Thank you to those that reviewed Chapter Fifteen: twaxer, Arlothia, Rita Marx, pallysd'Artagnan, GoGirl212, enjoyedit, ImaginaryArtist17, Rosey Malone, Aednat the Fourteenth, UKGuest, Carolyn, SnidgetHex, and dcrembecki7
Chapter Sixteen: Be the One to Light the Way
And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
Ecclesiastes 4:12
May 8, 1625
Road to Paris
Porthos didn't loosen his hold on Aramis when the man's grief started to slowly quiet. He didn't pull away when his breathing steadied and his shoulders stopped shaking. He didn't relax his one-armed embrace until Aramis actively started to shift away. Only then did Porthos sit back onto his own heels, letting Aramis sit back on his. But he kept a steadying hand on the marksman's shoulder, and noticed that Athos had not removed his touch either.
Aramis' eyes were closed and he was taking slow, steady breaths.
Then, with a deep inhale and equally deep exhale, Aramis opened his eyes and looked straight at Porthos.
"I hit you," he stated abruptly.
Porthos blinked, shocked, and suddenly felt the sting of the cuts on his face. Of all the things he'd expected Aramis to say after what had just happened, that had not been one of them.
"Yes, you did," was all he could manage to reply.
"It was actually quite impressive," Athos spoke up above them, voice dry, but Porthos could hear the smirk in the words even if the man's face was stoic.
"He caught me my surprise," Porthos found himself defending.
"Even so," Athos shrugged dismissively, leaving Porthos sputtering.
Then, to his surprise – and perhaps as was Athos' intent – a breathy, weak chuckle rose from the man kneeling in front of him.
"That's the second time you've complimented my combat skill, you know," Aramis directed up at Athos with a weaker version of his old, pre-Savoy smirk – weaker but genuine. "If you think me that fascinating, I can give you some lessons."
Porthos stared in amazement as the weak smirk grew in strength before his eyes when Athos scoffed.
"I've been trained by only the best instructors since I could hold a stick," the other man boasted, but the wry twist to his tone had Porthos grinning.
"Well if someone comes at me with a stick, you'll be the first I come to for instruction, then," Aramis shot back.
Porthos snorted a chuckle and pushed to his feet, finally loosening his hold on Athos' wrist and reaching to haul Aramis up to his feet.
"Come on," Porthos urged. "We're only half a day from Paris now. If Treville's come looking for us we need to be on the road to meet him or he'll pass us by."
Aramis nodded his agreement and, after a moment more of hesitation, withdrew from both Athos and Porthos' hold completely. He was still for a moment, seeming to steady himself now that he was out of their supporting hands. But then he reached down to retrieve Porthos' stolen sword and the abandon pistol. He held the sword out to Porthos hilt first. When he took it, Aramis just stared at him for a long quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then the marksman granted him a small, warm smile and started past him, leading the way back towards their camp.
"I should make the two of you share a horse this time," he called over his shoulder. "It's only fair, really."
Athos and Porthos shared a look, and then hurried after him, both determined to be the first into the saddle so they had the more comfortable ride.
The first thing Treville thought when he saw the two horses approaching them on the road was that one of the men riding was very oddly shaped.
But as they drew closer, he realized it was two men atop the horse, not one, which accounted for the odd silhouette.
Drawing closer still, Treville recognized the man riding next to them.
And then all he could really process in that moment was relief.
Aramis.
"It's them," he announced to Cornet, Gaston, and the two cadets who had ridden with him.
They nudged their horses faster, eager to close the gap between them and their two wayward men. Though the identity of the third was still a mystery.
As both companies finally met and drew their horses to a stop, Aramis offered him a weary grin in greeting.
"Captain," he hailed with a formal nod.
Treville scanned what he could see of the marksman's body. His face was covered in grime and dirt, his shirt was bloody and torn at the shoulder and covered in more dirt and sweat. There was a bulk of bandages hidden beneath the soiled fabric, but he seemed steady in his saddle.
Satisfied, Treville turned his attention to the two men sharing a horse.
Porthos was behind, looking weary, but fit enough. He had cuts on his face, but they'd obviously been cleaned and tended. The man before him was a stranger, but held himself with noble bearing that spoke of formal upbringing.
"And you are?" Treville asked gruffly, doing his best to mask his own relief and lingering worry.
"Athos," the stranger introduced, dipping his chin in greeting.
"Treville," he replied curtly. "Captain of the King's Musketeers." He then turned his attention to his two men. "Your horses came back without you. We feared the worst."
"We've quite the report for you, Captain," Porthos answered with a grim look.
"And I'll hear it in full," Treville responded, "once we've gotten back to Paris and the three of you have been seen to by Henri."
Aramis grimaced a little, likely having had his fill of Henri's care over the last weeks. It was nothing against Henri, Treville knew. Aramis was just a notoriously poor patient.
"Aramis first," Porthos demanded lowly, shooting a look at the marksman that earned him an eye roll, but no real objection. "He's already tended the both of us."
Treville arched an eyebrow, thinking of the long hours Aramis had spent studying with Henri in recent weeks. An ironic twist, really, that the one who so often rejected treatment was now bestowing it on others.
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Treville wondered sarcastically. Aramis always had a tendency to care for others before himself. "Let's get going, then," he prompted, turning his horse around on the road. The others did the same and soon they were all moving together back towards Paris.
Treville had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder to study Aramis as they rode. Something had changed in the time since he and Porthos had left on this mission. Something beyond them picking up a new companion, at least.
It hit him suddenly and he realized that he should have noticed it from the start.
Aramis had stopped hiding.
The mask, so firmly held in place in the weeks since Savoy, was gone.
There were no more fake smiles, no overly cheerful words and hollow laughter. He was no longer trying to hide his sorrow and suffering, but neither was it threatening to shatter him beneath its weight any longer. He had found his way back to solid ground. It had been Porthos, he was certain, and perhaps even a bit of this stranger, Athos, as well. More than once since they had been found, Treville had seen all three of them exchange telling glances. Athos was a part of whatever had happened. How big of a part remained to be seen.
But either way, Aramis had done it without Treville.
It had been his hope, one he'd feared would not be realized.
It made him so fiercely proud, even as it broke his heart.
The three men who stood before Treville's desk looked far better than the three whom he had met on the road into Paris.
They were cleaner, for one, and fed.
Now the time had come for their report.
Aramis stood in the middle, flanked on either side by Porthos and Athos. They stood so close together that a minor shift by any of them would have their shoulders brushing. All three of them looked steady and determined.
"Well?" Treville prodded. "Care to explain why two frantic horses stampeded their way into the Garrison last night with no riders?"
"We were ambushed," Aramis revealed bluntly.
"And abducted," Porthos added.
Treville looked at each of them as they spoke, and then settled his gaze on Aramis. The marksman was staring steadily back at him, his dark eyes serious.
"They were led by a man named Luc, who in turn was being paid to deliver Musketeers," Aramis went on.
Treville felt a chill glide down his back.
"Delivered to who?" he asked. But he knew if Aramis had the answer he'd have given it already.
The marksman shifted his weight, gesturing vaguely with his hand.
"We don't know. And if Luc knew, he didn't say."
"And where is this man?" Treville demanded, fearing their only lead was dead.
Aramis looked away then, as if ashamed, but then resolutely met his gaze again.
"He escaped."
"We escaped," Porthos corrected sharply, sliding a scolding glance at Aramis. "There wasn't any way to take him with us and still get away."
Treville shifted his gaze over each of them. Aramis still looked frustrated, as if he thought it a personal failure that he hadn't brought this 'Luc' back for questioning. Porthos looked at him challengingly, as if silently daring Treville to scold them for it. And the third man, Athos… He just stared on impassively.
"And you?" Treville demanded of this stranger. "Where do you fit into this?"
"Merely a concerned citizen," Athos replied dispassionately.
"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.
The stranger's eyes went wide and his jaw slackened a bit in shock as he snapped his head around to stare at Aramis.
"You trusted my opinion on such things once," Aramis went on, speaking to Treville, "I ask you to trust me one last time."
Treville glanced at Porthos, who nodded resolutely in agreement, barely fighting down a smile. Then he glanced at Athos, who was still looking stunned. Finally, he returned his gaze to Aramis, the last of his original Musketeers, who had always embodied everything they stood for, who knew better than anyone what kind of heart it took to be a Musketeer, who had that heart himself.
"I'll have Tristan put him through the paces in the morning," he decided. "If he proves worthy, I will accept your recommendation."
"I'm no soldier," Athos pointed out with a frown.
"A triviality," Aramis waved a hand dismissively. "I've been a soldier for years and so has Porthos. We'll teach you what you need to know in that regard. As for everything else? I know you can ride a horse, engage in close combat, and wield a sword. I can only assume you know how to fire a musket as well?"
Athos nodded, eyebrow arched dryly.
"Then if the only objection you have is not knowing the ins and outs of soldiering, that's hardly reason to refuse."
Treville watched the two men stare at each other, eyes locked in silent conversation. Whatever Athos saw there, it seemed to reach past whatever doubts he had. The other man's shoulders squared slightly and he glanced at Porthos, who nodded firmly in encouraging agreement.
Then Athos turned to face Treville and dipped his head slightly.
"It would be my honor," he accepted formally.
"Then it's settled," Treville declared. "Report to the yard after breakfast tomorrow. As for this Luc and his collecting of Musketeers, I'll bring the matter to the king and discuss a course of action. If someone is offering a bounty on Musketeers, he needs to be found and stopped."
The three men before him all exchanged glances with each other, as if having a silent conversation.
"I suppose you all want to be involved in the investigation," he surmised knowingly.
"It's only fair," Porthos rumbled. "They did kidnap us and steal our uniforms."
"And our boots and doublets," Aramis added with a scowl. "And their swords," he nodded his head towards the other two men. "Though Porthos and Athos did steal two of theirs in return."
"And yet you still have your own?" Treville wondered curiously, noticing the familiar weapon sheathed at Aramis' waist.
"Ah, yes," Aramis shifted uncomfortably and slid an unexplained glance at Athos. "I didn't have mine with me when they attacked. Athos recovered it and returned it to me."
Treville frowned. This issue of Aramis and his sword would need to be settled, sooner rather than later. But it was a problem that could wait for tomorrow at least.
"The three of you are dismissed," he announced. "Get some rest."
He waved a hand towards the door to urge them out.
Athos and Porthos immediately turned, but for the space of a breath, Aramis hesitated. His familiar dark gaze met Treville's, and for a moment Treville thought Aramis would demand the truth. He thought the young man would insist Treville stop treating him like he was just any other soldier. He thought he might demand to reclaim his place as Treville's right hand.
But then Aramis lowered his gaze, retreated a step and turned to follow after his comrades without another backwards glance.
Treville sat back with a weary sigh and wondered why he felt so disappointed.
He had done this, enacted this change. But knowing that did not make losing the relationship he'd had with Aramis any easier to accept. But he was doing this to protect Aramis, and that was what he had to hold on to. It would get easier to look him in the eye and hold his tongue, now that Aramis was on the mend; now that he had accepted Porthos at his side and latched onto this Athos.
Savoy was put behind them as best it ever could be. It would fade to memory with time and be all but forgotten.
Treville alone would continue to carry the burden of its truth.
Porthos blew out a slow, low breath as he took in their destination.
The field of crosses before them felt charged with some sort of unnatural energy, as if the dead were here with them. After the fascinating spectacle of watching him reunite with Esmé back in the stables, Aramis had led them here.
Athos moved in his saddle at Porthos' left, apparently no more at ease than he was. They both looked to Aramis, who for a moment, looked frozen in time. He sat in his saddle, staring out over the crosses with a faraway look in his eyes.
Porthos shifted, wondering if he should try to draw him back or just leave him be. But then, with a deep breath, Aramis moved, sliding from his saddle, and started forward, leaving Esmé untethered.
Porthos dismounted to follow, but, not trusting Fort nearly as much, he wrapped the reins around a post. Next to him, Athos was doing the same with his own borrowed horse – Porthos thought it might have been the one called Roger.
They both silently followed after Aramis as he wove his way through the crosses until he reached the furthest row. He turned to face the freshest graves and tugged his hat from his head, pressing it tightly to his chest.
With a shared glance, Porthos and Athos took their places on either side of him.
For many moments they stood in silence, taking in the sight of twenty mounds that shouldn't have been there. The greatest tragedy in the Musketeer's young history and hopefully the greatest tragedy it would ever know.
"I've not been here-" Aramis' soft voice broke the silence around them. "I wasn't…" he paused to swallow thickly. "I couldn't bring myself…" He shook his head, trailing off.
"They would understand," Porthos assured quietly. "You're here now."
He saw Athos nod silently in agreement.
Quiet fell again, but it did not last long.
"I don't remember much," Aramis revealed quietly. "I've only pieces of it really. Bits of memory, some clear, some not." He reached to touch the scar on his temple. "It's coming back, I think – bits at a time, like with…like with Marsac."
Porthos felt an instinctive flare of anger at the mention of the deserter's name.
"I don't know yet if that's a good or a bad thing," the marksman admitted quietly. "Some things I would rather not remember." His gaze scanned over the grave markers now, dark eyes haunted with memory. "I remember Remy and Michel," Aramis continued solemnly, voice thick. "They died in my arms."
"Is that why you took up battle medicine?" Porthos wondered softly.
"I won't ever feel that powerless again," Aramis insisted. "I can't."
Before Porthos could muster a response, Aramis went on.
"But I would still hate Marsac if I hadn't remembered the truth of how he saved me," Aramis murmured. "Hate he did not deserve."
Porthos clenched his jaw, biting back an instinctive retort.
He still hated Marsac. No matter what he had done to try and save him, in the end he had left Aramis behind. He had left him to die. He hadn't even sent back help. He had just left.
Aramis was too forgiving, but that had never been Porthos' strength.
Athos shifted and then produced a flask from his doublet, offering it to Aramis.
"I've found this helps," the soon-to-be Musketeer explained.
The marksman gave him a glance of surprise and then took the flask with a grin.
"At least we know what you'll be good for," he teased before taking a drink. But when he lowered the flask and offered it back to Athos, his eyes lowered with it and his countenance seemed to grow more somber.
Without a word, he sank to one knee, loosely curling his fingers into the dirt over the nearest grave.
"Nunca olvidaré, mis hermanos,"(I will never forget, my brothers,) he whispered to the graves. "Nunca les dejaré en el olvido." (I will never let you be forgotten.)
Porthos reached out and firmly grasped his shoulder. He didn't know what Aramis had said, but he had a feeling he hadn't been meant to. Those had been words between Aramis and his fallen brothers alone.
Athos drifted closer but seemed hesitant to do more than hover.
Porthos squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand.
"When their ghosts come back to haunt you and you can't remember what's real and what isn't," he began warmly and seriously, "and you start feeling like you're alone again, just remember one thing: I'm here, Aramis."
"As am I," Athos added quietly, a tentative hand finally reaching out to lightly touch Aramis' other shoulder, whether out of his own wariness or concern for the healing wound there Porthos couldn't tell.
Aramis' head remained bowed and his fingers tightened in the loose dirt. Porthos watched him clutch at something through his shirt and then he whispered a few more words too low for Porthos to even make out.
He stayed there, bowed over the graves, for a long time. There were no tears, no heaving shoulders – just silence and reverence.
Finally, Aramis drew in a deep breath and let it out, returning his hat to his head. Then he pushed back to standing and turned to face his two companions, dislodging their hands only to wrap his own around each of their shoulders.
"I lost myself," he told them, "after Savoy." But then he grimaced. "No, not 'lost'…I hid myself," he corrected, sending a meaningful look to Porthos. "But you brought me back into the light," he held Porthos' gaze for a long moment, then shifted a glance at Athos, "both of you. You restored my faith, each in your own ways." He smiled at Athos. "You reminded me that honor can still be found in the hearts of men, even strangers. And you," he turned the smile onto Porthos, "gave me faith in brotherhood once more; the strength to trust in it when I wasn't sure I ever would again."
Porthos felt his throat tighten and reached up to wrap his hand around the one Aramis had on his shoulder.
"I hold you both as brothers in my heart, now and for all my days and even into death," Aramis pledged. He squeezed their shoulders warmly and met each of their gazes one more time. "Thank you, mes fréres, (my brothers,) for drawing me out of the darkness."
Porthos could only manage a nod, swallowing thickly. He didn't even spare a glance to take in Athos' reaction. This moment, and all it meant, was too important to him.
Aramis had called him 'brother' before Savoy, as he had called all Musketeers 'brother.' But since that night, since his return, he had not heard Aramis offer that endearment to anyone, not once. Not until now.
Porthos watched Aramis shift a look at Athos.
"I meant what I said to Treville," he told the other man. "I have been a Musketeer since their founding day. I know well what kind of heart it takes to wear that uniform. I see that heart in you, whether you see it in yourself or not."
Porthos frowned, wondering what insight Aramis had gained about Athos that he had not. Though, admittedly, Porthos had been far more focused on the brother he already had over these last days than on the brother he might have. That, and Aramis had a gift for reading people, for seeing into their hearts. Porthos' gift – in his youth at least – had always been more focused on seeing into their pockets.
"And don't worry about tomorrow. Tristan is a tough judge, but a fair one," Aramis went on. "They won't be using sticks, mind you, but I trust you'll prove your worth regardless." The teasing light in Aramis' eyes and mischievous quirk at the corner of his mouth had Porthos grinning. Athos, too, it seemed was not immune. Though his expression didn't change, something in his eyes seemed to chuckle in amusement.
"I will honor the faith you've placed in me," Athos pledged. "And I will honor the title of 'Musketeer' for as long as I bear it."
That vow, spoken over the graves of the fallen, seemed to carry an even greater weight. Porthos felt his own posture straighten as he, too, silently promised to do the same. Aramis nodded solemnly, squeezing Athos' shoulder.
"I know you will," he assured. "As honored as we will be to have you counted among us."
Aramis slid a glance at Porthos before looking back at Athos. The request, though silent, was easily read. Athos gave him a nod and then moved away, angling back towards the horses.
When they were alone, Aramis sighed and met Porthos' gaze squarely.
"Words don't often fail me," he started quietly, "but I'm struggling now to find the words to thank you for all you've done for me, all you've been for me. Simple words don't seem able to measure up to what you deserve."
"Aramis…" Porthos shook his head in denial. Aramis owed him nothing as far as Porthos was concerned, nothing but brotherhood. "You don't have to say anything."
"But I do," Aramis countered with a warm grin. "You deserve to hear those words, even if they prove far too inadequate."
Porthos drew in a deep breath and let it out, then nodded for Aramis to continue.
Aramis shifted, bracing a hand on the stock of one of the pistols on his belt. He looked down at his boots for a long moment before taking a breath and raising his gaze to meet Porthos'.
"From the moment I met you, I knew that ours would be a brotherhood to rival all others. There was something about you, something I could not quite explain, but it was just…there. Being around you felt familiar and comfortable in a way I had not felt since I was a child. Our friendship felt like…"
"Home," Porthos interjected softly, smiling when Aramis' gaze lit with understanding.
"You felt it too," the marksman realized.
Porthos nodded.
"Of course I did. How could I not?" he replied with a helpless shrug.
Aramis smiled warmly in response. But then the grin faded and a serious, weighted expression stole across his face. "After what happened with Marsac, after what he did…" Aramis shook his head and looked away.
Porthos reached out, wrapping his hand around Aramis' shoulder.
"He was a brother to me, or I thought he was." Aramis brought his gaze back up to Porthos. "I would have done anything for him. I would have died for him. The realization that he would not do the same…" Aramis clenched his jaw, eyes shining. "It felt like a betrayal."
"It was," Porthos pointed out quietly, but Aramis went on as if he hadn't spoken.
"It became a poison." Aramis pressed a hand against his chest. "How could I ever trust in such a thing again if I couldn't even trust him? I was afraid, Porthos," he admitted. "I was afraid that you would betray me, too. And in that fear, I was not the friend and was most definitely not the brother you deserved. I took my anger out on you, I pushed you away, I was cruel."
Porthos drew in a breath to disagree, but Aramis held up a hand to stop him.
"I was," Aramis argued firmly. "And for that, I am deeply sorry. That you remained so steadfast through it all…" Aramis shook his head as if he could not fathom how Porthos had done it.
Porthos tried to shrug it off, but Aramis shook his head sharply, reaching out to tightly grip Porthos' shoulder.
"You were the only one, Porthos," he reminded firmly. "The only one to look past what I wanted everyone to see. You were the only one who was not content to let me hide. You looked past the anger and beyond the spite. If not for you, I would still be lost."
"I knew you were worth it," Porthos replied. "Just as you said, I knew it from the moment we met. You and I? We were meant to be brothers. I was never going to give that up without a fight."
"I thank God for that," Aramis replied fervently. "I let what Marsac did poison everything in my life. I thank God that you proved strong enough to stand against it."
"After what he did, I didn't blame you," Porthos assured. "I was frustrated, yes, but I understood."
"And now even that has been proven false," Aramis replied with a sigh. "I hated him for what he did before I knew the truth of it. Now…I feel as if there is a debt I cannot repay."
"He still left you, Aramis," Porthos pointed out. "He left you to die."
"He saved me first," the marksman countered firmly but quietly. "He saved me at the cost of his own future."
Porthos just shook his head and looked away. They would never agree over this. Aramis was too forgiving. He would rather take upon himself the blame for Marsac's betrayal than lay it at the deserter's feet.
"I would have died out there if not for him," Aramis insisted.
"Maybe," Porthos murmured, scanning his gaze over the crosses laid out before them. He wasn't convinced of that at all, really. Aramis had survived on his own for five days with nothing but scavenged rations and melted snow for water. He had fought a wolf and emerged the victor.
Porthos knew, with near certainty, that Aramis had survived because of himself and not because of Marsac.
"What matters to me," Porthos sighed, pulling his gaze back around to Aramis, "is that you survived and that you've found your way back."
Aramis softened, the defensive air in his posture fading.
"You both brought me back," he said, looking over his shoulder to where Athos was having some sort of stare down with Roger, "but you," he looked back at Porthos, "most of all."
Porthos smiled, but Aramis wasn't done.
"I heard you," he revealed quietly, something soft and warm in his gaze, "in Savoy, after you pulled me from the snow. I don't…" Aramis furrowed his brow as if searching for something in his mind, "remember what you said, but your voice…" he closed his eyes, as if drawing on the memory, "was always there, keeping me anchored."
Porthos felt his chest tighten, his own memory of those long hours trying to warm Aramis from his nearly-frozen state still quite clear to him.
"I wanted you to know you weren't alone," he told him quietly.
Aramis' eyes welled briefly and he smiled.
"I shall never doubt that again," he vowed.
Porthos reached out and gripped his shoulder firmly.
"That's all I wanted – for you to trust that, to trust me."
"I do," Aramis assured. "And because I do, I know that I can continue to find my way back. I know it won't be easy, that I've still a long road to travel," his hand skittered up through his hair restlessly, "but with you at my side I finally feel as if I've got the strength to do it."
"You don't need me," Porthos assured. "You're strong enough without me. But I will be here, at your side, regardless."
Aramis smiled warmly and fully and Porthos couldn't help but return it.
"We've kept Athos waiting long enough," Porthos commented, hooking an arm over Aramis' shoulders and pulling him back the way they'd come. "He looks as if he's just lost an argument with that horse."
Aramis snorted, letting Porthos drag him along.
"Ah, Roger. I tried to warn him – a mind of his own, that one."
"Which one?" Porthos asked with a chuckle.
"What was it you told me about horses and masters?"
Porthos laughed.
Athos resolutely refused to give Roger the satisfaction of returning the stare he knew the horse was leveling at him. Instead, he watched Aramis and Porthos make their way back towards him.
He hadn't been offended when Aramis had asked him to leave – silent as the request was. There was a history between the two Musketeers, one Athos wasn't a part of. He had been surprised Aramis had even invited him along on this expedition.
Aramis had been doing that a lot over the last several hours – surprising him.
Athos had been stunned when the young Musketeer had all but demanded that his captain commission Athos on the spot. The recommendation had come from nowhere. Aramis hadn't even discussed it with him.
He was no soldier, had no training in such things. He was good with a sword, yes, but what sort of qualification was that when it stood alone?
But…if Aramis was to be believed, it didn't stand alone.
"I know well what kind of heart it takes to wear that uniform. I see that heart in you, whether you see it in yourself or not."
Such a pledge, from a man who had suffered so much loss and betrayal, was…resounding.
Athos had not known Marsac, and he likely never would, but he hated the man. He hated him for ripping apart the foundation of Aramis' beliefs about the brotherhood he obviously held close to his heart. He hated him for proving himself a coward and fleeing a battle he should have fought in, and worse, fleeing the consequences of that cowardice. But most of all, he hated him for doing to Aramis what the man would never do to anyone else.
He had abandoned him, left him behind to die.
Aramis, who, on his knees with tears in his eyes, had claimed that he would have died for his brothers.
What kind of man could walk away from a heart like that? What kind of man could sentence a man like Aramis to death?
No man Athos ever wanted to know.
Aramis had surprised him once more by inviting him along to visit the final resting place of his comrades, and further still by allowing him to bear witness of his private moment of grief.
But the greatest shock Aramis had delivered was claiming Athos as a brother.
Athos had never known a man who could open his heart so willingly, who could accept a stranger with such abandon. Aramis, who was still suffering from the betrayal of one and the loss of so many, had welcomed – dragged – Athos into the fold.
No, he had never known a man like Aramis.
Athos lifted his chin in greeting as the two Musketeers drew closer, shifting to mount Roger.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Aramis asked as he ducked out from Porthos' arm and strode up to his horse.
Esmé was her name, according to Porthos, and if her enthusiastic – and somewhat scolding – greeting of her master earlier was anything to go by, she was more of a character than Roger. The rapid exchange of Spanish and horse noises had been quite a spectacle. But then, with an apple and some soothing words, all had apparently been forgiven.
"I rented a room when I was in Paris before," he replied.
"Well, you're welcome to stay at the Garrison if you wish," Aramis offered. "There are plenty of beds and Serge's food is…filling."
There was a curious exchange of grins between Aramis and Porthos that had Athos' eyebrow arching warily.
Aramis swung up into his saddle and Porthos mounted his own horse just as fluidly next to him.
Athos hesitated. He would be able to find another room to rent with little trouble. But suddenly the idea of spending the evening alone – an outcome he'd sought with tenacity over the last months – seemed less appealing.
He looked from Aramis' quirked brow and questioning smile to Porthos' open and welcoming expression.
And suddenly Athos realized it wasn't just Aramis who pulled at him.
It was both of them. Aramis and Porthos together tugged at some forgotten part of his soul. Seeing them together had him longing for the type of brotherhood they shared – the brotherhood he had lost when Thomas had died.
A wave of sadness and self-hatred flowed through him and had his hand fighting the urge to retrieve the flask from his doublet. Because where thoughts of Thomas started, thoughts of her always followed.
She would come to him tonight, her memory haunting him. He would turn to drink, as he always did, to try and silence her. Would they still want him around then? When they saw him lost in darkness? Would Aramis, who was still fighting his way free of his own kind of darkness, even be ready to deal with it?
Something of his inner conflict must have shown on his face because the other two men exchanged a surprisingly knowing look before facing him again.
"Athos," Porthos called with a huff, "stop worrying so hard."
"I can hear your self loathing thoughts from here," Aramis added with a smirk. "What are you so concerned about?"
Athos frowned, not sure how to communicate his misgivings or even if he wanted to.
"It can't be the company," Aramis added cheerfully, "because who better could you find but us, anyway?"
Athos felt his lips twitch.
"Oh stop pretending to be thinking about it," Aramis harrumphed. "You're to be a Musketeer. You're stuck with us now."
"What a turn of luck," Athos replied with as little emotion as he could manage.
Aramis let loose an interesting little chuckle and Porthos narrowed his gaze.
"That's what I like about you," Porthos declared. "You've a way of speaking where I never know exactly what you mean."
"And you like that?" Aramis asked.
"Keeps things interesting," Porthos shrugged.
"Shall we, then?" Athos suggested, turning Roger away from the cemetery.
"What do you say to The Empty Scabbard for some dinner," Porthos asked them as he pulled Fort around to follow.
"They've a very good stew," Athos agreed, glancing back when Aramis didn't immediately join into the conversation.
He pulled Roger to a stop and glanced at Porthos, who stopped silently next to him. The large Musketeer's expression turned sad and vaguely pained as they watched Aramis sit silently atop his horse, staring out over the graves. His hat was pressed against his chest again and his shoulders were bowed with tangible sorrow.
But then he drew in a breath, slid his hat back over his short hair and nudged Esmé around.
"The Empty Scabbard, you say?" he asked as he joined them and they continued on together. "They've the best stew I've ever tasted."
"On his side so he doesn't choke on his own vomit," Aramis grunted as he and Porthos eased Athos onto the extra bed in Porthos' room. "Ah, there we go."
They stepped back with a tandem sigh.
"I'll get his boots," Aramis volunteered.
"I'll get the ash pale. Maybe we'll save the floor," Porthos replied.
Athos shifted with a groan, head tilting as if he heard something.
"Do you hear her?" he whispered, allowing Aramis' ministrations, or perhaps not even aware of them, as the marksman tugged at his boots.
Aramis shifted a look at Porthos, who only shrugged in return as he set the ash pale next to the bed.
"Do you hear her?" Athos asked again, eyes fixed on something beyond them. "She laughs…always laughing… Her smile… Do you hear her?"
Athos' fingers clutched at something around his neck.
"She's not real," Aramis murmured, quietly setting Athos' boots at the foot of the bed.
"She's here," Athos breathed out, eyes wet with tears yet to be shed.
"She's not," Porthos assured, reaching for the folded blanket at the foot of the bed and shaking it out.
Athos shivered even as Porthos spread it over him.
"She haunts me…" Athos' hand was white where it gripped the chain hanging from his neck.
"We'll keep her at bay," Aramis promised, pressing a comforting hand to the man's chest.
"Do you hear her?"
"Sleep, my friend," Aramis urged. "When you wake, she will be gone."
Athos shook his head miserably.
"She's never gone. She's always with me. Her laugh…her smile…green eyes…dead eyes." He turned his head slightly. "Do you hear her?" he whispered even as his eyes drooped. Aramis' voice caught in his throat even as he opened his mouth to offer another comfort. He heard echos of his own confession, spoken merely a day ago, mirrored in Athos' words. Aramis had sensed a kindred soul in him from the start, but now he wondered just how similar their broken souls might yet turn out to be.
"Sleep," Porthos soothed when Aramis remained silent.
"She is here," Athos breathed out as his eyes drifted closed.
Aramis lightly cleared his throat and braced his hands on his hips, watching to make sure Athos was truly asleep. Satisfied, he backed away from the bed and shifted a step towards the door.
He fully intended to go back to his own room. He even made it as far as the door. But the moment his hand found the handle, he found himself unable to actually open it.
He didn't want to go back to his own room. It had a weight to it. Having shared it with Marsac for the last three years had left it marked.
He didn't hate Marsac. The man had saved his life and had lost everything because of it. But…he had still left him. He had left him alone in a forest of dead brothers, and that had left its mark as well.
He didn't hate him, but he didn't want to go back to that room. He didn't want to look at Marsac's things. He didn't want to see his empty bed. He didn't want to spend one more night alone with his memories.
"I don't want to go back," he stated abruptly, still facing the door with his back to the room. "I don't want to go back to that room, Porthos."
"So," Porthos replied easily as there was a sudden sound of a something landing on stone, "don't."
Aramis twisted, finding Porthos' gaze over his shoulder. The other man was on his knees on the hearth, a pile of kindling in the fireplace. His dark eyes were open and warm as he looked back at Aramis.
"Stay in here," he suggested. "Help me keep an eye on him." He tilted his head towards the lightly snoring Athos. "I'll even let you have my bed."
Aramis huffed an unsurprised laugh.
"Don't be ridiculous," he scolded, turning fully around to face him and leaning back against the door. "I'll take the floor." He preferred being near the heat of the fire anyway.
There was a quiet understanding in Porthos' gaze but he didn't say anything in response. Instead, he turned back to the hearth and started working to ignite a flame. Soon he had the kindling lit and Aramis ventured over to kneel next to him as Porthos slowly worked to build the fire.
"I didn't use to take a chill so easily," Aramis revealed quietly, leaning closer to the growing flames. "Frustrating really, because I've lived in Northern France for more than half my life."
"Where did you live before?" Porthos wondered.
"South. Near the border," Aramis explained. He doubted his sudden intolerance of the cold had anything to do with his place of birth, but it was easier to blame that than to admit to one more thing Savoy had broken in him. "My mother's family was from Spain originally. They moved to France when she was just a child."
"Your mother…" Porthos sounded hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he should be asking.
Aramis smiled warmly, remembering the sound of her voice, the gentle touch of her hand in his hair.
"She would have liked you, I think," he replied.
"'Would have'?"
"She died, a long time ago."
Porthos hummed in sympathy.
"Mine too," he admitted, "when I was just a little thing."
Aramis turned to look at his friend, smiling warmly.
"If she was anything like you, I would have been honored to have known her."
Porthos ducked his head shyly, but smiled nonetheless.
Aramis had a sudden memory then, of a time soon after he'd woken in the inn.
"She called me 'Mis," he revealed quietly. "She was the only one who ever did."
"I won't do it again," Porthos promised softly.
Aramis felt a soft smile tug at his lips.
"She was the only true family I had ever known," he went on. "Even amongst the brotherhood of the Musketeers, nothing has ever come close to the bond I shared with her. I've never allowed anyone else to call me that. I've never wanted anyone else to call me that. That was why I got angry with you, the day I woke in the inn."
"And now?" Porthos ventured slowly, curiosity and a bit of hope lighting up his gaze.
"Let's just say that I don't mind it so much coming from you."
Something flashed in Porthos' gaze, something like a memory. Aramis frowned.
"What?" he asked.
"You said that before," Porthos confessed. "Before the time you remember. You were awake and didn't remember anything that had happened and you were…"
"Not so angry," Aramis interjected, remembering Porthos explain this before.
"I called you 'Mis then and you said that same thing, that you didn't mind."
Aramis closed his eyes and turned away, feeling a stab of guilt.
"And then I bit your head off for it the next time," he realized. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Porthos forgave. "We're past it now, aren't we?"
"I suppose so," Aramis admitted.
"Then it's forgotten," Porthos insisted. "This warm enough?" he asked, gesturing at the fire.
Aramis nodded. When the dreams came, it likely wouldn't feel so, but for now, it was perfect.
Porthos pushed to standing and moved away, returning moments later with a pillow and a blanket.
"You have extra of these lying around?" Aramis teased as he pulled at his boots.
"I'd stolen the pillow from the other bed," Porthos admitted as he tossed it down to the floor. "And there's extra blankets in the chest there if you want more."
Aramis nodded his thanks and set his boots aside. He unclasped his belts next, resting his pistols next to each other near the pillow and sliding his dagger under it. His sword, for now, he set far out of reach.
By the time he was stretching out on the floor, back to the hearth and eyes on the door, Porthos was settling into his bed.
"Goodnight," Porthos offered quietly.
"Goodnight, Porthos."
Porthos wasn't sure what woke him, an instinct perhaps, or a sound that had already faded. No matter what it was, he found himself blinking up at the ceiling, knowing by the soft orange glow around him that the fire was still going.
He rolled in his bed, looking towards the hearth. Perhaps it had been a shifting log that had woken him.
His gaze never made it to the flames.
Aramis was shifting around restlessly, mumbling lowly in a mixture of French and Spanish.
Porthos sat up, glancing across the room to Athos, but he found the man unmoved from where he'd settled hours ago. Satisfied with that at least, Porthos slid off the bed as quietly as he could, dragging his pillow with him. He'd forgone a blanket due to the heat from the fire.
Aramis had rolled onto his back, his left arm curled up under his pillow and likely wrapped tightly around his dagger. Porthos dropped his pillow down on the floor and went to his knees.
He hesitated, debating whether to wake Aramis or just hope his presence was enough.
In the end, he wasn't willing to risk the nightmare escalating if he could stop it, so he touched a gentle hand to Aramis' shoulder and caught the attacking dagger mid swing.
"Easy," he murmured. "It's me. It's Porthos."
Aramis blinked blearily at him, but his gaze was more aware than it usually was when he woke from the deep throes of a dream.
"P'thos?"
"I'm here," he assured. "Roll over." He punctuated the command with a gentle nudge.
Still only half-awake, Aramis complied, rolling to face the fire. Porthos stretched out behind him, grabbing his pillow and folding it under his head before pressing his back to Aramis' – hip to shoulder.
"Porthos?" Aramis said again, sounding a bit more aware.
"Did you think I didn't notice?" Porthos challenged quietly. "When we slept like this in the forest you didn't dream. I'm willin' to see if it works a second time. Are you?"
"But your bed…"
"Will be just where I left it next time I go back to it."
Aramis was quiet for a moment.
"I have to see the door," he finally admitted.
"No, you don't," Porthos denied immediately. "Because I've got your back. Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
Porthos couldn't help his smile. There had been no hesitation, not even a moment of thought.
"Then go to sleep and trust me to guard your back."
It took a moment longer, but finally Aramis relaxed back into Porthos. The larger man forced himself to stay awake until he heard Aramis' breaths even out in sleep. Only then did he let himself sleep, too.
End of Chapter Sixteen
A lot of closure here but also a significant promise - one that get's broken five years later when Marsac returns and Athos and Porthos BOTH leave Aramis to deal with it alone. TRUST me, I've got a fic for that coming ;)
Coming in the conclusion of In the Darkness is Born the Dawn
Now he would continue that tradition of duty and honor, but for the sake of France. For the sake of the two men standing behind him who had trusted and believed in him without cause.
He felt, inexplicably, as if his whole life had only ever been leading to this moment, that all that had happened had come about for a reason.
To bring him here.
To this moment.
To the Musketeers.
To Aramis and Porthos.
To the hope, once again, of a future.