Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Fourteen: Deana, pallysd'Artagnan, twaxer, Rosey Malone, ImaginaryArtist17, Arlothia, enjoyedit, Julie Pettitt, UKGuest, SnidgetHex, Aednat the Fourteenth, Grantaire32, and DalamarF16
Chapter Fifteen: When the Night Winds Are Driving On
You cannot see brotherhood; neither can you hear it nor taste it. But you can feel it a hundred times a day. It is the pat on the back when things look gloomy. It is the smile of encouragement when the way seems hard. It is the helping hand when the burden becomes unbearable.
Peter E. Terzick
May 7, 1625
Road to Paris
"Just up here," Athos announced.
He had turned Belle loose when he made his play to sneak into the old house. He hadn't wanted to risk her being tied and trapped if the worst happened and he hadn't had the horse for long anyway. But before they'd parted ways, he'd freed her of her saddle and the burden of his belongings.
He heard Porthos offer an acknowledging grunt and the larger man urged his horse to follow after Athos and Aramis. He hoped everything was still there and hadn't been absconded with by a passerby. It hadn't been only his things, after all, but those that he'd recovered from Aramis' and Porthos' campsite as well.
That thought brought his focus to the man behind him, who hadn't said a word since they'd fled the house. His right arm, wrapped tightly around Athos' waist, seemed steady and strong. His left hung limply down his side, the sword still clutched tightly in his hand. But Athos could feel the sticky, tackiness of blood seeping into the back of his shirt where Aramis' chest was pressed to his back.
He saw the thicket where he'd hidden everything and pulled the horse to a stop. Aramis shifted behind him immediately, sliding off the horse before Athos could offer to help him. He landed steadily enough, but his weight remained settled against the horse's flank. In order to dismount without risking kicking the other man in the head, Athos had to swing his leg up over the horse's head and slide off.
By then, Porthos was joining them.
Athos opened his mouth, prepared to enlist the larger Musketeer to aid him in retrieving everything from the thicket, but when Aramis' sudden and unreasonably intense gaze focused on him, his jaw snapped closed again.
He narrowed his eyes, wondering what he'd done to merit such scrutiny. But before he could ponder it for very long, Aramis was turning his glare onto Porthos.
"What?" the big man demanded, looking startled.
"You're bleeding," Aramis accused. His gaze flashed back to Athos. "Both of you."
"That's funny," Porthos huffed, "comin' from you."
But Aramis was moving now, striding towards the thicket.
"You collected our things, yes?" he called over his shoulder.
Athos could only assume the younger man was talking to him.
"Yes," he replied warily.
He glanced at Porthos in confusion, hoping for insight. But Porthos just shrugged in helpless bewilderment.
Aramis reappeared, digging into his own saddle bags as he started back in their direction.
"Let me see that wound on your side, Athos. And you, Porthos, that bloody mess you've made of your arm."
They both just stared at him.
Aramis looked up from where he'd produced a small flask, a bundle of bandages, and a roll of leather.
"Well?" he prodded. "Which of you will be first?"
"Uh…I think you should be first," Porthos suggested as he warily looked Aramis over.
The other Musketeer stared blankly.
"I'm fine."
Athos managed a stunned blink. Aramis actually sounded as if he completely believed the ridiculous claim.
"You can't be serious," he challenged as he shared a doubtful glance with Porthos.
"Quite serious," Aramis countered. "I need to clean and close your wounds before infection can take hold."
"You've gone much longer without treatment," Porthos pointed out.
"I'm not worried about me!" Aramis snapped sharply, dark eyes flashing. "What I'm worried about is the two of you. You've got wounds. I've the means to treat them. Now which of you is first?" he demanded, tone hard and unyielding.
Athos felt the corner of his mouth twitch down in a slight frown. Something was not quite right here. Now that he was looking more closely, he could see a fresh tension in Aramis' shoulders. The look in his eye was a strange mixture of irrational wildness and absolute focus. He looked…primed. As if the slightest misstep would set him off.
"Me," Athos volunteered quietly, earning a look from Porthos that was equal parts shocked and dumbfounded.
But as soon as the word left his mouth, Athos saw something in Aramis' posture ease.
Soon, Athos found himself reclining against a tree while Aramis cleaned the blood off his side with steady, gentle hands. Athos watched him work with a strange sort of dispassion.
"Hmmm," Aramis hummed as he leaned in to inspect the wound.
It was a slash to his ribs, quite painful in all honesty. Athos was already clenching his jaw against the added agony of Aramis' prodding fingers.
"Needs stitching," the young Musketeer announced as he sat back. He reached for the rolled piece of leather and untied it, flattening it out on the ground.
Athos found his eyebrow arching in surprise when he saw a basic surgeon's kit stored carefully inside.
"The physician at the Garrison has been tutoring me," Aramis explained without prompting. "Luckily for you, I've been told I've quite the talent for needlework."
"How long have you been studying with him?" Athos asked warily as Aramis deftly threaded a needle and laid it across the other tools.
"Oh, perhaps two weeks now," he answered with a wide grin as he brought the flask towards Athos' side. "This will sting a bit," he warned before upending the flask onto the wound.
Athos' vision went briefly white and he thought he might have made some hideous sound. But then the pain faded and he was able to properly glare at Aramis in surprised betrayal.
"Sting?" he nearly growled.
Aramis grimaced.
"Henri says anticipation can be a terrible thing."
Athos muttered something less than gentlemanly under his breath and glanced to where Porthos was loading the retrieved things onto the horses. His attention slid back to Aramis when the Musketeer reached for the needle.
Realizing suddenly that a distraction might be quite desirable for the next several minutes, Athos cast about for something to occupy his mind.
Two weeks, Aramis had said. Two weeks that he had been under the tutelage of a physician. This seemed a rather short amount of time to be trusted with something as delicate as a person's health.
Although, Athos ruefully admitted, his own wellbeing was not currently one of his uppermost priorities. So really, Aramis could do as he wished.
That thought had him focusing on the man before him. He watched silently as Aramis skillfully and steadily started closing the wound on his side. He worked as if he'd been doing this for years. Watching him now, Athos never would have guessed he'd only been at it for two weeks.
That had Athos idly wondering what had prompted Aramis to learn the new skill. It was a vast undertaking, really, to teach your hands to heal while continuing to train them to do harm as well.
But even as he considered what catalyst would have spurred such a thing, the answer whispered through his mind.
Savoy.
He had only known Aramis for a day but already Athos had seen that so much about the young Musketeer came back to that. Part of him wished for the whole story, to know the entire truth of what Aramis had suffered if only so that he could better understand those moments of darkness that he lost himself in. However, another part of him wasn't sure he could bear the weight of anyone else's suffering when he could hardly bear the weight of his own.
But, there was one thing he couldn't help but address.
"You go there, don't you?" he asked quietly. "When you've a sword in your hand and a battle before you, you're back there."
He watched Aramis go rigid, hands stilling mid stitch. That alone told Athos the truth of it.
But then, the Musketeer drew in a breath and seemed to dissipate the tension in his shoulders by pure force of will. When he looked up, he was smiling.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Aramis replied brightly before returning to his work.
Athos quirked a brow.
He, better than most, understood the need to conceal pain. He had hidden his own in brooding silence and wine for months now. He'd traveled from city to city, tavern to tavern, trying to outrun his ghosts.
Aramis, it seemed, went to the opposite extreme.
He was hiding behind that false smile that was betrayed by the trauma reflected in his dark eyes. He hid behind cheerful words and blatant lies. Athos was sure the only reason he wasn't fooled by it was simply because he had seen Aramis' true self already.
He had seen the broken soul, the haunted mind who screamed himself awake. He'd watched him struggle with trusting a man who practically bled devotion. Athos had seen behind the mask Aramis was now donning. Having that insight, it only made the mask seem all the more forced.
"You turned your blade on me," Athos pointed out carefully, "your ally."
Aramis shifted where he was kneeling and fleetingly met his gaze.
"Battles are confusing, tracking friend from foe is-"
"You're a Musketeer, a group lauded for their experience," Athos interrupted. "I hardly think a skirmish as small as that would 'confuse' you."
He watched Aramis steadfastly ignore him and tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the perceived challenge.
"I saw the look in your eyes," he revealed quietly, "when you realized what you'd done. You weren't here. You were somewhere else, fighting someone else."
Aramis stubbornly clenched his jaw closed and continued working. Athos barely resisted the urge to throw up his arms in frustration. Instead, he tightened his own jaw and tried a different tactic.
"What if the next time it happens, the ally you turn on isn't as capable of defending themselves as I was?" Athos pressed.
Aramis' gaze snapped up to his, dark eyes flirting with alarm.
"You're skilled," Athos pointed out, "and impressively trained. Even using your left hand you were formidable. What will you do if it happens again? If you hurt someone who doesn't deserve it?"
Aramis tied off the stitches and sat back, wiping his hands on a cloth. He glanced over his shoulder to where Porthos was finishing up with the horses and then turned back to meet Athos' gaze. Gone were the fake attempts at smiles and good humor. Instead, he looked serious and strained.
"I've avoided swordplay for weeks," he admitted.
"You can't go on like that forever," Athos pointed out with an arched brow.
Aramis sighed and looked away.
"What good is a Musketeer who can't draw his sword, you mean," he replied darkly.
Athos winced. That hadn't, in fact, been what he meant. But it was obviously a thought tumbling around in Aramis' mind. Once again, Athos was struck with some unfounded urge to do something about it.
He didn't know where that desire came from or what, exactly, to do with it now that it was here. It had always been easy with Thomas. Athos had been supporting, aiding, and comforting his little brother since the day he had been born. It had been natural and instinctive.
But with Aramis…
He didn't know what to do, or even if his help would be welcome. He had seen firsthand Porthos' frustration. He watched the culmination of whatever struggle the two had been locked in. If Aramis had been so resistant to Porthos, a comrade and friend, why would he ever welcome interference from a stranger?
"That should do it," Aramis stated suddenly, drawing Athos out of his thoughts.
Athos blinked down at his torso in surprise, wondering how he had missed Aramis wrapping a bandage around his ribs to cover and protect the fresh stitches. He realized then that he had not responded to Aramis' self-deprecating statement.
"Aramis," he started, only to fall silent.
Had it really been so long since he'd offered comfort to someone that the words failed him now? Even in more recent years, Thomas hadn't really come to him for such things. Athos had been too wrapped up in her to be much use to anyone anyway.
Aramis gave him a look then, this small sad, unsurprised smile, as if Athos had just lived up to some exceedingly low expectation.
"I'll go see to Porthos now," Aramis decided, collecting his things and rising fluidly. He walked away without giving Athos a chance to respond.
Athos was left sitting against the tree, still holding his shirt up by the hem, watching him go.
Porthos settled on a fallen log and let Aramis help him slide his arm free of the bloody, sticky sleeve of his shirt.
"How was Athos?" he asked as Aramis used a damp cloth to clean away the blood on his arm.
"Cleaned and stitched," Aramis replied. He leaned closer then, narrowing his gaze at the slash Porthos had taken to his bicep. "As you will soon be."
Porthos chewed the inside of his lip, eyes drifting to the bloody mess of a scarf tied around Aramis' shoulder.
"And then you," he decided firmly.
Aramis lifted his gaze to meet Porthos' and gave him a weary grin.
"The bleeding, I believe, has stopped for now," Aramis reached for a small flask but didn't do anything with it yet, "I'm in no immediate danger."
Porthos sighed.
"What good is tutorin' under Henri if you're still a fool about your own health?"
"Ah, fool or not, I'm still quite capable of tending to you, my friend."
With that, he upended the flask over Porthos' arm without so much as an 'on the count of three.' Porthos rose half off the log and cursed through gritted teeth.
Aramis pulled him back down with a sympathetic grimace.
"Bit of warning, in the future, if you don't mind," Porthos ground out.
"Tell me, Porthos, would a warning really have helped?" Aramis asked as he set aside the flask and reached for the needle.
"It might have," Porthos replied in a grumble, watching Aramis thread the needle in one, practiced move.
"The pain, then, would have been less you think?" Aramis wondered as he leaned closer and started in on the wound.
"It might have," Porthos repeated through clenched teeth. He rolled his eyes when Aramis looked up at him through his lashes with a teasing smirk on his lips.
That was when it hit him.
Aramis was different.
He was teasing him and grinning, but it wasn't forced. The tension that had seemed ever-present in his shoulders, even when he'd been tending to Athos, was somewhat eased.
He seemed more…himself than he had in weeks. There was still a weariness there and a lingering weight – sadness perhaps, or something more – but that spark that was undeniably Aramis was back. It was small, like a fledgling flame, but compared to its glaring absence ever since Savoy, it may as well have been a forest fire.
Porthos knew, though, that everything wasn't miraculously fixed. Aramis wasn't magically healed in mind and soul. There were still things that had worry tightening in Porthos' gut.
The dreams, for one, were unrelenting and heartbreaking to witness.
Porthos was under no illusions. He knew that even if their brotherhood was finally, finally on the mend, Aramis was still haunted by Savoy.
But more than those were the claims of penance.
Aramis had taken a giant leap. He had made the choice to trust Porthos again, to trust the brotherhood they had shared before Savoy. But that wasn't the same as realizing Savoy was not a burden he had to bear alone.
It was a start, though.
And Porthos would take it.
Aramis only offered token protest when Porthos all but shoved him down onto the log moments after he'd tied off the last stitch on the big man's arm.
"We need to keep moving," he reminded.
"We will," Porthos agreed, "after we look at your shoulder."
Aramis didn't bother fighting when the larger man carefully started unwinding Athos' scarf from its dutiful place as a bandage. He didn't even argue when Athos appeared out of nowhere and pressed a water skin into his hand.
"Drink," he ordered in a tone that warned against disobedience.
So Aramis drank.
When Porthos hissed, Aramis arched a brow and glanced down at his shoulder.
"Hmmm," he hummed dispassionately as he took in the crusted, bloody mess. "Told you the bleeding had stopped."
He looked up to find Porthos and Athos wearing twin looks of horrified disbelief – or at least he thought that might be the look on Athos' face. It was impossible to be certain, really, as the man's expression didn't change. His eyes, though, suggested he was as startled as Porthos.
What had set them both off, however, remained a mystery.
"What?" he asked with a frown.
"After the fuss you made over the pair of us," Porthos accused with a huff, "that mess," he pointed at Aramis' shoulder, "barely merits your concern?"
"Well…" Aramis started, ready to explain that it actually looked better than he'd expected.
"Tell us what to do," Athos ordered, sounding far too authoritative for a man who had only known him for the span of a day.
"Well…" Aramis tried again, only to roll his eyes and toss up a hand when Porthos cut him off this time.
"We should clean it, like he did ours."
Athos nodded his agreement.
"Should we stitch it?" Porthos wondered.
Aramis opened his mouth to tell them 'no' because they had absolutely no training that he knew of and he would not be letting them near him with a sharp needle, but Athos arched an eyebrow and spoke before he could.
"Do you know how to wield that?" he asked, nodding at the needle abandoned on Aramis' surgeon's kit.
Porthos hesitated and Aramis jumped in before the opportunity was lost.
"No!" he objected, a bit too loudly. "Neither of you are coming anywhere near me with a needle."
His outburst earned both of their attention and Aramis took a breath.
"It just needs to be cleaned and rebound," he instructed, reaching for the scarf and finding a clean-ish edge that he then doused with water from the skin Athos had given him. He then started carefully cleaning the dried blood away from the wound.
The others had fallen silent, so Aramis was surprised when a dark hand settled over his and gently pulled the scarf from his fingers. He glanced at Porthos with a raised brow.
"You don't have to do everything alone," the other Musketeer reminded quietly. "Let me help you."
Aramis grudgingly allowed Porthos to take over, turning his focus instead to the water skin he'd set on the ground. He took another long drink, relishing the tepid liquid on his parched throat.
"It's bleeding again," Athos observed mildly as he stood over Porthos' shoulder.
That had Aramis returning his attention to Porthos' ministrations. The wound was indeed bleeding anew.
"It's fine," he assured, even as his mind whispered a ruthless reminder that it probably wasn't.
"This next?" Porthos asked, holding up the flask.
Aramis nodded. When Porthos hesitated, he snatched the flask from him and upended it over his wounded shoulder himself.
He gritted his teeth and released a slow breath through his nose. Pain, like many things in life, could be controlled – one only needed to know how. Of all his father's lessons that he had rejected, that had been one he embraced. Such a skill had served him well over the years when being crippled by pain would have likely gotten him killed. He had his limits, as all men did, but his remarkably high capacity for tolerating pain had always been somewhat of a marvel amongst those closest to him.
Save Treville - the captain had only ever looked saddened by it.
Unwilling to focus on the hollow feeling of loss that thought brought, Aramis raised his gaze back to the two men watching him.
Athos' expression was unchanged – as Aramis was coming to expect – but his eyes were narrowed in something that vaguely resembled concerned fascination.
Porthos' face, on the other hand, read like an open book. There was worry there, and concern, but what Aramis saw most clearly was that same horrified sadness that he had always seen in Treville.
Before either of them could say anything, Aramis cleared his throat and reached for the roll of bandages.
"We should get moving," he reminded. "If they had any horses other than the ones we freed they won't be far behind."
Porthos reached forward again and batted his hands away.
Aramis rolled his eyes but allowed the other man to bind the wound. Then Porthos was pulling him up and Athos was leading the horses over to them.
"From what I saw of your skill with a pistol back there," Athos started as he reached into a saddlebag Aramis didn't recognize, "these must belong to you."
Aramis felt his eyes go wide when Athos produced his twin pistols and held them out. He'd thought they were lost for good, or worse – that Luc or one of his minions had stolen them.
"I'd hand them over," Porthos whispered loudly to Athos. "He's liable to take your hand off," he finished with a chuckle.
Aramis didn't even bother to glare, instead he just stepped forward and accepted the weapons – he most certainly did not snatch them – from Athos. The familiar weight of them in his hands eased a bit of the tension that had been tight in his shoulders since…well since they'd first been attacked and he'd lost them both.
Already, he felt the itch in his fingers to carefully clean and ready them for combat.
"I know that look," Porthos teased. "Knowing you, you can do that while riding. Come on," Porthos urged him towards a horse, "ride with me and give that other horse a break."
The next thing Aramis knew he was balanced behind Porthos on the horse, one pistol cradled in his hands as he wiped it down with an oiled cloth retrieved from his own saddlebags.
"You've cleaned those three times," Porthos pointed out quietly as he watched Aramis labor over his pistols where he leaned against a tree.
"Respect your weapon and it will respect you," Aramis replied wearily. But he put the pistols aside anyway, near the sword and dagger Athos had also returned to him. He crossed his arms over his chest, choosing, now, to scan the area around them in the same hyper-aware paranoid fashion he'd been using since they'd finally decided to stop and rest for the night.
As Porthos watched, a shiver shook the marksman's body and he hunkered down more compactly against the tree.
"Do you think they're following?" Athos asked from the next tree over.
"We've not seen or heard any sign of them," Porthos answered. "If they're following, they're either really good at it or really bad."
"We didn't know they were there the first time," Aramis reminded darkly, one hand drifting to rest atop his pistols.
Porthos watched him shiver again.
They hadn't risked building a fire. If Luc and his men were out there, a fire was as good as an invitation to take them captive again.
"They won't take you by surprise again," Athos assured, settling more comfortably against his tree, one hand near, but not on, his stolen sword. "And there are three of us this time."
Aramis didn't argue, but he didn't relax his vigil on the surrounding area either.
All of a sudden he sat up straighter, looking at Athos.
"Our horses? Did Luc take them?"
Porthos looked at Athos too, listening for the answer.
"One of them broke its reins and fled. The other did the same as soon as I cut him free – a large black one."
"Fort," Porthos nodded, recognizing the description.
"Esmé would go home to Paris, back to the Garrison if she could. Fort would likely follow," Aramis turned and met Porthos' gaze.
"So if no one stopped them, Treville might be setting out to meet us," Porthos realized with relief.
"Good luck to anyone trying to stop Esmé when she's set her mind to something," Aramis replied, grinning even as he shivered again.
"Yeah, stubborn, that one," Porthos grinned back, remembering teasing Aramis about just that weeks ago, back before Savoy had changed everything.
The way Aramis' grin softened suggested he remembered too.
"Get some sleep," Porthos suggested quietly.
Aramis looked reluctant, shivering again. Porthos sighed when this time it didn't taper off and instead just seem to settle, leaving Aramis shaking like a leaf in the wind. The air was already a bit chilled and without a fire, it would only grow colder.
Without a word, Porthos rose from his own tree and walked to Aramis. He wrapped his hand around the marksman's bare ankle and pulled him down so he was laying in front of the tree instead of leaning against it.
He ignored Aramis' squawk of protest and Athos' wry chuckle and instead stretched out on the ground next to Aramis. He shoved Aramis over to his side and then shifted, pressing his back to the marksman's – hip to shoulder.
"Porthos! What are yo-"
"Save it," Porthos grumbled, hooking an arm under his head and closing his eyes. "We've been in more compromising positions than this, you and I. Take the warmth for what it is and sleep."
"But I-"
"I'll keep first watch," Athos promised from his tree.
"Wake me for the second," Porthos said, peeking one eye open. "And perhaps if I'm feeling generous, I'll wake you for the third. But only if you sleep," he directed at the man at his back.
"Fine," Aramis sighed. "But I'm not a child you know."
"Of course you aren't," Porthos agreed lazily as he settled more comfortably on the forest floor. He felt Aramis shift next to him, wriggling to get more comfortable.
"I don't need to be coddled," Aramis insisted further.
"Obviously not," Athos assured.
Porthos smirked and opened his mouth to tell Aramis to just 'find a comfortable position already' when he felt Aramis go rigid behind him.
"Aramis?" Porthos called gently, concern tightening in his gut.
They'd taken shelter in the trees. It had been a necessity; Aramis had even insisted. They needed to be under complete cover in case Luc and his men were looking for them. Aramis hadn't said a word, not with Athos there, but Porthos had seen the tension mount in his brother's shoulders as time wore on.
When Aramis didn't answer him, Porthos shifted, pressing his back more solidly against Aramis'.
"This is not Savoy," he whispered over his shoulder. "I wasn't with you there, remember?"
Aramis still didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe.
"I'm here," Porthos assured quietly.
Still noticeably shivering, Aramis finally relaxed, his back settling solidly against Porthos'. It took a while, but eventually Aramis' breathing deepened and evened out. When Porthos was sure he was finally asleep, he opened his eyes and looked up towards Athos.
Somehow he wasn't surprised to find the man looking back at him.
Athos gave him a solemn, serious nod and Porthos returned it.
Assured then that Athos would watch over them, Porthos let himself sleep, too.
Aramis woke to a solid warmth against his back and something soft pressing against his forehead.
He blinked, staring bemusedly at the dark fabric in front of his face.
"You awake?" Porthos' deep, rumbling voice reached him from somewhere above and Aramis shifted, pulling away from whatever he'd been nuzzling into.
He arched a brow and flushed scarlet when he realized it was Porthos' leg. The other Musketeer was sitting next to him, wide awake, looking down at him in concern. That must mean that Athos… Yes. A glance confirmed it: the older man was at his back, still asleep.
"Was it a dream?" Porthos asked worriedly when Aramis took too long to answer.
A dream? Aramis frowned in confusion when he realized that no, it hadn't been a dream that had awakened him. In fact, now that he really thought about it, he couldn't remember dreaming at all. Considering he hadn't been able to sleep without such a thing since that cursed night in Savoy, the realization left him stunned.
"Aramis?" Porthos sat forward now, hand settling on Aramis' shoulder.
"I'm fine," he finally answered, slowly shifting up to sitting. Athos stirred behind him but didn't wake. "How long was I asleep?"
"Not sure exactly, but it's nearly dawn," Porthos answered softly.
"Dawn?" Aramis repeated in surprise. That meant he'd been asleep for hours. He hadn't managed even one or two uninterrupted hours since Savoy.
"Was it a dream?" Porthos asked again.
"No," Aramis assured, feeling a pressure in his bladder that reminded him why he had woken, "not a dream."
And he still couldn't quite believe it.
He stood, carefully moving away from Athos so as not to wake the sleeping man.
"Where are you going?" Porthos asked.
"All of that water you two made me drink is demanding my attention," Aramis replied in a whisper, sliding a wary look at Athos.
"Don't go far," Porthos instructed, "and take this." He held out one of Aramis' pistols.
Aramis reached back for it, smiling his thanks before he remembered Porthos likely couldn't see him very well.
"Thank you," he offered instead. "I'll be right back," he promised.
Then he carefully picked his way across the forest floor, wary of stepping on anything unpleasant with his bare feet.
Luc taking their boots, while brilliant on his part, was proving rather inconvenient.
Aramis was no stranger to wandering without boots. He'd spent most of his childhood running wild through coastal southern France without the hassle of shoes. His father had been the one to instill in him that boots were "required for civilized living." It had been a very long time since he'd wandered through a forest without anything to protect his feet.
He shivered, feeling the bite of the cold seeping in and replacing the warmth that had been lingering since he woke. He quickly found a suitable tree and relieved himself, pistol tucked securely under his arm.
After finishing, he turned, intent on getting back to the others and letting Porthos get back to sleep.
He had only taken a few steps when it happened. Later he would blame the trees and the cold, because hindsight always tended to be so much clearer.
A rustling nearby in a bush drew his attention and, without warning, the world shifted around him.
With his next step, snow crunched under his feet. A shadowed figure took form behind the bush, charging towards him. Aramis took one look at the mask and raised his pistol, firing without hesitation. He retreated a step, keenly aware that he didn't have his sword. His heel caught on something soft and solid, nearly tripping him. A glance down revealed a bloody frozen corpse. Beyond it was another, and another, and another.
He was there. He was in Savoy.
A crashing in the trees alerted him to more enemies on the way. He reached for his belt and the ball pouch he kept secured there, but both were missing. He couldn't reload his gun, but that didn't make it useless. He spun it in his hand, gripping the still warm barrel tightly, ready to wield it like a club.
When the enemy finally appeared through the darkness, he was wielding a sword. And he wasn't alone.
He would have to disarm one of them. It was the only way he would have a chance. Aramis struck hard and fast, drawing upon every dirty trick he knew, and a few moments later he had a sword in his hand and an enemy at his feet.
"Aramis!" the defeated man called out sharply, something in his voice resonating so clearly in Aramis' memory that he froze in place, sword still raised to strike.
It was then that he noticed the second man hadn't engaged, watching warily instead.
"This is not Savoy," the man on the ground insisted firmly, a hand raised towards Aramis in…surrender? Entreaty? Aramis frowned, confusion filtering in. "It's me, Aramis. I'm here."
I'm here.
Those words… That voice…
Porthos.
And the world shifted back.
Aramis backpedaled, nearly tripping over his own feet in an effort to gain distance between himself and Porthos, who was still on the ground, watching him in unveiled concern.
Porthos was bleeding from a cut above his brow and another on his cheek. Aramis had done that.
"You can put down the sword, Aramis," Athos suggested quietly.
Aramis tensed, hand going white around the hilt of the sword he'd apparently taken from Porthos. He realized, then, that he still had it raised defensively. With effort, he lowered the point to the ground.
"Aramis?" Porthos called as he pushed to his feet, but didn't yet try to approach.
"I'm fine," Aramis assured breathlessly. "I'm fine," he said again, even less convincingly.
"You're not." It was Athos who called him a liar.
Both Aramis and Porthos looked sharply at him, surprised.
"You are not 'fine', Aramis," Athos insisted. "You turned your blade on me yesterday and now you've attacked Porthos." Then he added more gently, "You are not 'fine.'"
"I have it in hand," Aramis argued, his voice gaining strength. "A momentary lapse. I can handle it."
He had to. He had to carry this burden, pay his penance. He had to.
"Stop," Porthos cut in sharply. "Stop with this belief that you have to carry this alone. You're not alone, Aramis."
"I know," Aramis assured, meeting Porthos' gaze sincerely. "I know you're here, Porthos."
And he did. He knew now, with absolute certainty, that Porthos would not abandon him. He knew Porthos could be trusted. He knew the brotherhood Porthos offered would not be withdrawn, not like Marsac's had been.
"But it doesn't change this," he went on.
"Why?" Porthos asked simply. "Why shouldn't it change everything?"
Aramis shook his head, grasping at his conviction.
This was his penance – this is what he had to do. He had failed his men in Savoy and he could never forgive himself until he paid the price for it. He had to.
"Isn't that what brotherhood is, Aramis?" Porthos pressed. "Isn't it being there, together, through everything? Even when things are at their worst?"
Aramis let his spent pistol fall from his fingers, choosing instead to dig his hand up into his hair. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to stay strong. He tried to hold on to the vow he'd made two weeks ago. He had demanded this of himself. To achieve absolution in his own eyes he must bear this burden alone.
He tried.
But he was tired.
And Porthos was here. He was always here.
He felt something shatter within him, some invisible dam gave way, letting loose everything he'd been holding so closely guarded.
"You aren't there, Porthos," he started quietly. "Even when you're here, you aren't there."
It escaped no one's attention that he spoke of it not as a thing of the past, but as if it were happening right at this moment.
"Neither are you," Porthos reminded, his voice shaking. "You're not in Savoy, Aramis."
Aramis didn't know whether he should laugh or cry or some devastating combination of both.
"But I am," he revealed, voice breaking under the weight of the confession. "Don't you see, Porthos? I'm always there." He raised the sword he'd taken from Porthos and shook it a bit in demonstration, letting out a bark of laughter bordering on hysteria.
"Aramis…" Porthos tried, tone low and soothing.
He was going to tell Aramis it wasn't real, that it was a figment and nothing more.
But it wasn't.
Not to him.
And just like that, something hot and angry sprang to life inside him.
"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."
His hand hurt where he had it wrapped so tightly around the sword hilt. He thrust the fingers of his other hand up into his hair again, curling them to dig into his scalp as he squeezed his eyes closed.
He was going mad. Or perhaps he was already there.
What other reason was there for the way his mind could not decide which reality he belonged in.
"Aramis," Porthos' voice sounded from just ahead of him, too close.
Aramis' eyes snapped open and he stumbled back, away from Porthos. Athos, who was a step behind the other Musketeer put a hand on the big man's shoulder to keep him from pursuing.
"I was alone," Aramis repeated desperately, letting the sword fall forgotten to the ground so he could press the hand against his chest. It felt as if a band was tightening around his lungs, preventing them from working as they should.
"You're not alone anymore," Athos assured when Porthos appeared too stricken to respond.
"But I am!" Aramis insisted. "Don't you see? You may be here, but you aren't here," he stabbed a finger against his own temple. "And here, Savoy will never rest," his voice broke again as he tried to make them understand. "I close my eyes, and I'm there. I pick up my sword and I'm there. In every moment of silence, in every dream, with every breath, I'm there."
It felt sometimes, in the darkest moments, as if he'd never left, as if they'd never found him.
Perhaps they hadn't. Perhaps he had died there, too, and this was his own personal hell.
A strong, warm hand suddenly slid across his hair and down his head to squeeze the back of his neck.
"And I'm here," Porthos assured him firmly. "You are not there anymore. I pulled you from the snow myself. I carried you in my arms away from that place."
Aramis opened his mouth to object, to argue that he wasn't listening, but Porthos went on before he could interrupt.
"I know how real it is to you," Porthos insisted. "Where have I been, but by your side? How could I not know? How could I not see? But am I not just as real?" he challenged.
Aramis stared at him, memory suddenly echoing with a familiar voice – Porthos' voice. He had heard him so many times as he clawed his way back after Savoy. Porthos had been his only constant. And even now, Porthos was sometimes the only voice he heard – the only thing that could draw him back.
"I think maybe I should have died there," he confessed. "Perhaps my soul is only trying to fix the mistake of my survival." Then, at least, he would have suffered the fate his failure deserved.
Hands were suddenly tight around his arms, shaking him once, firmly.
"Don't say that!" Porthos growled. "Don't you ever say that!"
"I would have died with them," he insisted quietly. "I would have died for them."
"You weren't meant to," Porthos replied fiercely. "You were meant to live."
"I know," Aramis answered softly, meeting Porthos' desperate gaze with his own. "So that I can bear the weight of my failure."
Porthos' eyes widened.
"What?!" he breathed frantically. "No."
"I failed them, Porthos," Aramis confessed. He backed away, withdrawing himself from Porthos' grip, gone lax now with the same shock Aramis could see on his face. "It was my mission. I chose the location. I chose to post a light watch. I led them all into death."
He had failed all of them, even Marsac – perhaps Marsac worst of all.
Porthos looked broken, as if the only thing keeping him on his feet was pure force of will. But it was Athos, lingering still some ways from them both, who spoke.
"You didn't fail them," he disagreed simply, firmly. "You would have died for them. You confessed this yourself. You didn't know what would happen. You didn't lead the enemy to them. What fault in this lies with you?"
Aramis just shook his head. They didn't understand. How could they?
"Penance," Porthos stated abruptly, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion. "You called it your penance."
Aramis looked back at him and saw heartbreak in Porthos' eyes.
"Is this why you have suffered in silence? Why you have hidden behind the smiles and the cheerful words? You think you deserve this? You think you have to atone for Savoy?"
Aramis felt moisture well in his own eyes.
"I failed them," he repeated firmly, deliberately. Because in the end, that is what it came down to. "God may one day forgive me, but I never will."
They both stared at him in stunned silence. Perhaps they were horrified by his words, or perhaps they finally saw the truth of them. It took great force of will, but he made himself look at each of them.
Porthos, his ever-expressive face, was trying valiantly to keep himself together, but the silent tears tracking down his cheeks told the truth of it. His eyes told of devastation and heartbreak, but there was no trace of anger, no recrimination.
And Athos, the stranger-turned-rescuer-turned-comrade, was staring at Aramis as if they shared a soul. His expression, always so impassive until now, was twisted in shared grief. He looked, inexplicably, as if he understood.
"You didn't fail anyone," Athos insisted firmly, almost angrily. There was passion and fire in his tone that Aramis had not yet heard from him. "You have nothing to atone for. What happened to you and your men was a tragedy, but not one of your making. You did not fail them." He said it so fiercely, demanding with both his tone and the fire in his gaze that Aramis hear him and believe. "Surviving is not your penance, Aramis," he went on, "it is your obligation."
Aramis drew back as if Athos had reached out and struck him.
Obligation.
That single word rang so painfully true in his soul that all he could do was stare, open mouthed.
As if sunlight had just broken through the storm raging in his heart, hope ignited in him. Had he been wrong all this time? Had he let his own sorrow and heartbreak cloud the true reason God had spared him in Savoy?
"It is your obligation to remember them. To ensure they are never forgotten," Athos insisted.
Could this be why he alone remained? The sole returning survivor, meant to tell the story, meant to remember the dead?
Could this be his true purpose?
He had believed, with all his heart, that he had survived to suffer for his failure. He had been selfish, focused only on his own guilt and heartbreak.
But perhaps his life held a greater role – a role to ensure his fallen brothers were not left again to be forgotten in Savoy.
It was a monumental task and held an even greater weight than ideas of guilt and penance. If he failed in this, if he let their memories fade, then he would truly fail his brothers. He would have betrayed them the same way Marsac had betrayed him.
"A curse," Aramis whispered, because that's what it felt like, what it had been to him over these long weeks.
"A burden," Athos corrected, the fire fading from his face and his voice. "But," the man glanced at Porthos and then back to Aramis, "not one you are destined to carry alone."
"All for one," Porthos recited suddenly, "one for all." He drifted closer again, latching onto Aramis' shoulders once more. "You know what that truly means, Aramis, better than anyone. You've been carrying the weight of twenty dead because you believe it so completely."
Aramis felt the gathered moisture in his eyes spill over, tracking down his face.
"I'm all that's left," he whispered raggedly.
"No," Porthos murmured fiercely. "You're not. I'm here. If you would carry this burden for them, how can you ever believe I would not stand by your side and carry it with you? If I have proven nothing to you but that, let it be enough."
And with that, whatever of himself that had been left, whatever bit of strength that had been holding him together, broke to pieces.
His knees buckled beneath him and only Porthos' steady hold kept him from collapsing to the ground. Slowly and gently, the grip on his shoulders never loosening, Porthos went down with him. Once his knees hit the dirt, Aramis folded forward, digging his hands into his hair as he dropped his forehead to the ground.
"I'm here, Aramis, and I always will be," Porthos whispered fiercely.
A promise. A vow.
The warm sincerity of those words was his complete undoing.
The emotion that had been building in his chest, choking him, burst free with a visceral cry of pain. With his shoulders heaving with sobs he could no longer contain, he thought he might have shattered to pieces right there on the forest floor. But Porthos was there, pulling him up to his chest, wrapping strong arms around his back.
Aramis twisted his hands in the back of Porthos' shirt, grounding himself in his solid presence. He feared if he didn't anchor himself to something now, he would break apart completely and never again be made whole.
Athos watched Aramis cling to Porthos as if that grip alone was the key to his survival. He felt his own throat tighten and his eyes grow wet as he listened to the pain, denied for too long, finally tear free. For that's what it sounded like. It sounded as if Aramis were being ripped apart by this grief.
Porthos, for his part, was holding Aramis just as tightly. Athos couldn't see their faces, but he had heard the emotion in the young man's voice, unveiled and unrestrained. He could tell, by the shaking of Porthos' shoulders, that he was likely crying too, sharing Aramis' pain as if it were his own.
For a moment, Athos did not know his place in this.
The desperate embrace before him was one of brotherhood. Bone deep, undeniable brotherhood.
He had meant that much to someone in the past. He had embraced another with the same abandon once upon a time.
But no more.
Thomas was gone.
He had told Aramis he had not failed his comrades and he had said it with conviction. He knew what that kind of failure looked like. He knew it well enough to see it in another, real or imagined.
He knew because he had failed Thomas in that way.
She had killed him, but Athos had been the one blinded by her. He had been the one to allow her into their lives and who had been fooled by her lies.
Aramis had blamed himself for the death of his men, his brothers, when the fault had not been his.
Athos could claim no such absolution.
As he watched Porthos and Aramis cling to each other, he found himself yearning to be part of it – to feel that kind of brotherhood again.
He even drifted closer, close enough to hear Porthos' murmuring words.
"I'm here," he was whispering. "I'm here, 'Mis.."
The quiet promise stilled Athos where he stood.
He was a stranger here, an outsider. He barely knew these men. He had no right to be here, witnessing this moment. He resolved to back away, return to their meager camp and give them privacy.
But just as he was preparing to move, a hand grabbed at his wrist.
His gaze snapped around to meet Porthos' watery eyes. The large man still had one arm wrapped securely around Aramis, but the other had reached out to hold Athos in place.
"Thank you," Porthos mouthed silently, gaze sincere.
Athos nodded once, solemnly. He understood all too well the weight Aramis had been suffering under. He found himself relieved, and even proud, that he had played a part in helping him to bear it.
He expected Porthos to release him then, to focus back on Aramis and let Athos fade away.
But instead, the grip on his wrist remained steady even as Porthos tightened his other arm around Aramis' heaving shoulders and turned his face down into the smaller Musketeer's shoulder.
Athos hesitated, but then twisted his arm in Porthos' grip until he could wrap his own fingers around the other man's wrist in turn. When the touch was not rejected, Athos took a halting step towards them and reached out with his free hand.
He nearly withdrew several times before finally resting his hand on the back of Aramis' neck, as he'd seen Porthos do many times before.
That touch was not rejected either.
And there they remained, even as the darkness gave way to dawn.
End of Chapter 15
And finally the levy breaks. That was a long time comin, I think we can all agree. Show of hands if you cried.
Next time on In the Darkness is Born the Dawn
"Athos risked his life to rescue us," Aramis interjected, taking a small step forward. "He witnessed our capture and pursued to where we were being held. He then infiltrated Luc's base and did his best to get us out."
"But he failed," Treville realized with an arched brow.
"That was my fault," Aramis defended firmly, "not his. He acted with bravery and honor, with the very qualities that stand at the heart of the Musketeers. Despite his lack of military experience," Aramis shifted a questioning glance at Athos and waited for the confirming nod before going on, "I strongly recommend, on my own honor, that he be commissioned into the regiment without delay."
Treville couldn't say who was more shocked: himself or Athos.