Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Twelve: LordLady, Aednat the Fourteenth, twaxer, pallysd'Artagnan, Rosey Malone, dcrembecki7, Deana, GoGirl212, Arlothia, enjoyedit, ImaginaryArtist17, Rita Marx, SnidgetHex, MashiMoshi, and DalamarF16
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Chapter Thirteen: When You're Low
The crest and crowning of all good, life's final star, is brotherhood.
Edwin Markham
May 6, 1625
Location unknown
Athos watched the two men before him share another look. He'd lost count now of how many times they'd done that just since he'd opened the door. This one was decidedly skeptical.
"Do we trust him?" the larger one queried lowly in a whisper that was a bit too loud to even be considered a 'whisper' at all.
The smaller of the two shrugged his left shoulder in a distinctly 'why not?' gesture and looked back at Athos. Athos resisted the urge to shudder. Despite the flippancy of the man's gesture, his gaze was intense and searching. Athos felt as if his very soul were being examined and put to the test in the few moments of silence that enveloped them.
Then the young man's gaze shifted to something over Athos' shoulder.
"Get down!"
Hands fisted in the hem of his doublet and yanked him forward. He would have sprawled down the handful of stone steps if not for the larger man's arms catching him around the chest. A hand slid across his back and curled around to the pistol at his hip. Even as Athos twisted to see what was happening, the smaller of the Musketeers was bringing Athos' pistol to bear and firing.
The young man growled out a curse in what Athos thought might be Spanish, left hand going to grip his right shoulder as the pistol fell from his fingers. But despite the pain firing the pistol seemed to have caused, his aim had been unerringly true.
A man had stuttered to a stop in the doorway, a dagger raised threateningly in his hand. The man's legs collapsed beneath him and he crumbled, a neat hole directly over his heart.
"They'll have heard that," the larger man announced as he steadied Athos and then leaned down to steal a sword off the man Athos had used to open the door.
"Do you know the way out?" the other man demanded of Athos even as he slid a small knife behind his back and hid it away.
"Only the way I came in," he answered. "Which may prove a bit more difficult now."
A few quick steps across the small room and the younger man was shrugging into a worn, brown, leather doublet that was long enough to brush his knees. Then he was back with them, reaching up to pilfer the body in the doorway, stealing a pistol and a sword. He started to slide the pistol onto his belt, only to apparently realize that he wasn't wearing one. The irritated frown that took over the man's features might have been amusing if the situation were a bit less precarious.
Athos took the moment to lean down and retrieve his own pistol from the ground.
Both Musketeers shared another look, nodded and then turned as one to face him.
"Aramis, of the King's Musketeers, at your service," the smaller one inclined his head slightly as he introduced himself.
"I'm Porthos, and same as he said," the other one canted his head towards Aramis.
Quite suddenly, Aramis tucked his stolen sword under his arm and wrapped his left hand around his right shoulder, looking startled.
"My uniform."
Porthos' hand flew to his same shoulder, looking equally horrified.
"They took them," Athos supplied. "As proof that they had you I believe."
"Proof for who?" Aramis demanded.
"Somebody wanted Musketeers," Porthos realized with a startled breath.
"Or wanted us," Aramis theorized darkly.
"Gentleman," Athos interjected with a level calmness that surprised even him given how each wasted second increased their chances of being caught. "Our escape?"
The twin looks he got were somehow both sheepish and unrepentant.
Aramis waved him on dramatically.
"After you."
Athos tightened his hand around his sword and started up the stairs, stepping carefully over the body in the doorway. Porthos followed after him, and then Aramis brought up the rear.
They made quick progress through the short, narrow hallway and Athos heard Aramis whistle lowly as they passed the two men Athos had brought down to get to them.
"He's not bad," he whispered to Porthos.
Athos found himself fighting down a wave of pride at the praise.
They made it up the narrow staircase without incident and paused against the wall next to the doorway that would lead out to the main room of the small, ramshackle house they found themselves in. Athos could only guess the 'old church' was a separate location meant only as the place for the exchange.
"This was too easy," Aramis whispered. "Something's not right."
"That shot should have brought them down on us," Porthos agreed.
"They're waiting for us," Athos finished.
"I'll distract them," Aramis decided. "You two get out and go for help."
"We'll distract them," Porthos corrected sharply and then looked at Athos. "You slip out and go for help. Captain Treville in Paris – tell him everything."
Athos shook his head.
"They're handing you over in less than two days. By the time I got to Paris and back it would be too late."
"Then just get out," Aramis insisted. "Get to safety. You've already done more than enough."
He had, Athos realized. He'd done more than most men would. He'd risked his life to give these two men a fighting chance. But he hadn't come all this way, risked this much, to run when the danger finally showed its face. Perhaps he would die here, with these two strangers. But at least he would be dying for something. Better this death than in a gutter with wine on his breath and her name on his lips.
Better to die a man of honor than a weak coward.
"Three swords stand a better chance than two," he countered.
Aramis and Porthos shared a look and then nodded at him.
"All for one," Porthos whispered fiercely, turning an expectant look on Aramis.
But the smaller man faltered. Athos watched, confused as Porthos' expression shifted into a mixture of heartbreak and frustration.
"That still means something to me," the large man said as he pinned Aramis in place with his gaze. "It used to mean something to you."
"It still does," Aramis breathed, voice shaking.
Athos looked back and forth between them, realizing something far deeper was going on here than he knew.
"Then say it," Porthos demanded. "If you believe it, say it."
Still, though, Aramis hesitated.
"After everything, after all we've been through," Porthos accused, his voice shaking with too many emotions for Athos to identify, "still you doubt me."
Aramis stood rigid, jaw clenched, hands white where they gripped his stolen weapons.
Athos watched something in Porthos shift, a sort of weary resignation and unwilling understanding drifting across his expressive face. Then Porthos turned, all thoughts of the coming battle seemingly forgotten, and wrapped his large hand around the back of Aramis' neck.
"It's all right," he assured. The sheer warmth and affection in his voice stood in direct contrast to the fire he'd spoken with only moments ago. "I'll trust enough for both of us."
Athos hadn't realized it was possible to see something break in a man's eyes until he watched it happen in Aramis at that moment.
But there was no time for him to crumble and Athos watched walls of steel erect themselves in Aramis' gaze a moment later.
The smaller man managed a nod and Porthos nodded back.
"Ready?" Athos asked as he shifted his grip on his sword.
He didn't know what he had just witnessed, but the way Aramis' gaze was fixated on Porthos – even though the larger man was no longer looking – told him it was something monumental.
"The door is to the left. Fight towards it and don't stop," Athos whispered.
Aramis shifted past him, taking up first position by the doorway. He lifted the stolen pistol so it pointed towards the ceiling and closed his eyes.
When he opened them a moment later, Athos saw the same ruthless fury he'd witnessed hours ago when Aramis and Porthos had been taken.
Then he whispered something under his breath, so lowly that Athos barely heard it.
"This is not our day to die."
Behind Athos, Porthos went rigid.
Those words, slipping like a breath past Aramis' lips, felt like a promise.
"No," Porthos agreed fiercely, "it's not."
Then Aramis moved.
Aramis stepped through the open doorway, pistol raised.
The dozen men that were waiting for him swiftly became one less.
He flipped the spent pistol in his hand, intending to use it as a club, and lifted the sword in his left hand to his chin in a mocking salute even as he advanced.
He sensed Athos and Porthos charging after him and the three of them, as one, met the enemy in a clashing of steel.
Aramis knew what was coming. He knew that something about a sword in his hand and a battle before him triggered the memory in his mind. He knew this.
And yet, when it happened, when the rundown house faded away to a forest of trees and snow, his heart still stalled in his chest. When the enemy's faces blurred into nothing but faceless masks, his lungs still seized in momentary panic.
Part of him knew it wasn't real, that it couldn't be. But the cold, frozen air bit into his skin. The snow crunched beneath his boots. His breath turned to crystals before him.
He knew it shouldn't feel real.
But it did.
It was.
And once again, he was alone.
After that initial charge, the rush of battle flooded Athos' system, shutting out any fear or trepidation he might have felt. He let his instincts and his lifetime of training in swordplay guide him.
Aramis pushed ahead, diving into the fray with ruthless ferocity. That, combined with Athos' precise skill and Porthos' relentless tenacity, gave them the push they needed to start making headway towards the door.
Hope sprouted in Athos' chest even as he lunged backwards, parrying away an attack. His back met with solid resistance and he turned, realizing he'd run into Aramis.
The young Musketeer spun and, when he met Athos' gaze, there was absolutely no recognition there. Athos suddenly found himself defending against a friendly attack as Aramis bore down on him.
Athos defended as best he could, confused and startled. The enemy around them rushed forward, seeing an opportunity. Athos was sure they would both be cut down, right there. He met Aramis' eyes.
"Aramis!" he called sharply.
But Aramis didn't hear him. Athos saw it then, in the young man's gaze, something painfully familiar.
This was a lost and broken soul – not unlike the one Athos saw every time he looked at himself in a mirror – and wherever Aramis thought he was right now, it wasn't Athos he was fighting.
Athos thought he should feel afraid or even angry at being so ruthlessly attacked by a man who was his ally. But instead, all he felt was overwhelming understanding and an unexpected flood of kinship.
He knew how it felt to be lost in your own head. He knew all too well.
"Aramis!" Porthos' sudden shout broke the spell and Aramis went rigid.
Athos used the reprieve to defend them both, driving back the encroaching enemy and cutting down two that got too close. He turned back to Aramis in the brief moment of rest his skill won him.
Aramis was staring at him, the paleness of his skin standing out far too harshly against the dark, dried blood on his face. His eyes were filled with horrified realization, apparently completely aware of what had just happened. He looked startled and helpless and entirely too young in that moment.
Without warning, Athos had the urge to reassure him, to take away that rattled vulnerability.
In a tactile move far beyond his own comfort zone, Athos mimicked what Porthos had done earlier and wrapped a hand around the back of Aramis' neck.
"It's all right," he managed breathlessly.
Aramis' eyes widened a bit and he opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his gaze shifted. Then he was fullbody tackling Athos to the ground even as the sound of pistol fire cracked through the room.
Athos felt his breath leave him in a rush as he hit the ground with the full weight of the young Musketeer on his chest. Aramis rolled off him a heartbeat later, rising in one graceful, fluid motion to drive his stolen sword up through the chest of the man who had shot at them and then rushed forward to finish off those remaining.
"I need them alive!" someone shouted angrily.
Athos forced a breath into his starving lungs and blinked at the hand suddenly thrust down into his view. He followed the arm up to Aramis' face and then reached for it, letting the Musketeer pull him up.
Porthos lunged forward with a growl, driving his stolen blade through a man's chest and joining them.
They stood, forming a triangle with their backs as the men pressed in once more.
They'd managed to each kill one more before a pistol shot had everyone freezing in place as plaster rained down from above.
"Enough!" a man growled so loudly it echoed off the walls.
Athos pressed his back more solidly against Aramis and Porthos as the men surrounding them backed up a bit.
A tall man with dark brown hair, green eyes, and wearing all black strode forward. He made a motion with his hand and suddenly several pistols were pointed at them.
"I thought you wanted us alive," Aramis taunted brazenly. Athos twitched his gaze towards him, wishing he could silence the younger man with nothing more than a glare.
"I need you alive," the man allowed, "but not unharmed. Put down your weapons."
The three of them, nearly as one, collectively hesitated.
"Shoot that one in the leg," the man instructed, pointing his spent pistol at Aramis.
"Wait!" Athos and Porthos both protested at the same time. They shared a look over their touching shoulders and reluctantly tossed their weapons down.
Aramis didn't move, didn't surrender his own weapon. When a blade twitched towards him threateningly, Aramis boldly knocked it away with a snarl.
The man in black tilted his head, studying Aramis a bit closer.
"Last chance," he warned. "Or your friends will pay the price."
"Hurt them, and I'll run you through," Aramis threatened darkly.
"Maybe," the man taunted. "But they will suffer all the same."
Aramis was nearly vibrating with tension, so unwilling to give up his only defense. But it wasn't his only defense, Athos realized. He had Athos. And he had Porthos. Athos shifted his weight, leaning more solidly into Aramis' shoulder. Behind him, he felt Porthos doing the same.
Aramis didn't move.
It took a moment for it to filter past the battle-induced adrenaline, past the hardened instinct not to relinquish his weapon.
But filter it did; a solid, constant pressure at both his shoulders.
Porthos and Athos.
And Aramis had to choose.
Did he trust only himself and the blade in his hand? Or did he trust the men standing at his back to be a different kind of defense.
He didn't know if he had it in him to trust them with his life.
But they had trusted him with theirs.
I'll trust enough for both of us.
Porthos had trusted him to have his back. He would not risk Porthos coming to harm.
He lowered the tip of his sword to the ground, balancing it there for a moment. Then with a decisive push, he shoved the hilt away, letting it fall out of reach. He tossed the pistol he'd used as a club down after it.
The man in black smirked in triumph and Aramis felt an overwhelming urge to beat that look off the man's face.
"I knew you'd see reason," he goaded arrogantly. "I don't want any more surprises. Take their doublets and their boots and bind them again."
Aramis fought every instinct he had to resist the urge to swat away the hands pulling at his doublet, yanking it from his shoulders. He kept his glare firmly on the man in black even when his hands were bound tightly in front of him and first one boot, then the other, were forcibly taken from his feet.
Athos and Porthos, identically stripped and restrained, were shoved to stand at either side of him. But he didn't look at them. He only had eyes for the enemy.
The man in black stepped closer, feeling bolder now that they were bound, no doubt.
He ignored Athos and Porthos, though, in favor of stepping toe-to-toe with Aramis.
"You fight like the devil himself is trying to break free of you," the man murmured as he studied him.
"Untie my hands," Aramis taunted, "and I'll arrange a personal introduction."
The man chuckled, never breaking his gaze from Aramis'.
"I could have use for a man like you."
Aramis went cold.
He had known men like this stranger in black before. This was the type of man his father had employed to do the work he needed done quickly and quietly. This type of man was cruel and hard and, at the end of the day, only cared about the coin in his pocket.
Julien d'Herblay was the exact same, the only difference being that he had taken it a step further. Power had been his true currency. For six years his father had done his best to mold Aramis into his own image. When he had left his father's house seven years ago, he had been certain Julien d'Herblay had failed.
Now, though, with violence and ruthless fury coiled in his chest, Aramis saw clearly how he was his father's son.
And then, as they always had whenever the darker parts of his soul threatened to break free, his mother's words soothed his raging heart.
Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. (Be strong, my little warrior.)
Her voice drifted through his mind, reminding him to be strong, to fight the darkness.
He lifted his chin, feeling the volatile anger in his chest settle and cool.
Some part of him may always be his father's son, but a larger part would forever belong to his mother.
"Men like me exist to stop men like you," he countered calmly.
The stranger in black smiled.
"Who searched them?" he asked suddenly, gaze still locked with Aramis'.
That was fine. Aramis would not be the first to look away.
A man off to the side shifted uncomfortably.
"I did," he answered.
The man in black tilted his head and finally broke his gaze away to regard the man who had replied.
"Did you remove all of their weapons?"
"Of course I did, Luc."
Aramis latched onto that – a name, Luc.
"Then, Antoine," Luc strolled casually up to the man, "how did they get free of their bonds?"
Antoine swallowed thickly.
"I don't know."
Luc smiled.
Aramis saw it coming a moment before it happened. He twitched, fighting the urge to intervene even if Antoine was his enemy, too.
Luc drew a dagger from his back and drove it up into Antoine's gut.
"For your failure," he hissed.
Then he withdrew the knife and wiped it casually on Antoine's doublet even as the man fell.
"One of you must have had a knife," Luc announced as he turned back to them. "I suppose it could have been you," he eyed Athos with a narrowed gaze, "but it wasn't, was it? No, not enough time passed after that shot for you to cut them free, bind this one's leg and set this one's shoulder." Luc motioned first at Porthos' bandaged thigh and then at Aramis. He glanced at Porthos then. "You don't seem the sort to bother hiding your intentions or your weapons."
Aramis glanced at Porthos whose gaze was clearly doing its best to cut Luc down where he stood. He thought of the small blade he'd given Porthos that hadn't been thrown down when they gave up their weapons.
"That leaves you, my friend," Luc theorized as he stepped up to Aramis again. "Where is it?"
Aramis blinked innocently.
"Where's what?" he wondered, feeling the pressure of his hidden blade in the back of his breeches.
Luc smiled, a predatory, aggressive smile that gave Aramis the split second of warning he needed before Luc reached forward and clamped down on his right shoulder, digging his fingers in brutally.
Aramis felt the blood drain from his face down to his toes when white hot pain suddenly ignited through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and grunted at the unexpected agony.
His shoulder had been injured. Somehow he'd forgotten about that. But this new pain, it went beyond abused muscles. No, Luc's thumb was very distinctly digging in past the surface of his flesh.
Luc huffed a wolfish chuckle.
"You didn't even know you'd been shot, did you?"
Well that certainly cleared things up. He didn't remember it happening, but it must have been when he tackled Athos out of the line of fire. He hadn't felt it happen. In fact, he hadn't been aware of any pain since the fight started. Even his shoulder, though weaker than it usually was and unfit to wield his sword, hadn't hurt once the heady rush of battle flooded his system.
Now, though, with Luc's fingers brutally digging into torn flesh, Aramis felt everything.
He had to lock out his knees to keep from going down.
Next to him, Porthos growled and surged forward, but hands caught him and held him back before he ever got close to Luc. On his other side, Athos had gone rigid, but seeing Porthos' failure, had not advanced.
"Where is it?" Luc asked again, his voice dropping to a threatening growl.
Aramis pressed his lips together. He couldn't give up his blade too quickly. Luc would likely find it on his own. But he had to make the man believe it was their only hidden weapon. He had to keep Luc's attention on him and off of Porthos.
The hand on his shoulder suddenly withdrew and Aramis couldn't stop his sharp exhale as the pain immediately ebbed. But then Luc was patting him down, sliding his hands across Aramis' body in a fashion that would have been intimate in different company. The search was thorough, groping, and rough. The men watching sniggered to themselves a few times during the show. And that's what it was – a show. Luc seemed to be thoroughly enjoying attempting to humiliate him.
Finally, his roaming hands settled low on Aramis' back.
"Ah, here we are."
Aramis gritted his teeth and refused to look away when Luc lingered without removing the knife he'd found. The stood there, nose to nose, with Luc's hand shallowly dipped into the back of his breeches.
Off to his right, Porthos growled again.
Off to his left, Athos was practically bleeding silent fury into the air.
The men watching sniggered again.
Then, finally, Luc slid the knife free of the hidden sheath and stepped back. He tapped the flat of the small blade against Aramis' cheek with a mocking grin.
"Enjoy yourself, did you?" Aramis taunted.
Luc's grin twisted into a scowl and his hand lashed out, striking with a swift, close-fisted backhand that put Aramis on the ground.
"Take the two Musketeers back to their cell. Kill the other one."
"Wait," Aramis called as he pushed himself up to his knees. "He's a Musketeer, too."
Luc frowned, glancing at Athos and looking uncertain for the first time.
"He doesn't wear the uniform."
"Would have been a fool to keep it on when he was sneakin' in here," Porthos spoke up.
"It's called subtlety," Aramis agreed with a mocking smirk. "You should try it sometime."
Luc stared hard at Athos, obviously trying to decipher the truth of their words. Aramis was wildly impressed that Athos remained completely stoic and unaffected by the inspection.
"Surely three Musketeers are worth more than two," Aramis pressed.
Luc swung his focus back to him.
"What do you know of it?" he spat.
"I know that you took our uniforms – to prove who we are, yes?"
Luc's gaze narrowed.
"Whoever you're working for, they want Musketeers," Aramis guessed, playing on their working theory. "I imagine your benefactor will be pleased with this development."
When Luc chewed his lip in thought, Aramis knew he'd guessed right. This wasn't about he and Porthos, not specifically. It was about the Musketeers as a whole. It was a comforting realization even as it was a horrifying one.
"Very well," Luc agreed. "Take them back to the cellar."
Aramis didn't get a chance to speak again as he was manhandled back towards the stairs.
Porthos barely kept his feet as he was shoved down the handful of steps into their cell. He turned in time to steady Athos and then together they caught Aramis as he stumbled down last. The door was slammed shut and locked then, leaving them alone.
Aramis shifted away from them and drifted over to rest wearily against the wall. Porthos followed, leaning in to inspect the source of the bloody stain on Aramis' shoulder.
"Did you really not know this had happened?" Porthos asked quietly.
"Heat of battle," Aramis offered as an excuse as he twisted his head to peer down at the wound as well. "Did it go through?"
Porthos used his bound hands to ease Aramis' shirt off his shoulder and inspected his back.
"Yeah," he answered, relieved.
He grimaced as Aramis prodded the area with his fingers. The marksman, however, didn't so much as flinch.
"Lucky," he finally murmured.
Porthos cocked an eyebrow, but it was Athos who spoke.
"Unlucky?" Athos put in dryly from where he still stood near the stairs, watching them. "You do realize you've been shot."
Aramis chuckled, looking unreasonably amused given the circumstances.
"It missed the bone," he explained, "and hit nothing but meat and muscle. I'll be fine."
"Still bleedin' a lot, though," Porthos reminded.
"Here." Athos appeared next to them, pulling at a scarf wrapped around his neck.
Even with their hands bound, the three of them managed to get the scarf tied securely around Aramis' shoulder. Porthos slid wearily down the wall and, a moment later, Aramis followed him. Athos, however, stepped back, drifting across the small room to sit across from them.
"That was quick thinking," their new companion commented suddenly. "Thank you."
Porthos blinked in confusion. Next to him, Aramis seemed similarly bewildered.
Athos looked back and forth between them.
"Naming me a Musketeer," he explained.
"Oh," Porthos nodded and then nudged Aramis, "that was quick thinkin'," he praised.
"Well, I couldn't very well have let them kill him, could I?" Aramis replied, dropping his head back against the wall and letting his eyes fall closed. "However, if you besmirch the good name of the Musketeers, you'll have me to answer to."
Porthos rolled his eyes because Aramis didn't look particularly threatening at the moment. Athos, however, remained straight faced.
"I will honor the title for as long as I bear it," he promised, but the dryness of his tone had Porthos wondering if there was a bit of hidden humor hidden beneath the words.
Aramis, apparently, decided there was, because he chuckled.
Porthos grinned, too, and flexed his hands, wishing the ropes were a bit looser.
"Might as well cut these off, eh?" he suggested, thinking of the blade currently digging into his hip where he'd barely managed to get it hidden before they were disarmed.
"They don't know we're armed," Athos pointed out logically. "If they check on us, being unbound would give away our one advantage."
Porthos saw Aramis draw his head forward out of the corner of his eye, the same impressed quirk to his brow as Porthos knew he wore. They hadn't mentioned the second knife before now and hadn't counted on Athos even remembering Porthos had been wielding it. Athos was apparently more than just a skilled swordsman – he was also a shrewd thinker.
"You do, of course, have a point," Aramis agreed. "But the knife is not our only advantage."
Porthos nodded, easily tracking Aramis' train of thought.
"We've got the lay of the land now," he explained when Athos arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "And the measure of our enemy."
"Luc." Aramis seemed to roll the name over in his mind even as he spoke it. His tone made no attempt to hide his distaste, but it also made Luc sound like a puzzle Aramis was trying to work out.
"It might take a bit to cut ourselves loose though, if it comes to it," Porthos pointed out. "Could demand time we don't have."
Athos tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of Porthos' words.
Aramis was still staring thoughtfully off into space, so Porthos made the decision. He shifted, carefully pulling the blade from his hiding place. He cut himself free first – careful to only make one cut in the rope in case they needed it – and then motioned to Athos. The other man pushed himself up and moved over to crouch in front of Porthos. Porthos cut him free in the same fashion. Then, instead of moving back across the room, he sighed and leaned back against the wall on Porthos' other side. Porthos touched Aramis' arm, waited the moment it took for Aramis to focus on him and then held up the knife.
"Somebody's targeting Musketeers," Aramis stated as Porthos carefully sliced one cord of the rope and unwound it from Aramis' wrists.
"For what purpose?" Athos wondered.
Porthos tossed away the rope and watched worriedly as the marksman carefully rested his right arm against his stomach, cradling it with his left.
"Likely nothin' good," Porthos answered as he sat back.
For a long moment they sat in contemplative silence.
Porthos found his mind drawn back to Savoy, to twenty dead Musketeers. It felt like too much of a coincidence, the timing of it. He slid a cautious glance at Aramis and pitched his voice in a conciliatory tone.
"Do you think this has to do with-"
"No," Aramis cut him off sharply. The haste of his reply suggesting he'd been worrying over the same thing. "That was the Spanish – a thing of chance."
"What was?" Athos asked, leaning forward to look at them both.
"My version of 'unlucky'," Aramis replied darkly before shaking his head and looking away from both of them. Porthos sighed, glancing at Athos. He could see the question there, but it wasn't his story to tell.
"So what do we do?" Porthos asked, hoping to draw Aramis back before he slipped away into memory.
It took longer than Porthos would have liked, but eventually Aramis brought his head back around and reengaged.
"We could let this proceed," he suggested carefully, "to see who hired Luc and his men."
Porthos nodded. He liked the idea of finding out what was going on, of discovering who was responsible. And yet...
"What about him?" he tilted his head towards Athos, who remained impassive but for a slight quirking of his brow.
Aramis titled his head forward to look past Porthos, as if confused about who he was talking about. When all he saw was Athos, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"What about him?"
Porthos glared as patiently as he could.
"He's a civilian, Aramis. We can't allow him to be put into further danger."
"I put myself in danger by coming to rescue you both," Athos argued. "So I think that argument is beyond the point of debate."
"Yes, about that," Aramis leaned forward a bit more to properly regard Athos. "Not that we aren't grateful," he tossed Porthos a look seeking agreement, to which Porthos dutifully nodded, "for your valiant attempt, but why on earth would you do such a thing?"
Athos' expression, already virtually unreadable, shuttered further.
"Why shouldn't I?" he countered.
"The real possibility of being killed, for one," Porthos pointed out obviously.
"The fact that you don't know either of us," Aramis added, and then something in his tone hardened. "And you couldn't have really known what you were getting into."
Porthos glanced warily at Aramis. There was a familiar thread of suspicion in his voice now, as if he'd just remembered that he didn't trust anything or anyone anymore. The flinty look in Aramis' dark gaze warned that Athos was quickly on his way from being an ally to a possible enemy in the marksman's mind.
Porthos turned back to Athos but, other than a slight narrowing of his gaze, he didn't look all that affected by Aramis' sudden turn of attitude.
"Honor demanded I intervene," Athos replied succinctly.
Porthos blinked and swung back around to look at Aramis, gauging his reaction. Honor was a cornerstone of what it meant to be a Musketeer. If there was ever an answer Aramis would identify with, it would be that one.
But Aramis still looked skeptical.
"And for honor," Aramis responded suspiciously, "you would risk your life for two strangers?"
"For honor, I have done far more," came the soft, firm reply.
Porthos couldn't have managed a reply to that even if he wanted to. There was a tangible weight to Athos' claim, as if it had already been tested and painfully proven. He studied the man a little closer, noticing for the first time the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the weary set to his shoulders that he was trying desperately to hide. He looked drawn and worn. Once again, Porthos was hit with a wave of familiarity.
"Have we met?" Aramis demanded suddenly, startling Porthos by the parallel vein of their thoughts.
Athos blinked in surprise.
"I don't believe so."
Porthos glanced at Aramis, seeing the marksman's gaze narrowed in the same calculating fashion he used when sighting a distant target.
"Outside The Wren," Aramis declared. "You're the drunk who tried to fight four Red Guards. You were spouting about honor then, too."
Porthos nodded. He vaguely remembered that night two weeks ago. But now that he was looking at Athos, the memory became clearer.
Athos frowned very slightly, that barest downturn of his lips being the only indicator that he was confused. He was studying them both now, obviously searching his memory.
"Being drunk that night does not preclude me from sobriety now," Athos finally stated, slowly and deliberately. "And I assure you, I am quite capable."
Aramis nudged Porthos lightly with his elbow.
"He did fight his way in here unseen. And we both saw how well he did upstairs."
Porthos sighed. All of that was true, but…
"He's still a civilian, Aramis. He's not a Musketeer. We've no right to endanger him further."
"You heard him," Aramis cajoled. "He endangered himself."
Porthos looked fully back at Athos and met his gaze.
"You would willingly risk yourself further? For the sake of honor? This is what you want?"
Athos was silent for several moments before he lifted his chin.
"Yes."
The word hit Porthos like a physical wave, washing away any lingering doubt.
"Then it is our honor to have you with us," Aramis offered sincerely and with a bit of conspiratorial quirk to his lips. He sounded more like the man Porthos had met that first day in the regiment than he had in weeks.
Athos straightened a bit, shoulders squaring. He offered a tight nod of acceptance.
"So what do we do?" Porthos asked again.
"Somebody needs to get back to Paris and warn Treville," Aramis replied immediately. "If Musketeers are being targeted, he needs to know. We can't afford any more losses."
"But you said we should let this play out, see who's behind it," Porthos reminded warily. He had a horrible feeling he sensed where this was going and he felt his blood boiling before Aramis even replied.
"They only need one Musketeer to make a deal with the man behind this." Aramis' light tone indicated exactly who he thought that one should be.
"Aramis…" Porthos warned lowly.
"They'll have to take us out of here at some point," Aramis went on undeterred. "When the moment is right, I'll create a suitable distraction. You'll both use it to get to some horses and flee."
For a stunned moment, Porthos could only stare at him.
"One of you get back to Paris and warn Treville. The other can stay close and keep an eye on things, follow where they take me if need be."
"And if this mysterious benefactor shoots you on sight?" Athos put in dryly, but there was an undercurrent of frustration simmering in his tone.
"Well," Aramis shrugged, "then the fates would have only been collecting their due."
Porthos' patience, having been tried and tested to its breaking point over the last weeks, shattered.
He spun up to his knees and wrapped his hands around Aramis' shirt. He stood, ignoring his wounded leg, and dragged Aramis up, slamming him against the stone wall. Aramis paled a bit as pain undoubtedly coursed through his shoulder, but he didn't flinch or make a sound – and that only incensed Porthos further.
"Don't you dare," he hissed, pressing in until his nose was only a breath from Aramis'. "Don't you dare talk like that. Like your life is forfeit."
"Porthos…" Aramis started in a pacifying tone.
"No!" Porthos shook him once, firmly. "You were meant to survive, Aramis."
Aramis went still, eyes wide. From the floor, Athos watched them warily, but Porthos barely noticed.
"I'm not leaving you behind," Porthos stated firmly, tone unyielding. "It's just not happenin'."
"You'll be watching from a distance, Porthos. Hardly leaving me behind."
Porthos tightened his hands in Aramis' shirt.
"Not. Happening. Whatever comes, whatever we do, we do it together. Nothing you can say will make me abandon you."
He saw it then, hidden deep in Aramis' eyes – a glimmer of something that gave Porthos sudden hope.
"I'm not him, Aramis," Porthos insisted desperately, willing – begging – Aramis believe him. "Haven't I proven that to you? After everything we've been through, can you still not trust our brotherhood? Can you not believe that I will remain by your side, as I've been since this all started? I'm not him, Aramis! I'm not him."
Then he saw it happen.
He saw the last thread of resistance and doubt break to pieces in Aramis' eyes.
Aramis hadn't been surprised that Porthos had reacted badly to his suggestion. He had been surprised when the big man hauled him up from the ground and slammed him roughly up against the wall. He'd been even more surprised by the sheer weight of emotion and urgency in Porthos' voice. Porthos was desperate for Aramis to hear him, to believe his words.
To trust him.
I'm not him.
How many times had Porthos said that? How many times had he said those other words; the words Aramis had come to rely on?
I'm here.
He had been so angry with Porthos. Angry because Porthos was the only one who saw him, who refused to allow him to hide behind his mask. He had been angry because it shouldn't have been Porthos.
But it had been.
And suddenly, like a wave finally cresting after building for far too long, that simple fact took on a brand new meaning.
Porthos had seen him when no one else had wanted to look.
Porthos had stayed with him when no one else had seen how much he dreaded being alone.
Porthos had stripped away his mask when everyone else had been relieved by it.
Porthos had been there when no one else had.
And Porthos was still here.
He remembered, then, what their friendship had meant before Savoy had destroyed him – before Marsac's betrayal had ripped apart the foundation of everything he believed in.
Their friendship, their brotherhood – so instant and easy – had felt like going home. It had felt familiar in a way nothing else had since he'd last been in his mother's presence.
I'm here.
Porthos had never left him, no matter how much he begged him to.
Porthos, he realized with sudden clarity, never would.
I'm not him.
Marsac had taught him that brotherhood was fleeting and that it wasn't to be relied on or trusted. But now, with danger so clearly before them, Porthos had not faltered. Porthos had not fled. When presented with a route to safety, he had angrily refused if it meant leaving Aramis behind.
And now, trapped as effectively by Porthos' watery gaze as he was by the hands fisted in his shirt, Aramis felt something in his chest loosen for the first time since he'd realized what Marsac had done.
He had thought, sitting alone in his room, feeling lost and broken, that bearing the weight of Savoy in solitude was meant to be his penance. Why else would he alone have survived? Why else would everyone who should have cared turned their backs on his suffering?
He now saw that he had been blind.
He had thought he had been alone.
But he had never been, not since the inn in Savoy.
Survival was the penance for his failure, and the burden of those memories would always be his to bear and no one else's.
But perhaps he was not meant to survive alone.
Why else would God have given him Porthos?
How had he not seen it?
"Aramis?" Porthos was still there, a solid presence pressing him roughly against the wall.
"Porthos," he whispered, his tone a tumbling mixture of shocked realization and aching apology.
"I'm here," Porthos assured fiercely, hands loosening in Aramis' shirt. One slid up to grip the back of Aramis' neck, the other wrapped around his good shoulder.
Aramis couldn't find words. So he did the only thing he could.
He nodded, at last accepting the promise folded into those words.
Porthos' hands tightened and then he sobbed out a breath, crushing Aramis to him in a startlingly realistic impression of a bear hug.
"I'm sorry," Aramis offered hoarsely into Porthos' shoulder. And he was. He was sorry it had taken him so long to believe him. He was sorry he'd put Porthos through so much to get to this point. He was sorry he had been so unworthy of the brotherhood he and Porthos shared.
"No." Porthos pulled back and held tight to the side of his neck so that Aramis had no choice but to meet his eyes. "No. You were protectin' yourself," Porthos excused. "I just hope you know now that you don't have to protect yourself from me."
Aramis could only nod again.
Porthos' answering smile was a mixture of sadness, relief, and joy. Aramis couldn't help but return it. Porthos released him, but only long enough to adjust his grip and help Aramis ease back down to sitting. Then Porthos slid back down to his place next to him, his shoulder brushing solidly against Aramis'.
"So what do we do?" Aramis asked quietly.
"We stay together," Athos insisted suddenly. "All of us."
Both Aramis and Porthos looked at him in surprise. In all honesty, Aramis had forgotten he was even there. He found himself sliding a self conscious look towards Porthos as he realized Athos had just witnessed his moment of vulnerability. The larger man returned the glance.
"I can't escape alone and leave you both here. If they move you, I'll never find you again. Either we all stay, or we all go," Athos went on.
Aramis looked at Porthos, eyebrow arched in question.
"We need to find out who's behind this," Porthos reminded.
"We need to warn Treville," Aramis countered softly. "We can't risk any of the others being caught off guard as we were."
As he and the twenty-one others in Savoy had been. Even if the two weren't in any way connected, the similarities were there. The idea of any more Musketeers being lost because of an unknown threat was too much. Aramis couldn't take it, not if there was something he could do. Maybe it wasn't the right choice, but it was suddenly the only one he could live with. Treville and the others had to be warned.
"Which is more important?" Athos asked reasonably, but the careful tone of his voice suggested he sensed at least something of the razor's edge Aramis was balanced on. "Finding the source of this entire operation, or warning your comrades?"
"If we find the man behind this, we stand a chance of stopping it – now, before it goes any further," Porthos reasoned.
"Or, as Athos pointed out, this man could shoot us on sight," Aramis countered. "We don't know his motivation and until we do, the risk is too great. If we're killed, no one will remain to warn the others."
Aramis had to close his eyes against the sudden picture of bloodstained snow and frozen bodies that flashed across his vision.
Porthos sighed, but nodded.
"So?"
"We escape," Aramis decided. "Together."
End of Chapter Thirteen
#together - and so Les Insperables are born. I'm sure you're all a bit relieved Aramis has finally taken a step closer to recovery. Trusting Porthos again was huge for him, and I can't help but smile about it.
I'll give you cyber hugs if you drop me a line down down below :D
Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn
"I'm warning you," Luc growled.
"You're warning me?" Aramis taunted and then laughed mockingly. "If you'd not stolen my boots, I'd be positively quaking in them. 'Warning' me," he snorted derisively. "No wonder your men are more afraid of me, a bound and injured man, than of you. I don't issue warnings," Aramis' voice dropped chillingly. "I merely act."