrow in his brow.
Good. It was working.
After they'd met with Treville, Porthos had returned to his quarters to pack, anger and frustration still burning hotly in his chest. But as he'd thrown his things into his saddle bags, he'd remembered Aramis' heated confession in the stable.
"It's my penance, Porthos!"
Penance.
Porthos was not religious, but there had been an old woman in the Court who had been bent on bringing him into the fold in his youth. He knew what penance was and what it meant. He knew what Aramis' confession implied.
That surviving Savoy, living with the burden of it, was something deserved. As if Aramis believed all the suffering he carried now were his due, his atonement for some perceived sin.
It made a tragic kind of sense now that Aramis insisted on suffering alone. He was devout, Treville had said, and was somehow convinced he deserved to bear this weight in silent solitude. Porthos intended to convince him otherwise…somehow. He didn't know what sort of God would demand such a thing from one who had already suffered so much. Surely not the God Aramis was so devoted to.
So he would make Aramis see that.
But first, he had to get Aramis talking again. His confession in the stable had been weeks in coming. It had been building, Porthos suspected, until it exploded without Aramis' permission. Porthos didn't want to wait weeks more for something else to burst past the marksman's tight control.
It was time for a new strategy.
He'd spent the last two weeks refusing to allow Aramis his charade. He'd stripped away his mask of false smiles over and over until Aramis had stopped even attempting it when others weren't around. Now, he would do the opposite.
He would play the same game Aramis seemed to be so fond of. If Aramis wanted to insist that everything was alright, if he wanted to rely on fake smiles and false laughter, then fine.
Porthos would do the same.
He would show Aramis how infuriating it was to know someone was lying. He would show him how frustrating it was to know someone was upset but to see them paint on a smile and suffer in silence. He knew, first hand, how quickly such a thing grew maddening. He hoped that giving back a bit of what Aramis had been spreading around these past weeks would goad the marksman into reacting.
He wanted Aramis to get frustrated and angry. So frustrated and angry, in fact, that he would let go of the strict rein he kept on his thoughts and let them all be heard.
It was already working. Aramis, he knew, was incredibly perceptive. He would easily be able to see the emotions lingering beneath Porthos' cheerful exterior. He'd see the simmering worry and concern, the threads of anger and frustration. Porthos had been so honest about such things these past weeks it should be maddening to have them hidden now.
He had to fight down a triumphant smile when Aramis huffed next to him.
"What's wrong with you?" Aramis demanded.
"I don't know what you mean," Porthos replied lightly, giving the marksman an innocent grin.
"You're smiling," Aramis pointed out as if such a thing were completely foreign.
"Am I?" he feigned surprise and smiled wider. "I hadn't noticed."
"Well stop."
"Why?" Porthos challenged cheerfully. "Why shouldn't I be happy? It's a beautiful day. We're getting out of the city for a few days and I'm surrounded by good company." He leaned forward to pat Fort's neck affectionately.
Aramis cast a skeptical look around them and then up at the sky. Dark clouds had rolled in an hour earlier, promising a downpour to come. The air was humid and chilled. It was perhaps one of the least beautiful days they'd had in awhile.
The marksman shook his head and grumbled something under his breath, turning to face the road again. Porthos grinned and started whistling, some jaunty little tune that he only half remembered.
"Good God, whistling? Really?" Aramis snapped.
"Do you not like whistling?" Porthos asked curiously.
"I have no issue with whistling!"
"Good then." Porthos started whistling again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis tighten the hand he had tangled in his reins. A few tense moments passed and Porthos continued to badly remember the tune. Finally, Aramis rounded on him.
"Would you stop that?"
"Why?" Porthos wondered with contrived bewilderment.
"Because I find it infuriating," Aramis retorted sharply.
"Fine," Porthos allowed, falling silent.
Aramis heaved a sigh of relief next to him. Porthos allowed him a moment of peace and then glanced at him.
"Do you take the same issue with humming as you do with whistling?"
"I have no issue with whistling!" Aramis defended loudly.
"You just said you find it infuriating," Porthos reminded.
"No, I said I find your whistling infuriating. Do you know why? Because you do it badly. You can't seem to remember the tune and what notes you do remember you mix all up until it's just a jumble of sounds with absolutely no coherency. It's offensive to whistlers everywhere and I'm sure if they were here, they would find it just as infuriating as I do!" Aramis finished in a rush, drawing in a frustrated breath at the end to make up for the ones he'd skipped to deliver his rant.
Porthos blinked at him, taken aback by the eruption of words. Aramis glanced at him sheepishly, seemingly embarrassed for his overreaction.
Porthos felt his lips twitch and Aramis rolled his eyes. Porthos couldn't hold it back then, he laughed – a deep, hearty laugh like he hadn't done in weeks.
Next to him, Aramis shifted in his saddle and shook his head in exasperation. But when Porthos just continued to laugh, Aramis' lips twitched. Then a chuckle escaped him and then he was laughing too.
They rode on, laughing in their saddles like a couple of school boys.
When the skies opened up and fat rain drops started falling down around them, they shared a glance and inexplicably laughed harder.
It was freeing, Porthos decided. He couldn't remember the last time his heart had felt as unburdened as it did in this moment.
He watched Aramis tug his hat from his head, throw his arms out to the sides and tilt his head back with his eyes closed, as if embracing the heavens for joining in on their mirth. He continued to smile childishly, letting the rain soak his face short hair. Esmé continued steadily along, unperturbed by the lax reins or lack of direction by her master.
Porthos hadn't seen Aramis look so…light since before Savoy. And it was real. He wasn't pretending for anyone. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He was just there, existing in the moment.
Porthos let his laughter taper off, but his smile remained. His goal had been to goad Aramis to explosive anger – and he had succeeded. But in that victory, he'd somehow achieved something even more, something beyond what he'd thought would ever be possible.
"We should find an inn," Aramis suggested as he returned his hat to his head, though it seemed pointless now that he'd let himself be soaked through.
Porthos nodded agreeably.
"There's a town a couple of miles ahead," he answered. "There should be an inn there."
"I know it," Aramis confirmed. "I've stayed there many times."
Porthos slid a knowing glance at his companion.
"What's her name?"
Aramis' mouth curled into a smirk.
Aramis eased the door to his and Porthos' shared room open as quietly as he could, tiptoeing in on bare feet. His doublet was tossed over his shoulder, his belts hooked over his arm and his boots gripped in his hand. He hadn't bothered hooking his bracers back over his shoulders and they hung down about his legs now, letting his breeches sit a bit low on his hips.
Elise had wanted him to stay with her – he usually did when he stopped here, often negating the need to even bother renting a room – but he'd made excuses this time. He hadn't been particularly enthusiastic at spending the evening with her at all, but she'd looked so disappointed when he tried to turn her down that he had relented and let her lead him upstairs to her private room. He had to admit, though, that their activities had at least been somewhat distracting. For a few hours, at least, he'd been able to forget everything else and lose himself in her willing arms.
But when the time came for sleep, he knew he couldn't stay. It was too much of a risk. He was too dangerous and unpredictable coming out of a nightmare. He could not risk harming her in his confusion. So with some nonsense about leaving early and not wanting to wake her with his departure, he'd gathered his things and bid her goodnight.
Closing the door as silently as he'd opened it, Aramis lowered his boots to the floor and then followed them with his doublet and belts. He turned towards the main part of the room and took a step forward, only to catch his bare toes on the leg of a small table he hadn't seen as his eyes struggled to adjust to the inky blackness of the room. With the storm outside, there wasn't even any moonlight through the window to guide him.
"Merde!" (Shit!) he hissed lowly, as he nearly tumbled to the floor and had to hop on one foot to catch his balance. Lightning flashed outside, brightening the room for barely a breath through the small window across the room, but it was enough for him to catch of glimpse of Porthos shifting to sit up in the bed off to his left.
The loud rumble of thunder that followed nearly drowned out Porthos' sleep-roughened voice.
"Aramis?"
"Yes, just me," he assured in a whisper as he limped forward again. "Why's there no fire?" he asked quietly as he felt his way along the wall, looking for a fireplace. Elise's room had a fireplace and even if they hadn't been keeping themselves warm in other ways, he had appreciated the added heat.
Wood creaked as Porthos shifted on the bed. "There's no hearth," he informed him.
Aramis resisted the urge to curse again. With the cold rain outside, the room was already chilled. Added onto that, Aramis always felt cold these days, especially at night.
As if spurred by his thoughts, a shiver raced through his body.
"Do you want the bed?" Porthos asked and the wood creaked again.
Another crack of lightning lit the room long enough for him to see Porthos about to rise from the bed. The crash of thunder a moment later felt like it shook the entire room.
"Honestly, Porthos, don't be ridiculous," Aramis scolded once the rumble faded. Porthos was already in the bed. Aramis was not so selfish as to take it from him, even if it was offered.
"Take the extra blanket at least."
A bundle of fabric slammed into his chest without warning and Aramis only barely caught it before it fell. Aramis shot a vague glare in the direction of the faint, man-shaped outline he could now decipher through the darkness.
Blanket in hand, Aramis made his way carefully back to his doublet and bundled it up to serve as a pillow. He pulled his main gauche free of its sheath and tucked it under his arm. He saw a dark mass that he thought might be their saddle bags and went to investigate. It was. A quick search yielded a now familiar strip of cloth from the recesses of his bag. He wound it around his hand for now and made his way back to the open floor space beside the bed.
"Nice evening with Elise?" Porthos asked and Aramis could hear the grin in his voice.
Aramis felt his own lips twitch in response as he tossed his doublet to the floor and then followed it down, resting his head on the soft leather.
"A gentleman never betrays a lady's reputation, Porthos," he answered as he shook out the blanket and spread it over his body.
Porthos snorted, but then Aramis heard him roll over in the bed.
"Get some rest, Aramis. I'm bettin' you need it."
Then with another chuckle, Porthos fell silent.
Aramis waited a few quiet moments until he heard Porthos' breaths even out as he fell back to sleep. Only then did he unwind the cloth from his hand, peering at it through the darkness. It likely wouldn't do any good in stopping Porthos from hearing him, but it would save the rest of the inn patrons.
A flash of light cut through the room, briefly illuminating the cloth in his hands.
With a grimace – he'd grown to hate the feel of the fabric between his teeth – Aramis fitted the cloth into his mouth and tied it in place as the thunder rumbled outside. Then he rolled to his side so he could see the door, tightened his hand around his dagger, and closed his eyes.
He fell asleep to the sound of the rain pounding against the glass of the window and the echo of a battle raging around him.
He woke to a deep, black darkness that was broken only by the meager starlight that shown through the canopy of trees. Aramis blinked blearily, trying to bring his sluggish mind into line. He was cold, so cold. He could feel the snow seeping into his shirt, turning it wet and cold.
He should move, he realized. Laying here like a lump would only bring him to death's door more quickly. Today was not his day to die. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Pushing aside the pulsing, chronic pain in his head, Aramis rolled to his left, intent on pushing himself up from there.
He came face to face with glazed blue eyes surrounded by an icy white face.
With a gasp, Aramis threw himself backward, digging his hands and feet into the ground to propel himself away from the frozen body. His hands caught on something stiff and he fell back onto whatever it was. He twisted, staring into sightless brown eyes.
Horrified, he pushed away and looked around. Frozen corpses littered the earth around him in every direction.
"Todos muertos," (All dead) he breathed as his gaze jumped from one face to another. "Todos muertos," he said again, stronger. Then again and again as panic set in and he stumbled to his feet.
"Todos muertos. Todos muertos!"
No matter where he stepped, he tripped over a frozen limb. No matter where he looked, he saw dead, sightless eyes staring back at him, accusing.
He was alone in a field of the dead. A field of his own making. This was his fault. He had done this.
He had led them all to damnation.
He fell to his knees and screamed.
Porthos woke to the sound of muffled screaming.
His mind, still muddled by sleep, was momentarily confused, thinking perhaps they were under attack. It took a moment more for him to realize that the screams weren't muffled through the walls, that in fact they sounded quite near.
Comprehension slammed into him all at once and he twisted up in the bed, searching the dark room for Aramis.
He found him on the floor right next to the bed, body writhing as he was caught in the throes of a dream. Forgetting for a moment that the screams he heard should be much louder, Porthos vaulted off the bed, leaping clear over Aramis to land on his other side.
"Aramis! Wake up!" he ordered firmly, warily watching for the dagger he knew the other man slept with. He caught sight of it still clenched in Aramis' hand and reached forward, tearing it from his grip. Doing so only made Aramis writhe harder and scream louder, but it was for the best. Aramis was ruthlessly dangerous when he battled his way from dream to reality and Porthos wasn't willing to risk injury to either of them.
Aramis screamed again then shouted something that Porthos couldn't understand.
It was then that he realized why the screams were muted and the words nothing but disjointed sounds.
Aramis was gagged.
"Bleedin' hell," Porthos gasped in horror. But that was swiftly replaced by rage. He batted away Aramis' flailing arms and seized him firmly by the shoulders, giving him a sharp shake. "Wake up!" he bellowed.
He was rewarded with a flash of frantic, confused brown eyes and then Aramis started fighting him, trying to break free.
"Easy!" Porthos soothed, softening his tone now that he'd gotten the process started. "It's me! It's Porthos!"
Aramis' attempts to free himself slowed.
"'or'hos?" Even muddled as it was by the gag, Porthos understood his own name easily enough.
"I'm here," he assured quietly.
Aramis stopped fighting him and instead latched onto his arms to steady himself.
"That's it," Porthos encouraged. "Follow me back now."
Aramis stilled, panting hard around the gag as his eyes fixed on Porthos' face. Porthos took a breath and slowly loosened one of his hands, easing it carefully towards Aramis' face.
"I'm gonna just…" he hooked his finger in the cloth and, as gently as he could, eased it free of Aramis' teeth. "So you can breathe, all right? Easy now." He let the gag fall to hang loosely around Aramis' neck and then sat back, giving him room to collect himself.
Aramis shifted so he was leaning back against the bedframe and started taking slow, measured breaths. Porthos waited until he was no longer gasping for air before speaking.
"What in the bleedin' hell did you think you were doin'?" he demanded lowly.
Aramis' gaze rose to meet his and the marksman sighed, not even pretending to be confused.
"Why would you do this to yourself?!" he asked, plucking at the cloth still settled around Aramis' neck.
Aramis scowled and reached back, pulling at the knot until the cloth came loose.
"It's nothing," he insisted, balling it in his hand as if hiding it from view would make Porthos forget it.
"That's not nothin'," Porthos argued angrily. "Why would you do such a thing?"
"For their sake." Aramis waved an all-encompassing hand and Porthos could only assume he meant the other patrons in the inn. "So they weren't forced to become unwilling witnesses to the torments of my horrifying subconscious."
Riding a wave of new fury at the casual self-loathing in Aramis' tone, Porthos reached forward. He grabbed a fistful of Aramis' shirt and pulled him closer, giving him a rough shake.
"You are not some animal to be silenced," he hissed. "They," he jerked his head toward the door, "don't matter. You are what matters in this. You won't do this to yourself again," he ordered firmly.
Aramis met his gaze unflinchingly, resolve settled in their dark depths.
"I won't make that promise, Porthos."
Porthos came to a startling realization in that moment. He released Aramis and sat back, eyes wide.
"You've been doin' this the whole time. That's why I haven't heard you at night, why no one has heard you."
Aramis leaned back against the bed again and didn't bother offering a defense.
Porthos didn't know whether to cry or start throwing punches.
"I would have stayed with you," he reminded in a voice rough with conflicting emotions. "I would have woken you, just as I did tonight." He met Aramis' unrepentant gaze. "Why choose this, Aramis?"
When the marksman's eyes welled with moisture and he cut his gaze quickly away, Porthos frowned. It was when Aramis' hand drifted to clutch at the cross hidden beneath his shirt that he remembered.
It's my penance, Porthos.
"What God would demand such a thing from you?" he asked softly, trying desperately to understand.
Aramis closed his eyes, clenching his jaw so tightly a muscle in its base twitched.
"God does not demand this of me, Porthos," he finally replied. Then he drew in a slow breath and opened his eyes, turning to meet Porthos' gaze. "I demand this of myself."
Porthos could only stare at him, completely at a loss. When Aramis' mouth curled in a sad, weary imitation of a grin, Porthos felt as if he'd somehow failed.
"Go back to sleep, Porthos," Aramis insisted softly. Then, before Porthos could do anything more than blink in bewildered confusion, Aramis stretched out onto his back on the floor. "We've a long day tomorrow," he added before closing his eyes.
It was a dismissal, and a blunt one at that. But Porthos just sat there in the darkness for several moments, unable to bring himself to move. He watched Aramis steadfastly pretend he didn't notice Porthos' stare. The silence around them grew and Porthos watched Aramis' hands twitch where they rested on his chest.
With a sigh, Porthos stretched across the floor and reached for the dagger he'd tossed aside. Without a word, he grabbed Aramis' wrist and pressed the dagger hilt into his hand. Then he crawled over him back up onto the bed and laid down.
He stared up at the ceiling for a long time after that. He listened as the rain eventually tapered off. He saw the first dim light of dawn break through the dirty window. Most of all, he listened for Aramis to start dreaming again. But that sound never came.
The moment a bit of light broke through the darkness of the night, Porthos realized he hadn't been the only one who sleep had evaded. It was then that Aramis got up and began to prepare to leave.
Porthos rose silently and, side by side with Aramis, prepared for their departure.
End of Chapter Eleven
Ohhhhh mannnnn, Porthos knows about him gagging himself. He and Porthos had a shouting match in the beginning...things are heating up. The downward spiral continues!
Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn
"Stay back," he hissed. The man stopped immediately, hands still raised.
"Easy," he rumbled. "You know me."
Aramis shook his head, battling with his lungs. He couldn't breathe.
"You're not in Savoy," the large man soothed. "Look around you, what do you see?"
Without meaning to, Aramis glanced around. At first there was only snow. But with a blink it flickered away, replaced by signs of spring. Aramis frowned in confusion, wincing as the pressure in his chest compounded.
"You're not in Savoy," the man said again, taking a cautious step closer. "It's a trick of your mind."
The pistol shook in his grip.