Episode 5 – To Play the King

Clemency

As they stepped through the archway to the garrison courtyard, Porthos clamped a hand on Aramis' shoulder and directed the marksman toward the bench near the table at the foot of the stairs. Aramis wanted to protest, tell his friend he was fine, but he wasn't quite up to lying at the moment.

His face hurt. His jaw was on fire and his head pounded in time with his heart. He'd kept the handkerchief Athos had given him pressed to the wound and he knew it had stopped bleeding for the most part, but it still burned, the close range damage due more to the heat of the shot than the actual bullet.

He allowed his friend to turn him and push him onto the bench, noting d'Artagnan settle himself against the table top beside him, as if he intended to block Aramis from the side should he have the mind to attempt an escape.

Porthos reached forward and gently placed a hand over his own, moving the blood-stained cloth from his face.

"That's gonna leave a scar," the big man hissed, stooping down and tilting his head to get a better look at the damage.

Aramis attempted to smile, wincing as the motion pulled at the wound. "And yet I'd do it all the same if need be."

Porthos snorted a laugh. "I know you would." He stood up and crossed his arms on his chest, his eyes narrowing as he studied his friend's marred face. "Why do you think the King was so angry?"

"His wife did just get assaulted on palace grounds," d'Artagnan reminded him. "I think we can understand him being a bit put out."

Porthos shook his head thoughtfully, his eyes holding Aramis' "Nah. He was mad at you specifically," he accused the marksman. "You think he knows?"

Aramis shrugged. "How?" he asked. "He was convinced everything Rochefort said was lies. And it's not like I've been around for the last four years for him to be reminded."

"Perhaps the Queen slipped," Porthos offered. "Said something to make him suspicious again?"

"No," Aramis shook his head, wincing again as the ache in his skull ticked up a notch. "She would never do anything that could endanger her son. She's smarter than that."

Porthos nodded in agreement. "Though it seems somethin's changed. We best keep you out of his sight until we know what's what."

Aramis hummed in agreement, not wanting to make things harder for Anne. It was obvious something had happened in the time he was gone for her to have fallen out of favor with the King. Perhaps d'Artagnan was right and it was just his fear speaking, but Aramis doubted it. He'd dealt with more than his share of jealous husbands, and he had clearly seen resentment and mistrust in Louis' eyes when he'd seen them together.

Porthos brushed the cloth against the still seeping wound. "We'd better get this cleaned up. Be right back."

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief that his friend was wise enough to leave the situation with the Queen alone for now. He placed the cloth back on the wound, noticing the Gascon sitting silently to his right. D'Artagnan was perched on the edge of the table, feet on the bench, arms balanced on his upturned thighs. His head was bowed, dark hair falling across his cheek, his gaze locked onto his clasped hands. D'Artagnan's eyes were distant and unfocused and Aramis sensed he wasn't seeing anything so corporeal as what was right in front of him.

"You did what was necessary to protect the Queen, d'Artagnan," Aramis consoled, rightly assuming Borel's demise was what was weighing so heavily in the younger man's mind. "I, for one, thank you."

D'Artagnan huffed a breath through his lips. "I didn't help those nuns at all," he mumbled. "I got them killed."

"You tried to help a troubled soul."

"I was a fool."

"You were human," Aramis countered, lowering the cloth, his physical pain forgotten in the wake of his friend's emotional turmoil. "There was no way for you to foresee how sick the man truly was."

D'Artagnan turned to him, an expression of dismay on his face. "How can you of all people say that?" He shook his head. "I saw how hard you fought to protect those monks at the monastery. Would you have been so forgiving if it was them lying dead?"

"The Abbé died because I did not insist he turn those men away, despite my knowing they would be trouble. Am I to blame for his death?"

"Of course not," d'Artagnan sputtered. "Those men killed him, not you."

"Just as you cannot be held accountable for what happened to those nuns."

The Gascon still wasn't convinced. "But I let him go," he argued. "If I had returned him to the Chatelet…"

"You tried to help him."

"And look where it got me."

Aramis sighed. "Please don't believe compassion a weakness, d'Artagnan. Too many men make the mistake of seeing basic human kindness as something undeserved. That is how men like Rochefort and Governor Feron are created. I would hate to see you go down that path because of what you perceive as a mistake."

"And what about you?"

Aramis smiled. "I know what I am. I may not always make the right decision, but I will always try to remain true to myself. I only ask that you strive to do the same."

D'Artagnan held Aramis' eyes for a moment and the marksman could see the war being waged in his mind. Finally he nodded, not totally absolved of his guilt, but a bit lighter for the conversation nonetheless.

"So what do we do about the King?"

Aramis shrugged. "Besides making sure I am not in his direct line of sight for the foreseeable future? I have no idea."

"And if that's not possible?"

Aramis took a deep breath and leaned back against the edge of the table. "Then my fate is sealed. If he has decided Rochefort was being truthful in this instance at least, there is little that can be done."

"So you're giving up?"

"No. But I will not deny the truth a second time."

"Perhaps you could return to the monastery?" d'Artagnan suggested. "You would be safe there."

"Yet the Queen would not." Aramis shook his head. "I made that mistake once and it seems it only left doubt to fester and postpone the inevitable."

"We will stand beside you, Aramis," the younger man stated. "And her. You know that."

"I do. Which is why I left in the first place." Aramis dropped his head, unable to meet the Gascon's gaze. "I would never forgive myself if anything happened to any of you because of me."

"All for one, right?" d'Artagnan dipped his head, trying to catch his friend's eyes.

"I'm not so sure that applies anymore," Aramis admitted.

"Says who?"

"Porthos? Athos?" Aramis shrugged again. "It seems my absence has consequences that reach farther than I could've ever anticipated."

"That's rubbish," Porthos' voice chimed in from behind. The big man rounded the table, his arms loaded with a basin of water, some clean cloths, a cup and two flasks of wine. He placed the cup and a flask on the table near d'Artagnan then turned his attention to the marksman, tilting his head toward the stairs. "Let's go then," he ordered. "I'm sure you have a few things in your room that'll help ease the pain, eh?"

Aramis grinned and allowed d'Artagnan to help him to his feet. "And if not, I'm sure that wine has medicinal properties." He turned back to the younger man as they passed. "d'Artagnan, try not to brood for too long."

"And if you do, come get us," Porthos added. "And more wine."

The Gascon snorted a laugh and turned to sit at the table properly, shedding his doublet as he moved. "I promise to find you should my cup run dry." He reached for the flask, saluting his friends before pouring a healthy serving into the cup.

Aramis shuffled after Porthos toward the stairs, throwing a glance over his shoulder. He hoped his young friend would find a way to forgive himself, knowing just how fleeting a thing mercy could be.

Fin