Hello? Is there anybody out there? If there's anybody still following this story after my long hiatus, I bid you a most hearty welcome! Two months... oh dear... My sincere apologies! I won't bore you with sorry tales of what I have been up to, but I'm finally about to spend my first weekend at home since I posted the last chapter. Hooray! Now me and my wonderful beta Marigold Faucet are back on the case and the remaining three chapters won't take that long.
Hope you enjoy the fic to help you over Musketeers withdrawal if you have watched Season 3 already, or to keep you entertained during the invariable football delays if you are following along on the BBC like me.
7. Ne pas subir
(Do not give in)
The world outside seemed at odds with the tense atmosphere within the garrison. Outside those walls, everything was well. Life continued as normal. It was a beautiful evening, the balmy temperatures of late summer enhanced by a clear sky. A thunderstorm would have felt more appropriate. Then again, the noise of one would not help matters inside the garrison.
Rue du Vieux-Colombier was busy. People went about their business as usual. Some were on their way home from their day's work, heading for a warm hearth and an evening meal. Others were aiming for the inns and taverns that were slowly starting to fill.
Usually Aramis would leave his friends with the other revellers.
They would be walking down the road along with everybody else. He would be Aramis. He would smile at the women and nod to the men; he would share a laugh with his friends and squabble with them. Maybe they would find a Red Guard to antagonise. They would fit in with the crowd, normal people on a normal Wednesday night.
Nobody paid any particular attention to one moody musketeer. It was all so ordinary, the dogs barking, the children quarrelling... People went about their lives and back in Tréville's office Athos was...
Aramis wanted to scream.
Go and get yourself sorted out.
Porthos had sent him away and rightly so. He was no use to anybody now, unable to save his friend's life. He had failed Athos. He had failed Tréville too, not holding him back in time, not keeping him from reliving his worst nightmares. He had failed d'Artagnan. The boy was broken, silent and crying, watching his friend, mentor and father figure in such a state without any reassurance or sympathy. And he had failed Porthos. Porthos who had dragged him out of his melancholia and back into life after Savoy. Porthos who he was now saddling with the responsibility of dragging all of them along while Aramis himself was being useless.
You're no good like this.
He knew what he was to Porthos — Aramis the libertine on the way to his usual Wednesday night pastime. Not a friend to be relied upon, not a medic who could be trusted to help when necessary. Good at shooting people, at loving them for a while and then letting them slip away.
Go and shove your manic cock into some willing mistress. Find your absolution and your worth in her warm bosom.
Aramis walked along the church still lost in his dark thoughts. Rue du Vieux-Colombier merged into Rue Saint-Sulpice, which was no less busy. He continued on his way, strangely detached from the life all around him.
The church bells startled him, chiming the passage of yet another hour. He needed to compose himself, to piece together the worn fragments of his usual joyous mask. For a moment he leaned against the stone plinth of the large cross that stood in front of Saint Sulpice and just breathed, watching a young priest usher a group of boys out of the door. They were laughing and chatting animatedly, bidding farewell after their lessons. The priests had recently started to gather the poor and the outcast on the streets for instruction in the Catholic faith. With the help of the bible, these children also learned to read and write. It was an admirable new practice. These boys would never feel ostracised in church and hampered by their lack of understanding. They were being given the foundations for a good life. Thanks to the priests, they would not struggle like Porthos who had painfully and slowly taught himself to read and who still faced so many challenges now.
Mainly challenges of Aramis' making at the moment.
He should have stayed. He should have been there for Porthos, even if he was unable to do anything for Athos. But Porthos himself had sent him away.
You're no good like this.
He was here now, outside of that room, away from his friends in a search for distraction. He might as well go and find it now.
Go and get yourself sorted out.
When Porthos had nothing else to say to him it must be bad... Porthos had stubbornly stayed with him after Savoy, no matter how hard Aramis had tried to push him away, but now it was Porthos sending him away.
Aramis pushed himself upright with a sigh. It was Wednesday after all. He should keep his usual appointment. He owed it to Porthos to at least follow his advice.
Give my regards to Madame Mercredi.
Go, be the idiot we all know you to be, Aramis. And they didn't even know how stupid he really was... Only Athos knew that. And Athos...
Aramis gritted his teeth as he straightened his back and gulped down the emotions that threatened to overtake him. No time for that now. Time for his Wednesday night appointment with the mysterious stranger his friends had christened Madame Mercredi.
"Good evening, René," the priest said with a broad smile. "What a blessing it is to see you and on as beautiful a day as this!"
"Mon père," Aramis answered, his throat tight. He would not embarrass himself in public, in the middle of Paris, in front of a busy church.
He was drawn into a tight embrace and tried to relax into it.
"Hello, old friend," Aramis said, trying to sound his usual cheerful self.
"René?" the priest asked, a slight frown clouding his face. He had always insisted on calling Aramis by his first name, declaring a nom de guerre a thin and useless veil to cover who God knew him to be. "What's the matter?"
Aramis cursed himself for coming here. Of course Jean-Jacques would know. He had never been blinded by any of the carefully crafted lies and half-truths Aramis surrounded himself with.
When they had first started speaking five years ago, Aramis had been too burdened and broken to devote much energy to keeping his defences as impregnable as they usually were, and ever since he had treasured this sanctuary where he could simply be René. The musketeer, the medic, the libertine, he left them all at the doors of Saint Sulpice. He had never corrected his friends' assumption that he went out to find distraction with a paramour. It was easier that way.
"René?" Jean-Jacques asked again, obviously concerned now. "Let's go inside, shall we?"
There was a gentle hand on his elbow and Aramis let himself be guided inside. Without thinking he dipped his fingers into the small water basin and crossed himself. The heavy door closed behind them and shut out the noise of Paris.
Aramis breathed in deeply.
It was a squat little church, not a particularly beautiful building, yet somehow it still managed to convey the peace and dignity of a grand cathedral. Aramis could breathe here, and breathing... breathing was important.
There were a few people dotted around the church, half-hidden in the darkness. There were candles in the small side chapels, but even combined with the altar lamp, the sign of the presence of Christ, they barely illuminated the vast space as night slowly fell around them.
They knelt and prayed in silence. Aramis fell effortlessly into the familiar rhythm of the words. Usually, prayer relaxed him almost instantly. No matter where he was, or what he had seen, it felt like coming home.
Today, his mind strayed, even as he silently mouthed the well-known words.
The children leaving the church, smiles on their faces... such a sharp contrast to the way in which he had slunk into the church. The priest giving people a chance at life, an enlightened, joyful life. And himself, the musketeer, the medic, dispatching people to hell with practiced efficiency.
Death to his enemies.
Death to those he loved.
Wherever he was, death followed.
And Aramis was tired of it, of leaving death in his wake. How blessed to bring life and enlightenment instead.
"What burdens you, René?"
The question startled him.
René. René was a young boy, a son and brother, a happy adolescent courting a beautiful maid. René was not a hardened soldier who would watch his friends die without trying to prevent it.
Many things burdened him... His friends dying on Good Friday, his friend dying today... Aramis looked up helplessly. He couldn't find the words to tell his friend. They were friends, Jean-Jacques Olier and René d'Herblay; two young men living vicariously through each other. In another world they could have been companions, but not in this one where one was a priest and the other doubted God. The musketeer couldn't possibly tell the priest what really burdened him.
"Would you like to go to confession instead?"
Aramis barely kept a bitter laugh from escaping him. Confession. That had been Tréville's suggestion too.
Like that would solve anything.
Like that was even an option available to him.
He hadn't entered a confessional in so long, wouldn't even know where to start. Maybe God would simply smite him as soon as he attempted to defile that holy sacrament. Wouldn't that be easier?
"I can't," he said eventually.
To confess you had to repent your sins and to stop committing them. He should be so lucky.
Jean-Jacques nodded gravely.
"Let's keep it between the two of us then," he said. "But as your friend, I'd very much like to know what has put you in such a state."
Aramis attempted a smile, but the well-worn mask did not seem to fit.
"The usual," he said. "Yearning for the bible rather than the sword."
"One doesn't keep you from the other."
Aramis huffed out a grim laugh. If he only knew...
"Feels like I don't succeed with either," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm torn between soldiering and religion and in the end neither wins."
"You have a passion for both."
"I have a passion for absolutely anything," Aramis said bitterly. "Lover of everything, winner of none."
"Is there a woman that has you so preoccupied?" the priest asked, his voice neutral. Somehow he always succeeded in being less judgemental than the others. So much for men of the sword versus men of the book.
Aramis buried his face in his hands. That was not something he could possibly talk about. He was already putting Athos' head on the line with that particular secret. He himself would face dismemberment for high treason. Athos, owing to his status, might get a choice between decapitation and the firing squad. Wasn't that a lovely prospect? Assuming, obviously, that Athos didn't...
"A man," Aramis said, looking up through his fingers. Even Jean-Jacques raised an eyebrow at that.
"It's Athos," Aramis clarified, watching the second eyebrow shoot towards Jean-Jacques' receding hairline.
Aramis scrubbed a hand across his face. At least his sense of humour had not failed him entirely just yet.
Jean-Jacques waited patiently.
"God knows you for who you are, René, you can veil your thoughts from me, but not from him," he said.
They had been over this before. Time and again, Aramis needed that reminder. Time and again, he came to the church with his masks firmly in place. They were slipping and cracking now and no matter what Jean-Jacques said, Aramis knew that he needed no divine intervention to be able to see through this one easily.
"He is ill." He sighed. "Very badly so."
Jean-Jacques listened patiently as Aramis recounted the whole sorry tale. He was young, but his experience with pastoral care and prayerful contemplation granted him gravity far beyond his years. He interrupted rarely, offering no opinion, solely asking for clarification where Aramis had left out details.
When his tale reached the events of the afternoon, Aramis spoke through gritted teeth, pausing frequently in his account of the horror they had all endured. He fell silent after telling of his departure from the garrison, once again burying his face in his hands.
Jean-Jacques remained silent; giving Aramis what time he needed to compose himself. Not that he needed to compose himself. Here, in the safety of the dark church, he didn't need to be strong; he didn't need to be Aramis. For the first time since Athos had been taken ill, he felt like he could breathe freely. The faint scent of incense and melting wax hung in the air. It felt peaceful, so far removed from his reality.
He felt safe here.
"Can I stay?"
Jean-Jacques smiled, but shook his head. This was not the first time Aramis had made that request.
"The church is not an escape from the world, René," he said. "It is a path towards the farthest realms of faith. A path that should be chosen for its inherent value, not based on rejection of the perceived alternative."
They had discussed this more than once, but the verdict remained the same. As long as he was still running away from the world rather than towards God, he would be refused. Of course he could go elsewhere. Few people refused him what he wanted, and he knew that any monastery would take him gladly.
Maybe he should go, join a monastery, finally make his family happy, and maybe, possibly, even himself.
To send souls to heaven rather than their bodies to hell. It sounded like a dream to him. And a dream it would remain, unachievable, carried away on a breeze, dissolving in the light of day.
"What tortures you so?" Jean-Jacques asked.
Aramis looked up sharply. What didn't torture him about all this?
"You carry a strong guilt, one that seems to bear no relation to Athos' suffering," his friend clarified.
"He nearly died today," Aramis hissed. "And I did nothing!"
"You are a medic, René," the priest answered. "Not God."
"Well, God is not doing a very good job!"
Aramis bit his tongue as soon as the words had left his mouth. That was not something one should ever say, least of all to a priest.
However, the priest next to him seemed neither shocked nor offended at his outburst. On the contrary, he hummed appreciatively and asked in a tone of genuine curiosity.
"And what makes you the judge of that?"
Aramis dug his fingers into the dark wood of the pew. The pain grounded him.
"Athos' suffering," he ground out.
"That is a heavy burden for any loyal friend to carry," the priest acknowledged. "But do not despair. Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him."
"A trial." Aramis scoffed at the word. He might have said that about a patient, but not a friend. "This has gone beyond a test of perseverance."
He turned in his seat to face the man at his side.
"He's a good man and yet he's made to suffer like this," he exclaimed, barely managing to keep his voice at a sharp whisper. "You wouldn't make a horse endure such torture, you'd sooner shoot it! But God shows him no mercy."
Aramis punched the pew and once again the impact was not satisfactory, the slight sting of his knuckles no adequate outlet for his fury. Jean-Jacques gave him some time to quieten down before he spoke again.
"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Going they went and wept, casting their seeds. But coming they shall come with joyfulness, carrying their sheaves."
Neither his friend's steady voice nor the familiar words of the psalm were able to bring comfort to Aramis. They failed to permeate his soul entirely.
Aramis looked straight ahead at the image of the crucified Christ in front of them. Agony was chiselled into the features of the wooden figurine; even the Son of God had suffered so much. What chance did mere men stand? What hope for any of them? And yet...
It hurt.
To lose hope, to lose faith, to no longer believe that those tears would be dried and turned into joy by harvest time...
That was painful.
"God's promises of healing never fail," the priest said calmly.
And Aramis wanted that hope. God only knew how much he wanted to feel it, to believe it, to have that to hold onto. But in his mind, he saw Athos the way he had left him, that shrunken, trembling form cradled against Porthos' broad chest, barely able to draw breath. There was nothing left of his tranquil friend, his strength withered in the dark watches of the night, his composure lost to the relentless assault of the spasms.
Aramis felt the tears well up.
"He's..." he started, but had to stop to force down the lump in his throat. The sentence came out in a whisper. "He's dying."
The others would have embraced him at that point, would have pulled him into bone-crushing hugs. Jean-Jacques put a gentle hand on his.
"We may boldly ask that his healing take place here on earth, but if the Lord decrees that he shall..."
Aramis shook his head vehemently. He would not listen to another saying the words that had tasted like poison on his lips.
"This is Athos we are talking about," he said, attempting to master his voice into something resembling resolve. "He doesn't just..."
He broke off again. There was nothing just about any of this.
"This might be beyond even his strength," Jean-Jacques dared to say.
Aramis shook his head again. He wasn't angry, he just knew that it wasn't... or at least he hoped. If this was just a patient, any patient... but it wasn't...
"This is Athos," he said. "He never loses. Not to anyone but himself."
"Much like you then," Jean-Jacques said with a slight smile.
"This isn't about me."
"And you have been telling yourself that for far too long, René. For all that you deny it, you are a child of God, a man with fears and needs, no less than Athos."
"I shouldn't—" Aramis started, but Jean-Jacques interrupted him.
"You shouldn't expect yourself capable of comprehending every step of God's plan. Do not doubt the place you have. We know that all things work together for the best unto them that love God."
Aramis gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers onto the wood so harshly he feared he might break the pew.
He didn't know that. Not any more.
"I don't matter in this," he said.
"You matter to God," Jean-Jacques said. Aramis doubted that.
"And for all that it's worth," the priest continued. "You matter to me. Think of Porthos and young d'Artagnan as well. You need each other, René, now more than ever, and particularly for what will be. Do not torture yourself unduly."
Go and get yourself sorted out. You're no good like this.
"Nobody needs me," Aramis said softly. "Porthos said so himself. I couldn't..."
His mind dissolved into that frantic shout of Do something!
Something.
Anything.
Aramis, do something!
A hand on his arm brought him back to the present. Aramis looked up into the shining eyes of his friend. Jean-Jacques' words were low and soothing.
"You are not a burden to them, just as they are no burden to you, even when they falter. You support each other in this."
"I'm not supporting anybody," Aramis protested. "I ran away..."
"And so did d'Artagnan."
"But he is..."
"What, René? What is he that makes it acceptable for him to be affected, but not for you?"
Aramis had no answer.
They sat in silence for a long time, neither of them moving. Aramis kept his gaze fixed on the crucified Christ in front of them. Athos was no Jesus, not by any stretch of imagination, but in his suffering, the Saviour shared in what was happening back at the garrison, or so they were told. There was comfort in Christ's suffering. There should be.
"How do we go on?" Aramis asked at length.
If the answer was with faith, he'd run out of this church and do some damage to the nearest Red Guard or ten. He didn't need... this. And yet... He needed something, he needed it desperately, like a rope thrown to a drowning man, but he couldn't... he knew he couldn't find comfort in religion just now.
So, apparently, did the priest.
"You go on as you have done, with the utmost care and love for one another. Men are not made to suffer in solitude. Open yourself up to your friends, be open for their hurts in return," he said. "You have cared for Athos so diligently, but do not forget to care for yourselves."
"You would have us give up on Athos?"
There was no anger left in his voice, and Aramis was too tired to chastise himself for that failure. Giving up, giving in... It was not in his nature; at least he had not thought so before Savoy... but maybe...
"Is it giving up to accept peace if the Lord deigns to give it to him?" Jean-Jacques asked, his voice once more completely devoid of judgement.
Aramis had asked God for mercy, had begged for it.
Prayers were always answered, though not necessarily in the way imagined or desired. Was this to be the answer to his prayers?
Aramis was not ordinarily one to subscribe to the "toil in this life, joy in the next" philosophy some preachers favoured. He loved life. Every fibre of his being strove for joy, for fulfilment and new experiences. He did not see that as precluding an equally joyous existence in heaven.
But what joy had Athos known? Some, years ago, with the wife who betrayed him, and then whatever dregs of happiness he occasionally found at the bottom of a bottle.
"But he had gotten better," he said; only realising that he was voicing his thoughts after the words had left his lips.
"The last few months," he clarified. "Athos was... better."
In his mind's eye images appeared of shy, fleeting smiles, of occasional glances full of pride at d'Artagnan's development, short, sharp memories of acerbic humour and quick wit. Athos had lived, and to some degree had found contentment in it.
"God's healing takes many forms," Jean-Jacques said and his smile was as warm as those recollections. "For my thoughts are not your thoughts: nor your ways my ways, says the Lord."
If tetanus was to be a remedy for Athos' melancholia, then truly Aramis had no hope of following the Lord's reasoning.
Maybe true healing could not be found in this life. Maybe Athos would never find true peace as long as he lived. Maybe...
Aramis shuddered. Jean-Jacques' hand was there again, warm and gentle, calming him.
Grounding him.
"I'm not asking you to make a decision, René," he said. "Merely to open your heart to whatever may come. You know better than I do that his suffering cannot continue forever. Whichever way the Lord decrees to end it... accept it."
Accept death.
Sweet death.
An end to the spasms, an end to the agony, an end to them... but a relief from suffering. A whole week of constant pain, of very little sleep or food, a week of slow drops of water and wine administered with endless patience because it was the only way to keep him alive. Aramis could no longer distinguish between one spasm and the next. They all blended into one another, an endless series of bouts of torture.
Athos shaking.
Athos with tears in his eyes.
Athos arching on the bed.
Athos groaning, then screaming in agony.
Athos with his back bent to break.
Athos too weak to even voice his pain.
At this point, maybe death would be the easy way out. Maybe — no, certainly, it would be a relief, and maybe that also meant it was desirable. Maybe a man brought so low, unable to feed or clean himself, unable to speak, unable to move on his own behalf... maybe a man in such a state would truly welcome death. Maybe they were doing Athos a disservice by keeping him alive.
A choked sob escaped Aramis' lips. He swallowed heavily around the lump in his throat, forcing down the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.
Maybe death was mercy.
But somehow he was still Athos. Somewhere deep within the patient, there was still the man. There were glimpses of his dry sense of humour through the suffering; there was the quiet determination that not even the relentless assault of tetanus had been able to vanquish entirely.
Acceptance.
Acceptance of suffering, acceptance of an end to suffering, whatever shape that may take. What caused such turmoil in Aramis' mind seemed to come naturally to Athos himself. Given what had happened earlier, given the utter failure of all their attempts to soothe the pain, maybe Jean-Jacques was right, maybe acceptance was obligatory.
Aramis had lost track of the time, but when he bade his friend farewell at the steps of Saint-Sulpice, the night was dark and the streets near empty. The few people that remained on the roads were moving swiftly, eager to reach their homes. Aramis himself felt calmer, almost ready to face his return to the garrison. Whatever he was about to return to, he felt better equipped to handle it.
Together they could deal with this; maybe together they could even accept it.
Jean-Jacques gave him a warm smile.
"Do not fear, René," he said. "God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind."
The words stayed with Aramis as he walked across the churchyard and down the road.
Power.
Love.
A sound mind.
They had the love, definitely; they could do that. They all loved Athos; loved him fiercely and guarded him jealously. And he let them love him, though he had little choice but to accept their care and affection. Maybe, possibly, he was actually benefitting from it as well. There had been slight approximations of smiles; there had been some appreciative words when he still had the strength.
Power, however... power was a difficult one. He had felt powerless, completely helpless in the face of the overwhelming reality of tetanus. But what was power? They had no power to heal Athos, no power to lessen his pain, but Aramis no longer felt entirely impotent. While there was little to be done for Athos' body, they could still care for his mind; they could be there for him and accompany him on this journey. And wherever it may lead, they would follow him to the end, they would as much as possible show acceptance.
A sound mind, now Aramis was certainly closer to that after his visit to Saint-Sulpice. He could breathe again, the clench of the guilt and horror having eased somewhat. He felt in his right mind now, still hurt, but also composed. He could go back, he could face all of this again and he could see it through to its conclusion.
Having been in no mood for a leisurely evening meal, he returned earlier than he usually did on a Wednesday night. Nevertheless, the garrison lay in unusual darkness and silence. On a mild night such as this, there would normally be a few musketeers in the courtyard at any time. Tonight, there was only a faint flicker of light and the soft murmur of voices emanating from the kitchen.
Aramis hesitated, one foot on the bottom step. He could go to the kitchen. Maybe they knew, maybe they could tell him if... He shook his head, dislodging the thought, and slowly climbed the stairs. They seemed both longer and steeper than before.
It felt an age ago now, but Aramis was reminded of Athos being helped up these stairs by Porthos and d'Artagnan. It would have seemed odd to Athos to struggle with so basic a task — annoying perhaps, possibly embarrassing. But he hadn't known... Aramis had. At least he had known the name of what ailed Athos, though that did not prepare him for what was to come.
He lingered on the landing, straining his ears and eyes to try and get a hint of what was happening inside Tréville's room. The only sound he could hear was the scraping of chairs and the clink of cutlery from downstairs. No light, no sound; surely that was a good sign? It meant they were still taking care not to trigger Athos' spasms and if everything had remained dark and silent in the room, then Athos was still alive.
Or they were holding a dark and silent vigil.
He hadn't been gone long, but dead could be quick, merciful, and if Athos had died... Aramis tried to force down his panic. Deep breaths. Athos wasn't dead. If he had died, there would be more activity now, there would be a priest being called, and there would be people coming to mourn him.
Or Porthos and d'Artagnan were grieving in silence.
Maybe it had just happened. Maybe they were waiting for him to give him a chance to say his adieu.
He shouldn't have stayed away for so long.
But he had needed the time away. He could not have done anything to ease Athos' passing. It did nobody any good if he tortured himself now.
Maybe Athos was still alive.
Aramis threaded his fingers through his hair. All he had to do was open that door and see for himself, but somehow the simple act seemed an impossible challenge to him. He pulled his hair sharply, making his scalp sting. It shouldn't be that difficult. They were his friends; he wanted to be with them, he wanted to know, yet...
He spun around at the sound of the kitchen door opening. Soft firelight flooded the dark courtyard and Aramis drew back into the shadow. For a moment the voices were louder, though he still couldn't make out any words, then the door clicked shut again.
He recognised Porthos' broad shape immediately. Porthos stretched his back and rolled his shoulders, before slowly making his way up the stairs, carrying a heavy jug and humming softly to himself.
Porthos was humming a bawdy tavern song and Aramis was panicking over opening a door. Porthos was obviously coping fine without him. At least one of them was coping. Aramis drew back further, but he knew that there was no escape. Porthos was bound to see him. And then what?
Porthos rounded the corner. Aramis couldn't see his face in the gloom, but he could see the slight twitch when Porthos realised that he wasn't alone, and then the instantaneous release of the tension and the spreading of a big grin.
"You're back," Porthos said. Not surprised, not accusing, just genuinely happy to see him. He covered the last few paces in two big steps and pulled Aramis into a fierce embrace.
Aramis melted into his friend's arms, ignoring the ice-cold water that was seeping into his clothes from where his back had collided with the flagon in Porthos' hand. He was home.
God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
"Better?" Porthos asked, his voice so low it was only a low grumble in his chest, more movement than sound.
"Better," Aramis confirmed. "Athos?"
He could feel Porthos' sigh against his ear and then the hug tightened.
Aramis stiffened in the embrace.
Porthos gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"He's alive."
Aramis pushed away from Porthos slightly and scrubbed a hand across his face.
"Good," he said. "Good."
He had to repeat it, whether to convince himself or Porthos, he didn't know.
After a slight pause, Porthos nodded. Then he took a step back and leaned against one of the wooden pillars.
"Did you know Tréville forbade him to commit suicide?" he said without preamble.
Aramis braced himself against the bannister, looking out into the darkness like he had some hours before. He could not bear to face Porthos for that conversation. He nodded jerkily. It was no secret that Athos had been in a bad place when he first joined the regiment. Tréville, with his great knowledge of men, had only allowed him to become a musketeer after Athos had sworn never to throw away his life needlessly. If it had been anything like the day when Aramis himself had had to take that oath, he had done so with no small measure of regret.
"Tonight has been bad," Porthos said, dropping his head against the wood with an audible thud. "He's in so much pain... And Tréville, he came back and he saw him and... " His voice had dropped to a whisper. "He said he wouldn't blame him now, that it was only natural to give in." Porthos cleared his throat. "He said that to wish him life now was to wish him ill."
Aramis dropped his head into his hands. These were no new thoughts, but to hear Porthos voice them, to hear that Tréville had said this... it made it real.
"Whatever the Lord decides," Aramis said at length. "We have to accept it."
After a few moments of silence, Porthos sighed deeply and pushed himself upright.
"For now he's alive," he said, once again squeezing Aramis' shoulder.
Aramis turned to face him.
"And we are here for him," he said.
Porthos nodded.
"Have you eaten?" he asked and Aramis could picture the critical look in his eyes despite the darkness.
"Yes," he lied.
"Good," Porthos said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "She always takes good care of you."
Aramis just nodded. It wasn't that Jean-Jacques was a shameful secret, it wasn't that he had anything to hide from his friends, but somehow his Wednesday nights were private. They were something pure and clean to wash away the blood and mud when it became too much.
Apparently satisfied that Aramis was as well as he could be, Porthos steered him into Tréville's room before Aramis had a chance to protest or even think about what to expect on the inside.
The candles had burned low, and d'Artagnan looked tired, but he smiled at them.
"Good to have you back," he said. "Did you have a good evening?"
Aramis shrugged.
In one swift move, d'Artagnan got up and draped his arm across Aramis' shoulder.
"Know the feeling," he said. "I was the same. It's not like you can really get away. Your mind is always kind of... and you want to come back, but you don't. We've managed all right here, though. I've just been telling Athos... well, things..."
The way his voice caught at the end, Aramis was reasonably sure that things was closely related to Constance, but he didn't say anything. He let his young friend guide him towards the bed. There they stood and looked at Athos, d'Artagnan's arm still slung across Aramis' shoulders. Athos lay still, muscles rigid, but not contracting, eyes staring up at them unseeingly. He looked like a ghost, pale and somehow not quite there, leaving them already. Porthos came to stand behind them, and somehow the presence of his friends comforted Aramis. They were in this together; they were here for Athos, no matter where his path might lead.
"Did anything happen while I was downstairs?" Porthos asked.
"No change," d'Artagnan replied. "He hasn't moved at all, not even his eyes."
"Took a bit longer than expected," Porthos said. "They all wanted to know how you are doing, Athos. Whole bunch of them in the kitchen and all thinking of you."
Silence fell between the four of them, but it was not the usual, comfortable silence of long rides and late nights. This silence hung heavily between them. Nevertheless, Aramis was glad he had returned. With d'Artagnan and Porthos crowded so close around him, he felt safe. There was nobody he'd rather have at his side for this.
"I count each breath," d'Artagnan said at last.
Because I fear that each breath might be his last, Aramis completed in his mind.
And would that be so bad?
Even after his conversation with Jean-Jacques, Aramis struggled with the notion that healing might only be found in heaven. But he could not ignore the evidence in front of him. Athos looked thoroughly miserable and it was undeniable that he was suffering far beyond what anyone should have to bear.
Listening to his breaths, Aramis noticed how uneven they were, hasty pants followed by deep gasps for air, with no recognisable rhythm. It was so unlike Athos. Athos' breathing was always measured, always controlled. Athos treasured control and discipline almost above everything else. For him to breathe so raggedly, he had to be far gone indeed.
Perhaps they should have given him his pistol.
Translations & Explanations
Ne pas subir —"Do not give in", though actually the proper English translation has been the subject of some debate. Other suggestions include "Never surrender". It's the motto of the French 2nd Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment stationed in Réunion. Furthermore, the motto of Jean de Lattre de Tassigny, a French general and (posthumously) Maréchal de France, also the French representative at Berlin on the 8th of May 1945, with Eisenhower, Zhukov and Montgomery.
Rue du Vieux Colombier — Street in Paris where the musketeers' garrison is located. Still exists and carries the same name today.
Saint Sulpice — Church on the eponymous street, local church to the garrison. Not the church that's there today, a much smaller and simpler one stood there in the 17th century. I'll post pictures on my Tumblr.
Mon père — literally "my father", honorific for a priest
Jean-Jacques Olier — 1608-1657, priest at Saint Sulpice, founder of the Sulpicians, a great advocate for the poor and the outcast, and a favoured advisor for Queen Anne of Austria. Have a look at his Wikipedia entry, he's a pretty fascinating historical character.
Nom de guerre — "war name", an assumed name under which a person engages in combat or some other activity or enterprise, "Aramis" instead of his birth name René d'Herblay.
James 1:12 — "Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him"
Psalm 126: 5-6 — "They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Going they went and wept, casting their seeds. But coming they shall come with joyfulness, carrying their sheaves."
Romans 8:28 — "We know that all things work together for the best unto them that love God, to those who are called according to His purpose."
Isaiah 55:8 — "For my thoughts are not your thoughts: nor your ways my ways, says the Lord."
2 Timothy 1:7 — "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind"