Porthos was right. After Aramis lost his temper and threw the first punch, which had knocked Athos from his rock into the creek, his anger had rapidly dissipated. He knew, as a medic and a friend, he shouldn't have hit the man, but he had been furious. After all the years they had been together, all the things they had endured and survived, to hear Athos say he should be dead was incomprehensible. God damn the people who made Athos like this, destroying his self-esteem so thoroughly that no matter how many extraordinary things the swordsman accomplished, a niggle of self-loathing always gnawed at his soul.
While Aramis had quickly come to his senses, Athos had not, and he was fighting blindly, his mind past knowing what it was directing his body to do. Athos wasn't fighting Aramis, and in fact when his reason returned, he would be horrified at his behavior. Athos was fighting the demons and self-doubt that tore at his soul.
Aramis knew the promotion to Captain, the weight of responsibility thrust upon him, the near loss of his brothers, Catherine's death at his hand, and the upcoming war with Spain was overwhelming the normally stoic man. Even d'Artagnan's wedding had been a concern for that would weigh on his mind when he sent the lad into battle. Not that other musketeers weren't married, but personally knowing Constance as well as Athos did, and having to face her if he caused the love-of-her-life's demise was a heavy burden to bear.
Aramis knew his own disappearance, however brief, to the monastery, had scarred his brother's soul, even though the swordsman had bid him adieu, saying he understood the marksman's rationale. But Aramis suspected he hadn't, not really, but had put up the proper front for the good of the rest of the men, a trait that might kill him someday.
Nothing was ever done for the good of Athos and if there was a choice to be made, even if it meant the swordsman would suffer, he would always choose his own suffering over that of anyone else's. It was what made him great and it was his Achilles heel. And it was this instinct for self-destruction that his brothers did their best to keep in check with their love.
This fight had gone on long enough, and Aramis could see Athos' physical body shutting down on him, even if his mind hadn't figured that out yet. When Athos swung and completely missed him, Aramis stepped close and enveloped the failing man in an embrace that was both a hug and a prison. Slowly, he guided Athos, who finally had ceased trying to break free of his grip, to the shore where he helped lower the man onto the sun-dappled grass. Porthos, seeing the skirmish was over, swiftly moved to where the two men were sitting on the bank, and dropped to the earth to serve as a back rest for the exhausted Athos.
d'Artagnan, who had trailed after the street fighter, was amazed to see the level of intimacy Athos was allowing his brothers. He had only seen Athos allow himself to be this detached from his normally ridged self-control once or twice before, and Porthos was right, it was only when the man was totally exhausted, both mentally and physically. The Gascon settled on the ground near his mentor, laying a companionable hand on the man's lower leg, just to let Athos know he was here for him too.
Aramis knelt on the grass next to Athos, leaned forward, cupped his face and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Forgive me, brother. And forgive yourself."
Aramis sat back, watching the struggle which was occurring in the anguished green eyes of his best friend.
''I wronged her," Athos whispered, his voice hoarse and haunted.
Surprisingly, it was Porthos who answered from behind him and his words weren't what his other brothers expected. "Aye. You probably did wrong her. On some level. Years ago. But playing the 'what-if' game serves no purpose, Athos. We have no clue how life would have turned out, even if we had made different choices in the past. I used to think what-if my mother hadn't died, what-if my father had claimed me, what-if I hadn't grown up in the Court of Miracles, what-if I had been all white or all black. But it wasn't serving any purpose, so I let go of what-if and lived the life I had been given."
That advice, coming from Porthos, was more profound than any philosopher. Porthos knew Athos had taken it to heart when he felt the man's hand reach over and gently squeeze his forearm.
Aramis, instinctively knowing that the Catherine conversation had been put to rest, moved on to tackle the next issue, a long overdue conversation he needed to have with his brothers. Nervously, he slicked his wet hair back from his face, struggling where to begin.
"I owe all of you my life… my gratitude for what you did to Rochefort. I know revenge is wrong, but after what he did to Anne..."
"What he did to the Queen was wrong," Porthos interrupted. "What we did wasn't revenge. It was righting a wrong."
"The man was a traitor and a spy for the Spanish," d'Artagnan declared, backing up Porthos.
"True, but what he suffered, in prison warped him whether Rochefort realized it or not. And what about his love for the Queen? How was his love for her different than mine?" Aramis mournfully gazed at his brothers.
Athos raised his head from where it had drooped against Porthos' shoulder. "Because, for whatever reason, the Queen eagerly accepts your attention. Rochefort's she did not. Both are acts of treason, by law. But yours is consensual. Misguided to be sure, but sanctioned by both parties."
Aramis met Athos' gaze, knowing the man would never condone his actions with the Queen. But the same sense of duty and honor that wouldn't let Athos agree with the act, also forced the swordsman to protect the Queen, the dauphin and Aramis, his brother.
"I also regret the pain I caused each of you by leaving to go to the monastery. Your trust that I broke. With all that happened, after my vow to God, I could see no other path. But I was wrong to run away and hide and God, and you, my brothers, showed me that. I beg your forgiveness and humble myself at your feet for my actions."
"Too flowery as always, alter-boy," Porthos grumbled, looking at the nearly prostrate man. And though he joked, he had been deeply hurt, and he wanted Aramis to understand. "You broke not only my trust, but my heart. You didn't even try to talk to me, explain why you had to go. You simply announced God told you to go and walked away."
Anger started coloring Porthos' tone and his body grew rigid behind Athos. "Damn it, Aramis. Your whole affair with the Queen was sheer stupidity from the outset. You can never keep your dick where it belongs. Maybe I get diddling the Cardinal's mistress and the lonely wives of neglectful husbands, the barmaids and the whores. But the Queen? That was a whole other level of stupidity. You put Athos' life, all our lives and reputations at risk for what?"
"Love," Aramis returned, honestly. "I love her."
"You could have love her from afar for the rest of your life. You didn't have to act upon it!"
"I know what I did was wrong, but you don't understand, you weren't there," Aramis lamented softly.
Porthos snorted, despairingly. "Aye, good thing 'cause I would have dropped you out the nearest window."
"I thought about handing him over to the enemy," Athos mumbled under his breath. "But at that point what was done, was done."
"And I can forgive you all that folly, for you are my brother and I love you. But it nearly killed me that you could so easily forsake us, after all we have been through." Porthos' chocolate brown eyes sought out the marksman's own. "I don't know what I would have done, if you hadn't come back from that monastery. To go off to war without you..." Porthos shook his head. "Maybe it is selfish of me, but I want you, I need you, at my side to get through what is coming."
It grew quiet as they thought about the upcoming war. What atrocities would they face? What vile acts would they be forced to commit? What if they didn't survive? What of the regiment? Their way of life? Constance? France herself!
"Captain, I mean Minister Treville knew what he was doing when he chose you, Athos, to replace him," d'Artagnan stated with conviction, feeling his reluctant leader needed to hear his words.
Athos swept his eyes over all his brother's before speaking with total honesty. "I don't want this job."
The swordsman waited expectantly for the look of disappointment from his brothers. The same look he had received from his parents, his brother, his wife, his relatives, and many others over the course of his life. And he was shocked, when his brothers didn't look at him that way. They looked at him with love and acceptance.
It was d'Artagnan that finally broke the silence. "Who would?" the Gascon stated frankly. "I wouldn't want the job."
"You have extraordinary talent, d'Artagnan. One day you will be Captain of the Musketeers," Athos declared with total sincerity. "You have in you to be the greatest of us all."
"Because I'm learning from you... all of you. I have great mentors. Captain Treville has taught me much as my Captain, and I know I will learn more under your keen leadership, Athos. And one day, if I am honored to be asked to lead the musketeers, I shall. I won't want to any more than you do, for it is a great and terrifying responsibility. But I have been taught my place, my duty, and my honor by the best, and I shall not let them down. No more than you will."
Aramis picked up the thread and ran with it. "I understand, Athos. Treville has not asked you to be Captain of the regiment during peace, but during war. Let me be blunt, for I know you would want nothing less. You will be sending men to their deaths, even us, your brothers. How could the prospect of making such weighty decisions not pray on your mind and eat at your soul?"
Around him, Aramis' other two brothers were nodding in solemn agreement while Athos simply stared off into the distance. But the marksman knew he was listening, by the telltale tightening in his jawline, which was not completely hidden by his beard.
"We are musketeers. We knew what we signed up for when we received our commissions and pledged our loyalty to King and Country. We will do what we are told. Fight and die as we must. And I would rather do that under a Captain I trust. One I know is looking out for the best interests of France, as well as his men. Able to make the tough decisions, even if that means sending his troops to certain death, when that is the right call. Athos, I...we...," he gestured to his brothers "...the regiment will follow your lead and storm the very gates of hell, if that is what you command because we trust you and know you will act honorably. That is why the Treville chose you."
"Yeah," Porthos cut in. "You're not taking this position for your own glory or vanity. You are taking it for us. To give us the best chance at coming out of this alive and victorious."
With great humility, Athos dropped his head to his chest, overcome by the trust these men, the Minister, and the regiment put in his ability to lead them. It wasn't that any of this could ever totally put his demons to rest, but he owed it to his men to fight past his own insecurities and do his best to serve them.
With overwhelming dignity that was born and bred into him, Athos made them a solemn vow. "I shall remember first and foremost to honor the trust being bestowed on me, by you, Treville, and the regiment. I will strive to make the appropriate decisions, even if painful, as required of me by my King and Country. I shall not seek death nor shall I shun it if that is what duty calls for. I make and expect that same pledge from you, my brothers. Don't seek death for the sake of one of your brothers. Being left alive, at the expense of your brother, is a death unto itself."
"You best be rememberin' that yourself, Captain. Your track record, to date, of makin' stupid decisions to save our skins ain't too great," Porthos reminded him.
A small quirk pulled at the corner of Athos' mouth as he dipped his head in acknowledgement.
"You won't go through this alone," Aramis swore as he reached out to clasp Athos' hand. "We will always be at your side, a safe haven in the storm, if you allow us."
Porthos added his hand to the clasp. "Don't push us away. Don't try to go it alone. Nothing you will ever do will stop us from supporting you."
To complete the pact, d'Artagnan added his hand to the clasp. "You taught me head over heart, and that is true in a battle. But when you are not in mortal combat, remember that the heart truly does have a role in life. Letting people see your heart is not such a terrible thing."
Once more they pledged their allegiance to each other. "All for one," they intoned together. "And one for all."
As usual, after such a heavy moment, Aramis forced them back onto the path of joviality.
"Well, gentlemen," he began as they let go of each other's hands. "I think it is best if we get our new Captain out of the sun, before certain a part of his lily white anatomy gets burnt by the sun and he is unable to sit upon his horse. It is pretty difficult to look formidable riding into battle lying face first on a litter."
A blush stained a few fore-cheeks as the men realized this solemn conversation had been conducted, el natural.
"Athos, I need to stitch that gash closed once more," Aramis declared as he rose from the ground.
"You will put your trousers on? It would be rather... disconcerting... for you to conduct medical procedures in your present state," Athos deadpanned as only he could.
"What?" Aramis preened, striking an Adonis-like pose. "I think I cut a rather fine specimen. The ladies certainly seem to think so."
A semi-wet pair of braies smacked Aramis in the face, courtesy of Porthos. "I told you to keep your dick in your pants, now didn't I?"
"Point taken," Aramis conceded as he slipped into his drawers.
d'Artagnan walked over to where Athos sat, offered him a hand to pull him to his feet, and then politely handed him his damp braies. Athos, with a steadying hand from the lad, worked them on. The Gascon had already donned his drawers before he brought Athos his, leaving only Porthos in his birthday suit. Three sets of eyes lit upon the naked man who had stretched out in the grass.
"What?" he asked as he felt their eyes upon his person. "I don't have to worry about burning like you boys. I think I'll take a nice snooze in this delightful sunshine." To emphasize his point, he rolled over onto his stomach, cradling his head in his arms, before closing his eyes.
Aramis simply shook his head as he dragged Athos off to stitch his wound. "You know, Captain," he started after he had begun redoing his handy work. "What happened to the rule on how hiding one's injuries is dangerous to us all."
"I wasn't hiding anything." Athos grimaced as Aramis stuck him deliberately and a bit too vigorously. "You knew about this wound," he grunted painfully through clenched teeth.
"Sorry," Aramis said by rote even though both men knew he wasn't. "But you weren't taking care of it now were you. Where does that fall into your rule?"
"Perhaps we need an addendum," the swordsman drawled before hissing once more from the prick of the needle's relentless point.
"Perhaps, Captain, we do. Something along the lines of I will alert my brothers immediately upon being injured, not when I get around to it. And once my wound is stitched, I will do everything in my power not to mangle myself further until I am fully recovered. I shall respect the fine needlework my medic has so painstakingly etched on my body and treat it with dignity and respect."
"Don't you think that is overly long?" Athos suggested drolly.
Aramis' retort was swift and emphasized with another needle prick. "Work with it, Captain."
"You know I hate when you call me Captain."
Aramis glanced up from his stitching and grinned at Athos. "Yes, I do know."
"So why do you it?" Athos asked, his tone indicating his puzzlement.
"A form of passive aggressiveness, I suppose." Aramis stabbed the needle through Athos' skin once more. "I can't always punch you to indicate my annoyance with your behavior."
"Let me see if I understand. You call me Captain, when you are annoyed, instead of punching me."
"Something like that. But also when I want to capture your attention, because as soon as I say Captain, it annoys you and you focus your attention on me."
"Interesting," Athos said without much conviction.
The two men dropped into silence as Aramis finished closing the wound and tying it off with a neat and tidy knot. Next he flushed it with alcohol, after allowing Athos a few sips from the bottle, for which the swordsman was grateful as his newly stitched wound was quite painful. Finally, the musketeer-medic rewrapped Athos' torso in a clean bandage.
"There. Done. Now heed my advice. Don't aggravate it until it heals. We go to war in less than a month. You need to be healthy."
Athos nodded to show he understood the message. Rising, Aramis gathered his supplies and went to stow them in his saddlebags. Glancing over his shoulder towards where Porthos was still stretched out in the sun, Aramis began to laugh.
"Oh Captain," the marksman called out in a sing-song voice.
"What could I possibly being doing at the moment that is annoying you?" Athos asked with exasperation. He was simply sitting on a log.
"Not annoyed, but I do need your attention. Unless, that is, you want one less musketeer to take to the front."
Athos quirked an eyebrow as he followed Aramis' gaze.
"I suggest you stop the whelp before he dumps that anthill on Porthos. I fear it won't end well."
Cursing under his breath, Athos rose and barked in his best Captain's voice, "d'Artagnan!"
The guilty Gascon looked over at him, grinned and shrugged as he continued to advance on the unsuspecting Porthos.
"Why the hell do I want this job?" Athos growled. Apparently, he had said it louder than he intended too because three voices answered his question.
"Because you love us!"
THE END
Author's Note: I hope this was worth sticking around for, even it the word count is like 100x the limit, plus or minus 10%. As always, the mistakes are mine and I love to hear your thoughts and comments.