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Chapter Fourteen: Brother, Let Me Be Your Fortress
There is no love like the love for a brother. There is no love like the love from a brother.
Astrid Alauda
May 7, 1625
Cellar, unknown location
Athos folded his arms more tightly across his chest, trying to ward off the coldness of their prison. He stared across the dark cellar to where Aramis was sleeping. The young Musketeer – and he seemed at times so very young – was curled on his left side, back pressed into the corner, facing the locked door. As he'd been drifting off, Porthos had pressed their one dagger solidly into Aramis' hand and there it had remained, clutched defensively even in sleep.
Athos found himself wondering about Aramis' past not for the first time since he'd met him. Something had happened to him, that much was obvious, and whatever it was, it had been recent. Aramis was still suffering through the fallout of it.
Not unlike Athos in that respect.
That thought had him wishing vainly for a bottle of wine, or brandy, or anything. Had it only been two months since it had happened? It felt at times as if a lifetime had passed. Others, it felt as if it had happened only yesterday.
She haunted him now, as was his due. But it wasn't only her. Thomas' ghost hounded his steps as well, demanding to know why Athos hadn't saved him, why he'd let her murder him.
They were with him always, so it seemed, but they were always the loudest in the dark. When the light of the day gave way to shadow, they crept up on him – his wife and brother.
Both now dead because of him – one by his hand and one by his failure.
The alcohol seemed to quiet them occasionally. It made the nights more bearable. If he drank enough, sometimes he could even sleep without dreaming.
A laugh floated through the air around him – a light, beautiful laugh.
Her laugh.
Athos stiffened, closing his eyes against the sound of her voice calling his name.
His hand clasped at the locket around his neck and he squeezed it until it was nearly melded with his palm. They had been so happy, so in love. Had he really been such a fool? Had it all been a lie?
Maybe not. Maybe Thomas had…
He banished the thought with a sharp breath.
Thomas would never have done what she had claimed, not to any woman, least of all to his brother's wife. She had lied to him then, with his brother's blood on her hands. She must have been lying all along.
Good God, he needed a drink.
"Hey, you alright?"
Athos snapped his eyes open, looking across the small room to Porthos, who was watching him curiously.
"Fine," he assured stiffly.
Porthos hummed doubtfully, gaze shifting to Aramis when the young man shivered in his sleep. He'd been doing that more and more often, Athos distantly realized. The room was chilled, yes, but not that chilled.
"Damn the cold," Porthos lamented quietly, hand drifting towards Aramis' shoulder but withdrawing before he made contact.
Athos latched onto that, desperate to focus on something other than his own demons.
"What happened?" he asked, moving a bit to settle his back more comfortably against the wall.
Porthos looked up at him, confused.
"To Aramis," Athos clarified.
Porthos eyed him warily now.
"Something did," Athos insisted. "I'd be blind not to notice."
Porthos shifted where he was sitting, gaze falling down to rest on Aramis' head.
Athos followed his line of sight. He couldn't really see it in the moonlit darkness of the cell, but he remembered the scar. It had been impossible to miss, after all.
"That's his story," Porthos finally answered, "not mine."
Athos frowned. As distractions went, that one was short lived.
"You should try to sleep," Porthos suggested.
"So should you,' Athos retorted swiftly.
"The only way I could get him to sleep was if I promised to keep watch," Porthos explained quietly, eyes glancing towards Aramis again. The sleeping man shivered.
Athos tightened his own arms around himself, imagining the room had grown colder.
"Get some rest, Athos," Porthos advised again.
The problem was that Athos was fairly certain sleep would elude him. It often did. He closed his eyes anyway, trying to focus on something, anything other than the memories that haunted him.
There was their plan to consider, of course.
It was…adequate.
Aramis, much to Porthos' very vocal displeasure, would play the key role. They'd all agreed, though, on their course of action and had then settled in to wait.
And so they had… For hours.
Aramis had sat patiently, resting, eyes fixed on the door for most of that time. But even sitting quietly, his exhaustion had been tangible. It had been somewhat of a relief when he had started drifting off an hour ago. He obviously was in desperate need of rest and, though his shoulder had stopped bleeding hours ago, he had still been shot. It had taken one rather lengthy whispered discussion between the young man and Porthos before Aramis had sought out his corner in the cell. Porthos had followed after him, sitting casually near Aramis' feet once he'd turned over the dagger.
It was as if the two of them were linked somehow, bound by an invisible tether. They'd hardly strayed out of arm's reach since their confrontation when they'd first started strategizing.
Athos' thoughts shifted, remembering that moment of charged revelation between the two Musketeers. He didn't know what had led to that moment, or even the full weight of what that moment had meant. But even if he had been blind it would not have stopped him from seeing that something dramatic had shifted. He wasn't sure what it was, but Aramis had seemed somehow steadier afterwards and Porthos had seemed lighter.
I'm not him.
Porthos had said that simple phrase so many times. But who was 'him'? What had he done to merit the hate in Porthos' voice or the pain in Aramis' eyes? It all led back, Athos suspected, to whatever had happened to the young Musketeer – to the thing that dragged him from reality during combat, that led him to forget where he was and who he was meant to be fighting. Remembering the completely lost look in Aramis' eyes during their battle upstairs brought a shiver to Athos' spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
A sudden shout tore through the quiet of the night. Athos' eyes flashed open and his heart seized in his chest.
He looked straight across the cell to the source, watching through wide eyes as Aramis shouted in…Spanish? He was writhing as if fighting off some unseen enemy. The small blade in his clenched hand glinted dangerously in the meager moonlight.
Athos watched Porthos shift to kneel in front of Aramis.
"Aramis!" the large man called, catching the wrist with the waving blade before it could do any harm. "Wake up!"
Aramis did.
But very little changed. He fought Porthos now, breathing harsh and panicked as he tried to break the hold the larger man had him in.
"Easy!" Porthos soothed. "Hey, it's me! It's Porthos!"
Like a spell had been cast, Aramis' struggles slowed.
"Porthos?"
Athos felt his throat go tight. That tone. That tone was nothing but youth and vulnerability; it was fear and trust all rolled into one. Athos knew that tone, he had heard it before.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the cell anymore.
"Ollie?" Thomas reached for him and he met his little brother's hand willingly.
"It's all right, Thom," he soothed. "I'm here."
It had been years since anyone had called him by his given name. He and Thomas had loved playing soldiers when they were young, going so far as to choose nom-de-guerres for each other. Thomas had been too young to think of anything more imaginative than their own last name, but soon enough the name stuck and he started introducing himself as Athos instead of Olivier. Only in times of great distress of fear did Thomas call him Ollie.
Athos blinked rapidly, trying to separate the past from the present, memory from reality.
"I'm here, 'Mis," Porthos murmured.
Aramis' struggles stilled completely.
"Mamá…" Aramis whispered breathlessly. His eyes had closed and he sounded anguished and heartbroken.
"Aramis?" Porthos called worriedly.
Aramis' eyes opened again, latching onto Porthos with painful vulnerability.
Athos watched, feeling like an intruder. But he couldn't look away. Aramis couldn't be much older than Thomas had been. So young. So full of life and potential, only to be struck down before he could truly live. All because of her… Athos clenched his jaw and banished that train of thought. He focused again on Aramis, on the hand he had twisted in Porthos' sleeve.
This was real. These two men were real. They weren't a product of his guilty, tortured mind.
He focused on them – on reality.
"Did you mean it?" Aramis asked, eyes wide and so young. He blinked owlishly, obviously still trapped in some place between wakefulness and sleep.
"Mean what?" Porthos wondered as he casually slid the knife from Aramis' increasingly lax grip.
"You're here?" He sounded so hopeful but at the same time so scared.
Athos frowned and he saw Porthos go still.
Aramis shivered almost violently.
"Where are you Aramis?" Porthos asked gently.
"Don't go," Aramis pleaded, his hand turning white where it was fisted in Porthos' shirt. "Don't leave me here."
"Aramis," Porthos was trying to sound stern, but Athos could hear the trembling emotion in his voice, "you're not in Savoy." The large man brushed a hand over the crown of Aramis' head, through his hair and then down to his neck, where he let it linger.
The touch seemed to clear something in Aramis' gaze.
"Porthos?"
"Yeah, 'Mis, I'm here."
Aramis blinked and the hand around Porthos' sleeve loosened. Athos let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and watched Porthos sigh out a breath of his own, folding forward until his forehead bumped Aramis'.
"You won't leave." Aramis said it like it was a fact. He stated it as if it were a point he was proving to himself. Porthos shook his head where his forehead was still pressed to Aramis'.
"No. Never."
"Marsac left."
Athos frowned.
Marsac.
Marsac, he realized with sudden clarity, was 'him'.
Porthos sat back slowly, hand never straying from Aramis' neck. Athos, apparently, wasn't the only one immediately concerned by the mixture of confusion, heartbreak, and anger in Aramis' voice.
"I know he did," Porthos replied. "But I won't."
Aramis held his gaze and then nodded, accepting the promise.
Porthos shifted, sliding to sit right next to the smaller man, so close their shoulders were pressed together.
Athos watched them, feeling an unexpected rush of longing.
He had been a brother once. He knew what it looked like, what it felt like. He found, as he watched the two before him, that he missed that feeling fiercely.
He missed Thomas. He missed being a brother.
His throat tightened and he looked away.
"Did I wake you?"
The guilt-ridden question had Athos dragging his gaze back to the men across from him. Aramis was watching him with wide, overly bright, eyes, still looking too young and shaken. It pulled at some latent instinct he thought had died with Thomas.
"No," he assured quietly, wanting to do what he could put the younger man at ease. "I wasn't sleeping."
"Still," Aramis studied him, "I must have startled you."
"It was hardly your doing," Athos countered but Aramis didn't look convinced. "Everyone has their own demons," he found himself continuing, unable to fight the urge to ease the guilt and vulnerability in Aramis' eyes. "For some people they're louder than others - stronger, harder to beat back. But everyone has them all the same."
He would know, after all. His demons, it felt like at times, were the loudest and strongest of them all.
Athos suddenly found himself the subject of two stares.
Aramis was looking at him as if he'd just realized there was a kinship between them, some sort of shared darkness.
Porthos was looking at him like he had suddenly sprouted a halo and should be declared a saint.
Feeling uncomfortable, Athos shrugged a shoulder and averted his gaze. He'd only spoken the truth, after all, not some grand, new revelation. After a few quiet moments, he felt their gazes shift away, refocusing on each other instead.
"It's fine, Porthos," Aramis insisted after a while.
Athos glanced back in time to see Porthos withdrawing his hands from the makeshift bandage binding Aramis' shoulder.
"It's bleedin' again," the larger man shot back, though somehow he sounded both gentle and accusing all at once.
"And it will stop again," Aramis assured.
Athos watched with a growing frown as Porthos pressed a hand to Aramis' forehead only to have it batted away.
"You feel a little warm," Porthos realized with a worried scowl.
"I think that's you, actually. I'm feeling quite cold," Aramis retorted, cradling his wounded arm to his abdomen and pressing his back into the corner. He pulled his knees up and seemed to shrink before their eyes.
"Infection?" Porthos fretted, undeterred.
Aramis sighed.
"I don't think so, not yet at least."
"But soon?" Porthos frowned.
"Well it's a musket ball wound, Porthos." Aramis shrugged his good shoulder dismissively. "With nothing to clean it, eventual infection is inevitable, really…" Aramis trailed off suddenly, a frown marring his features.
"What is it?" Porthos demanded.
"Infection."
Porthos glanced over at Athos, as if he would miraculously have hidden insight into Aramis' mind, despite having only known him for a day.
"There was no infection," Aramis stated distantly, eyes unfocused as he stared across the room.
"Yes, we've been over that, Aramis," Porthos pointed out carefully.
"No," Aramis' focus snapped back like a whip, "not now. Before, in Savoy. There was no infection." It wasn't a question. Aramis apparently already knew the truth.
Porthos tilted his head curiously.
"Yeah. You took a fever, but the physician found no infection in your wounds."
"How?" Aramis sounded bewildered and skeptical.
Athos looked back and forth between them, trying to follow the conversation despite the many pieces of information he was lacking.
Porthos frowned in confusion.
"How many days was I out there, Porthos?" Aramis asked deliberately.
"Best guess…a bit more than five."
Athos watched Aramis pale a bit.
"Five days?" he asked breathlessly.
Porthos nodded warily.
"You don't remember?" the larger man asked carefully.
Aramis shook his head, the fingers of his left hand crossing his face to ghost over something on the right side of his head. The scar.
"Five days and no infection?" Aramis challenged. "My leg, my head, my side? Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
Porthos' forehead crinkled as he studied Aramis silently for a moment. When he finally responded, his voice was carefully controlled.
"Your wounds were treated, Aramis. They had been cleaned and dressed. Though, after five days of dirty bandages, the physician was still surprised no infection had set in."
But Aramis didn't seem to be listening anymore.
The widening of Aramis' eyes would have been comical if he hadn't looked so stricken by this new information. Athos watched with rising concern as the rest of the color leeched out of Aramis' face. The younger man's right hand, mindless of his wounded shoulder, rose to press against the side of his head.
"Aramis?" Porthos leaned towards him, hands hovering but not touching. Athos, surprisingly, found his own worry echoing what he heard in Porthos' voice.
Aramis' eyes were moving rapidly back and forth, tight lines of pain marking their corners. Then, quite suddenly, his breath caught in a gasp.
"Aramis?" Porthos tried again, this time his hand landed on Aramis' shoulder. Like his touch was electrified, Aramis shuddered, blinking rapidly and focusing back on Porthos.
"I didn't do it," he breathed. "It wasn't me."
"Do what?" Athos asked before he could bite it back. He realized, then, that he had leaned forward.
Aramis' gaze shifted to his.
"Treat my wounds," he answered simply. He held Athos' gaze for a moment longer before shifting back to look at Porthos. "It was him."
Athos' frown matched Porthos'.
"It was Marsac." Aramis sounded absolutely certain.
"Aramis…" Porthos shook his head slowly, brow creasing doubtfully.
"I remember now, Porthos," Aramis stated firmly. "I woke up away from the battle ground, not in it. I was hidden deeply in the trees." He touched his head again. "My wounds were already tended."
Porthos just stared.
"It was Marsac," Aramis insisted. "It could only have been Marsac. He was the only one left, besides me. He saved me, Porthos."
Fury lit Porthos' expression.
"He abandoned you," the larger man countered. "No matter what he did before that, he still left you to die, Aramis."
"But he saved me first," Aramis argued, leaning forward and twisting a hand in Porthos' sleeve as if he could physically will him to understand. "Don't you see? He must have left the fight to get me to safety! Whatever happened after was because of that moment, that choice. He saved me and condemned himself."
"What are you talking about?" Porthos demanded, shaking his head.
Without realizing he'd moved across the small room, Athos now hovered only a few feet away.
"He didn't go back, Porthos," Aramis revealed quietly.
Porthos went a shade paler and Athos unconsciously drifted closer.
"I'm the reason he left the fight at all," Aramis explained. "And then, when he realized what he'd done, he couldn't bear the shame of it. I deserved to be left there. It was my fault."
All at once, all the pieces fit into place in Athos' mind.
He'd heard whispers and rumors in the taverns of a large number of Musketeers killed brutally and unexpectedly.
Savoy, the whispers had reported. It had happened in Savoy.
"You're not in Savoy," Porthos had assured Aramis only minutes ago.
The rumors had blamed it on the Spanish, a raiding party.
"That was the Spanish – a thing of chance." Aramis' own words.
Athos' gaze was transfixed on Aramis' pale face as he realized now the weight of every little truth he'd learned.
"Don't leave me here."
"Marsac left."
"I know he did…but I won't."
"How many days was I out there, Porthos?"
"He didn't go back."
"He abandoned you… He left you to die, Aramis."
"I'm not him."
"I deserved to be left there."
"It was my fault."
Then, without ever having met him, Athos found himself hating Marsac with a fierce, burning passion.
Porthos was reeling.
It was my fault.
He wanted to shake him. He wanted to hunt Marsac down and rip him apart. He wanted to yell and scream until Aramis took it back. He wanted to beat his hands against the wall till they bled because it was all so wrong.
In the end, he reached forward to grip the back of Aramis' neck.
"What Marsac did was his choice. You are not to blame for it."
"I should have stopped him."
"Aramis, you were wounded. You were half out of your head days later when we found you. I can only imagine how muddled you were then. What could you have done? In that state?"
"I could have tried. He saved me and I let him go."
Porthos closed his eyes and heard a fevered, whispered plea ghost across his memory.
Don't leave me here.
Those words suggested Aramis had tried, but had been ignored.
"I failed him, just like I failed the rest of them."
Porthos' eyes snapped open.
"You wha-"
But then Aramis stiffened, eyes sharpening and his hand cutting through the air to silence him. Then Porthos heard it too.
"Someone's coming," Athos announced quietly, rising and moving swiftly to collect the abandoned ropes. "Quickly," he tossed Porthos two of the long lines. "And hide the knife."
Porthos, remembering their plan, pressed the knife back into Aramis' hand and watched him spirit it away to hide in his breeches against his hip as Porthos had done before. Then he held out his hands to Porthos.
He tied the rope securely, but not tightly. Aramis would be able to get his hands free with only a little effort. Athos then did the same to him and he and Aramis worked together to bind Athos last.
They had only just finished when the lock turned in the door.
Athos spun immediately, standing like a sentry between them and Luc, who was leading several men into their cell. Porthos pushed up to a crouch and then hauled Aramis up with him. Immediately, the marksman wavered and Porthos tightened the hands he had on his arm.
He wished he knew if Aramis was already playing his part or if the weakness was real. The uncertainty of that had him swallowing thickly as he turned to face Luc and his men.
"Time to go," Luc announced, motioning his men forward.
Porthos watched Athos' shoulders tighten almost unnoticeably. He had told them it was to be two days before the exchange at an old church. That had been yesterday. It must be time to move them.
"Moving us in the middle of the night? A bit paranoid, don't you think?" Aramis commented as they were all prodded and pulled towards the door.
Porthos set his friend a sidelong look and then glanced up to meet Athos' gaze as he looked back.
It was starting.
"I suppose you wouldn't want your benefactor to be kept waiting," Aramis went on brazenly, fixing Luc with a mocking glare. "Best you do the waiting, hmm? At least you know your place."
As they'd expected, Luc's expression twitched in annoyance.
"So let me get this straight. He's got the money. He decides when he shows up. All you've got are three violent hostages who, if I'm guessing correctly, have already proven a bit more trouble than they're worth." Aramis shook his head in mock sympathy.
Porthos pulled at the hands leading him when Aramis purposefully – or perhaps it wasn't purposeful at all – tripped on the stairs. It was only Luc's quick grab at Aramis' right elbow that kept him from falling completely.
Aramis went white, jaw tightening and eyes narrowing as Luc hauled him up the last two stairs and shoved him forward. Aramis stumbled over his own feet and shouldered into Porthos' back.
Porthos yanked his arms free of the hands holding him and turned, using his elbow and shoulder to nudge Aramis up until he could see his face.
The marksman was still frighteningly pale, but when he met Porthos' gaze, his eyes were clear and focused. Before Porthos' relief could even settle, Aramis was giving him a wink and then lowering his head and moaning.
"What's wrong with you?" Luc demanded, then glared at Porthos. "What's wrong with him?"
"One of your men shot him," Athos reminded blandly. "Such a thing tends to take a toll."
"It does at that," Aramis agreed breathily as he straightened. "I don't recommend it," he offered conversationally to Porthos. But then he turned to Luc. "You on the other hand…"
"Enough of that mouth of yours. Shut it before I shut it for you." Luc solidly shoved Aramis, on his right shoulder. Aramis' jaw clenched, hissing out a breath, but he kept his feet.
Then they were moving again, down the short hallway and up the stairs to the anteroom outside the main room where their previous escape attempt had been thwarted. It wasn't until they were being led towards the door that Aramis spoke again.
"You could let us go, you know," he pointed out casualy, as if discussing the weather.
Luc answered by giving him another shove – again to his right shoulder.
Aramis, already too pale for Porthos' liking, looked positively ghostly for a moment. But then he seemed to breathe through it and continued with a thick swallow.
"A change of heart is not so unheard of," Aramis pressed, but then feigned sudden realization. "Ah wait, mercenaries like you lack a vital requirement for such a thing," he goaded.
Porthos saw something in Luc's face twitch, but he didn't otherwise react.
"I suppose the change of heart will be left to me, then," Aramis sighed airily. "You see, normally I'd kill all of you by the end of this without even a flutter of regret." He cast a glance around then, at the handful of men tasked with escorting them. The sheer confidence in his casual tone visibly put several of them on edge and had them exchanging wary glances.
Porthos eyed the door. Almost there.
"But perhaps I'll spare a few of you," Aramis allowed magnanimously. "But who?" he wondered idly as Luc shoved him roughly again. "Perhaps if one of you were to give me reason to spare you…" he trailed off meaningfully.
Luc had finally had enough. He wrapped a hand around Aramis' shoulder and pulled him around, driving him backwards until his back hit the wall next to the door.
"Hold your tongue, Musketeer," he hissed, spitting the title like it was a curse, "or I'll cut it out."
"A bit worried?" Aramis goaded breathlessly, ignoring the threat and whatever pain he was likely in. "Are you afraid some of your men might take me up on my offer?"
Porthos shifted his weight, spreading his feet a little wider, preparing himself. Ahead of him, Athos was subtly doing the same.
"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."
Luc's fisted hand slammed solidly into Aramis' right shoulder. Aramis faltered, sliding partway down the wall before catching himself.
"How is that for 'acting'," Luc hissed.
"Not bad," Aramis gasped through gritted teeth. "Still, if you only act because it's what I would do, I'm not sure it counts."
An open backhand put Aramis on the ground.
Porthos shifted slowly, working his hands free of his bonds as the men guarding them focused on the altercation near the door and drifted unconsciously towards it. Athos, he knew, would be doing the same.
Aramis laughed mockingly, pushing himself up to his knees as he braced himself on his bound hands.
"Better," he praised Luc. "I almost didn't see that one coming."
Luc growled and hauled Aramis up. His hand patted around Aramis' waist until he paused, slowly extracting the knife Aramis had hidden.
"Aren't you full of surprises," Luc growled.
Porthos eased behind the nearest guard.
"You were trying to distract me?" Luc accused. "So you could get to this?"
"I was trying to distract you," Aramis agreed as Luc held him against the wall. "But not for that."
And Porthos moved.
He wrapped his hands around the man before him – one on his chin, one on the crown of his head – and twisted. Hard. The man fell with a crunching of bone and Porthos snatched the dead man's sword from his belt as he dropped.
Next to him, Athos had stolen a dagger from a back sheath. He used it to kill the man and then stole his sword.
Their attack drew Luc's attention.
Then it was Aramis' turn.
His method was simple in the end, if brutal. Porthos couldn't help but grin in amusement when Aramis' knee caught Luc between the legs. The mercenary leader faltered and Aramis pressed his advantage, quickly ridding himself of his bonds and stripping his little knife from Luc's grip. Turning the man, he wrapped an arm around his chest to hold him captive and pressing the small, but deadly, blade to his throat.
"Shall we test the loyalty of your men, Luc?" Aramis taunted. "What do you think they will choose now?"
"Put down your weapons," Athos ordered as he and Porthos both moved towards the door. "And we will allow you to live."
"Maybe he will," Porthos growled with a feral grin. "I'm feelin' a bit vengeful at the moment."
The men all looked to Luc, hesitating.
"If they escape," Luc hissed, "none of you get paid."
A vicious hunger stole across the mercenaries' faces.
"Gentlemen," Aramis urged his companions as he shifted towards the door, dragging Luc with him.
"Time to go," Athos agreed as the men advanced.
Porthos kicked the door open and led the way out, blinking into the early light of dawn.
And came face to face with another group of mercenaries waiting by the horses.
"Uh…" he called over his shoulder as Athos filed out after him. Aramis was retreating backwards, keeping Luc between him and the men inside. "We've got a bit of a problem."
"The rest of the men," Athos stated blandly.
"Miscalculated a bit, did we?" Aramis realized as his back pressed into theirs.
"A bit," Porthos admitted.
"How many?" Aramis asked.
"Four," Athos answered. "As well as the three inside."
Porthos watched the group of men slowly approach, leaving the horses tethered behind them.
"We can't take all of them," Porthos pointed out lowly. "Not if we want to keep our friend Luc here for questioning."
Aramis hummed his agreement.
"We could just kill him," Aramis suggested with a feral grin. "Fight our way out."
"It would increase our chances," Athos agreed.
"Kill me and you'll never find out who hired me," Luc threatened, voice strained as Aramis had not loosened the cutting pressure with the knife.
"He's right, you know," Athos muttered. "We don't know where the exchange was to happen."
"An old church, you said," Porthos reminded.
"Dear Porthos, there are far more 'old churches' in France than you seem to think," Aramis interjected.
Before Porthos could reply, there was a grunt from Aramis and a hiss from Luc and then the two of them were suddenly locked in a struggle over the knife.
The men facing Porthos started to advance and he could only assume the men inside would be doing the same.
He longed to look over his shoulder to see how Aramis was faring, but couldn't risk taking his eyes off the encroaching enemy.
Aramis suddenly cursed loudly and the pressure of his back against theirs disappeared. A moment later there was a slamming door and a crash of old wooden crates that had been stacked outside.
"That should hold them for…not long," Aramis told them breathlessly as he reappeared behind them.
"Well then," Athos put in blandly before lunging forward.
Then it was nothing but steel and blood as they fought the four men facing them. Athos took two of them, Porthos one, and the fourth went for Aramis, who was armed with nothing but his little knife.
By the time Porthos had dispatched his enemy and was able to check on the marksman, Aramis was somehow lazily wiping the blood off his little knife on the breeches of the dead man at his feet.
Even now, Aramis still managed to surprise him.
"Let's go!" Athos called even as he felled his final opponent with a sharp, precise lunge. He led the way to a group of horses tethered to their left. Porthos followed, clambering up into the first saddle he came to. Athos appeared on a horse next to him, but Aramis did not.
Porthos wheeled his horse around, searching.
Aramis was cutting the reigns of the rest of the horses, shouting to startle them into fleeing. Porthos urged his horse closer, using its bulk to aid the process.
Soon all the horses but one were galloping away.
Aramis shot him a grateful grin and ran for the final horse.
He was halfway into the saddle when the door to the little house burst open and a shot rang out.
There was a shout and Porthos didn't know whether it came from him or Athos.
Then Aramis was falling.
It took several moments of shocked horror for Porthos to realize that Aramis' horse was falling, too. The animal was screeching pitifully in pain as it crumpled to the ground.
It wasn't Aramis who had been shot.
Porthos felt his heart start beating again and watched through wide eyes as Aramis pushed up from where he'd sprawled into the dirt, only narrowly avoiding being crushed by the horse's weight.
It was Athos who saw Luc.
"Aramis!" he shouted in warning, throwing his own stolen sword towards the marksman.
Aramis caught it deftly in his left hand and turned, bringing it up just in time to block Luc's descending blade.
The force of the blow sent Aramis down into the dirt, forcing him to either brace himself with his bad arm or sprawl out completely. Some distant part of his mind realized that the pain of that should have been distracting, perhaps even crippling. But instead, he felt nothing but the familiar surge of energy through his muscles, always brought on in the face of a fight. It drove away the lingering exhaustion, the pain, and the weakness from blood loss.
His father's voice echoed in his mind, ruthless and uncompromising even just in memory.
"Pain is merely weakness. It can and should be overcome."
"If an injury isn't killing you, it shouldn't slow you."
He kicked out at Luc's ankle, sending the man stumbling back a step with a curse. Aramis used the moment of reprieve to push himself up. He stepped forward to meet Luc's next attack, and as their blades met, the world shuddered around him.
Luc's visage flickered and melded into a large, imposing man in a mask.
Aramis' blood turned to ice in his veins.
This was the man he'd fought in Savoy – the leader. Of the few things he remembered from the battle, this was one of them. Anger swept through him. This man had ordered the death of twenty of his brothers.
He would pay for it with his life. Aramis would see it done.
He advanced with a cold, calculated fury, meeting the masked leader in a clashing of steel. Fighting with his left, though not quite as smooth as with his right, wasn't unfamiliar. It had been Thierry who, years ago now, had taught him to wield a sword in both hands. Thierry had been a master swordsman, the best Aramis had ever known.
"This," Thierry rapped his blade against Aramis' pauldron, "will only do so much to protect you. A stray shot from a musket, a lucky angle with a blade, and your right arm is useless. What do you do?"
"Shoot them with my pistol," Aramis replied cheekily.
"Fine, you kill one of them that way, two more are advancing. Even you can't reload fast enough with only one good arm. What do you do?"
Aramis shifted his sword to his left hand, grimacing at the awkward feel of it.
"I try this and they'll cut me down."
Thierry huffed.
"You fire that pistol of yours just as well with your left as your right, don't you?"
"I suppose," Aramis admitted. "But I've practiced that since I was ten years old."
"And you'll practice this," Thierry retorted. "You're eighteen, not eighty. You've still got it in you to learn some new tricks. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be able to wield two swords at once. Now, focus, Aramis. This may save your life one day."
Aramis blinked away the memory as he knocked away his enemy's blade and stepped forward, slamming his closed right fist into the masked man's nose.
This was a lesson from his father. In a fight where losing means dying, do whatever it takes to win.
He advanced as his opponent stumbled back, shaking his head to clear it. A blow like that had likely left his eyes watering. Aramis knew that from experience.
"Aramis!"
He faltered. He knew that voice – the voice that had guided him back from the abyss. His only constant in the cold and darkness.
"He can't hear you!" Another voice, less familiar. "Look at him, he doesn't know where he is!"
"Aramis!"
Porthos.
Aramis sucked in a breath as the world twisted, shifting out of focus. Snow and trees gave way to an old, ramshackle house and rolling hills. The mask flickered out of existence and he saw Luc, eyes streaming, lunging towards him.
A second blade sliced down in front of him, putting Luc's blade into the dirt. Then a mighty shove sent the man sprawling backwards. Aramis blinked, dumbfounded, even as two strong arms wrapped around him, dragging him back.
"Aramis! Snap out of it, now!"
Aramis tried to speak, but his words caught in his dry throat.
It had happened again. He had lost himself.
"Get him up here!" Athos snapped urgently.
He felt the arms around him loosening and panic sliced through him. Porthos couldn't leave him. He'd promised.
Aramis forced his voice past his lips.
"P-Porthos?"
"I'm here," came the low, steady whisper in his ear. "You're gonna ride with Athos. The two of you are lighter together than you'd be with me and we have to move quickly."
Then Aramis was being all but tossed up behind Athos. He barely managed to get an arm around Athos' waist before he could go sliding off the other side.
"I'm right behind you!" Porthos assured as he vaulted back into his own saddle.
Athos wrapped a steadying arm backward around Aramis.
"Hold on," the older man ordered.
Then he put heel to horse and they rocketed away from the house and the men raising pistols after them.
End of Chapter Fourteen
Freedom! Quite the team, these three, eh? :D Imagine how awesome they'll be when Aramis' PTSD calms down a little bit!
Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn
"No!" Aramis snapped. "Don't. Don't tell me it isn't real. It is! It WAS! I was there, Porthos! In a forest painted red with the bodies of my brothers around me! I don't care if it's not real to you – it's real to me! I was alone! As my brothers died around me, as I watched Marsac walk away, as Michel and Remy died in my arms because I did not know how to save them! I WAS ALONE."