Summary: Aramis's friends have a gift for him.
"The Tippling Stick"
Aramis ran a hand down his beard as the words on the parchment began to blur together. He didn't regret his decision to become the Queen's First Minister, as it afforded him proximity both to her and his son, but some days the paperwork made him question the trade off.
"You're getting gray," a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.
Aramis snapped his head up in surprise. Athos stood there, dressed in a traveling cloak and hair tied back. Aramis broke into a wide smile as he got up. "Have you not looked in a mirror lately?"
Athos grinned and moved forward to embrace him. Aramis gave him a hearty pat on the back.
"How are you? Are Sylvie and Raoul here?"
"I'm well, as are they. It's just me, though." Athos took a step back to look Aramis up and down. "First Minister suits you."
Aramis snorted. "It's no life of a musketeer."
"And yet you still found yourself on the wrong end of a blade last year."
Aramis rolled his eyes. "D'Artagnan has a big mouth."
"Your gait has a noticeable misstep."
"Have you come all this way just to insult me?"
Athos's lips twitched. "Actually, I had another purpose, but we're short two participants."
Aramis arched a curious brow, but before he could query further, a boisterous pair strolled through the open door. His face broke into another beaming grin at his visitors. "Porthos!"
Porthos returned the toothy grin and threw his arms around Aramis, giving him a squishing squeeze.
"I thought you were going to wait for us," d'Artagnan accused.
"You were late," Athos replied mildly.
Aramis drew back, keeping one hand on Porthos's shoulder. "I didn't know you'd gotten leave to return from the front."
"That's why it's called a surprise," d'Artagnan put in cheekily. He tossed another scowl at Athos. "One that would have been better had you waited."
Athos merely shrugged. "This way he got surprised twice."
Aramis shook his head in amusement. "It's good to see you all." The tides of change had taken them all far away from each other, but in this moment, their brotherhood felt as secure as the day they'd parted. "What's the occasion?"
Porthos's brows rose sharply. "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday."
Aramis blinked, then laughed. "Not until this moment, no."
Porthos grinned. "Well, we're here to celebrate with you."
"I don't think I have enough wine for that."
The four of them shared a round of smirks.
"Speaking of that, we have a gift for you," Athos said and pulled out a long package wrapped in cloth from under his cloak.
"We all pitched in," Porthos added. "But Athos had it made."
Aramis raised his brows, intrigued. Athos handed the item over, and Aramis could immediately tell it was too light to be a weapon, and also too small to tell its shape beneath the folds of fabric. He turned to set it on his desk and unwrap it. Inside he found a slim walking stick of rich, polished wood and a brass topper. He couldn't help the twinge of embarrassment even as he could appreciate the craftsmanship.
"It's exquisite," he managed to say as he picked it up. The fleur-de-lis fine metal work was intricately beautiful.
"I say you look distinguished with it," d'Artagnan said.
Porthos nodded his agreement.
"It's only partially meant for walking," Athos interjected, a knowing smirk on his face as he studied Aramis's expression.
"And the other use is, what? Bashing people over the head?" Aramis quipped.
"Twist the join off."
Aramis inspected the place where the wood and brass connected, and with a gentle tug, found that they unscrewed. The inside of the stick had a hidden compartment, and the light caught on some glass within. Aramis carefully tipped the cane, and a very long, very thin glass vial came sliding out. It was full of amber liquid. Aramis arched a brow as he plucked the cork top out and took a sniff.
"Wow, that's the good stuff," he said, grinning in amusement.
"Check the top," d'Artagnan prompted.
Aramis took a closer look at the brass topper and found that it unscrewed as well. Inside was another secret compartment and a small silver cup.
"For those meetings of state you're constantly lamenting," Porthos said.
"And no one will be the wiser that it isn't a simple walking stick for that old injury," Athos added.
Aramis chuckled. "Thank you, my friends. It truly is a magnificent gift. But I'm afraid this is definitely not enough drink for us to share." He carefully placed the cup and spirits back in their respective slots and screwed the pieces back together, then went to the door to summon a servant to fetch some wine.
It was perhaps a little early in the day for France's First Minister, the Captain of the Musketeers, and a respected General to be getting drunk, but it also wasn't as though anyone was going to call them on it. They laughed and shared stories for hours, reveling in each other's company and basking in tales of the old glory days. Unfortunately, they would not be able to participate in their pastime of Porthos shooting a melon off Aramis's head lest one of them be arrested for attempted murder and the other branded a fool home and abroad. Both of which had more serious consequences than a lecture from Treville did back in the day.
Eventually his friends had to leave. Porthos and Athos accompanied d'Artagnan back to the garrison where they'd be staying the night. Aramis longed to go with them, but he had responsibilities in the palace, and Porthos and Athos had to get back on the morrow. It had been a very enjoyable day, though.
Aramis kept the tippling stick with him, and while he loathed to admit his one leg was often stiff after the stab wound it'd taken, having the support did offer a little relief. The secret compartment, though, was what really gave him joy walking around with it. And his friends had been right that on some occasions between state meetings, he needed a sip of that liquor to keep up his fortitude.
Then, one night when he was working late, an assassin managed to slip past the guards into Aramis's study. Aramis kept a loaded pistol in his desk's top drawer—not only for security but also because dismantling and cleaning it helped him think—and he was quick to shoot the intruder. Unfortunately, there was a second. They had come armed with daggers, which were quieter, but Aramis didn't have time to reload.
He threw the tippling stick up to catch the hilt of the blade on its way down. The assassin kicked out at Aramis's bad leg, eliciting a pained howl and bringing him to his knees. Aramis torqued the stick up to glance off the assailant's face, knocking him off balance. He then used the stick to whack at the man behind his knees, bringing him down to the same level again. With one final mighty swing, Aramis cracked the tippling stick over the assassin's skull, splintering the wood and breaking the vial inside. The assassin went down in a splash of wasted liquor.
Aramis scowled as he staggered to his feet just as some palace guards rushed in. He'd be investigating their slow response and lack of attention tonight. If there was a conspiracy, he was spared another attack by several servants also gathering at the commotion. Aramis barked for someone to send for the musketeers, then belatedly added not to wake the Queen; he'd inform her of this trespass tomorrow.
He didn't let the palace guards remove the assassins, waiting for the musketeers to take the one live prisoner into custody for questioning. He had to hold his composure in that time, and only once everyone was gone and the bodies removed did he bend down to pick up the broken pieces of his walking stick, lamenting its sacrifice.
Instead of retiring for the night, he pulled out a blank piece of parchment and began to write.
"Dear Athos,
I regret to inform you that the treasured tippling stick you, Porthos, and d'Artagnan gifted me has met an untimely end. As it turned out, I did use it to bash someone over the head. I'm sure you'll hear all about it from d'Artagnan. If you could provide me with the name of the craftsman who originally made it, I shall seek a replacement.
Aramis."
He folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, which he then sent out the next morning.
The guards complicit in the attempted assassination were outed and executed, and life went on. Aramis didn't hear back from Athos, which was disappointing. He'd gotten used to having the support of the stick, not to mention the secret stash of alcohol.
But a couple of weeks later, Athos showed up at Aramis's door again, this time with an unfamiliar gentleman.
"Aramis, this is Jean-Claude," Athos introduced. "He made the tippling stick."
"I would have made a trip to see you, monsieur," Aramis said, coming over to shake his hand. "My apologies for my friend dragging you across the country."
"He was very persuasive," Jean-Claude replied. "And has paid me for it. I understand one of my pieces was broken?"
Aramis grimaced. "That is putting it mildly."
He still had the pieces wrapped in the same cloth Athos had presented the gift to him in, and he brought it out to lay on the desk.
The artisan made a strangled sort of noise. "What did you do to it?"
"It bravely gave its life to protect me from an assassination attempt."
"Can you repair it?" Athos asked.
"I could simply pay you to craft a new one," Aramis pointed out.
"This one has history," Athos countered. "It should be preserved if possible."
Jean-Claude pursed his mouth as he studied the pieces. "I suppose I could repair it. I'd need to fashion new glass for it. The brass top is dented, but I could hammer it out… The wood will be a challenge but it's not impossible."
Athos nodded. "Good. We'll take the pieces back and I will collect the stick when it's fully repaired."
The craftsman huffed as he gathered up the pieces in the cloth.
"Thank you, but you really don't need to do this," Aramis said quietly to his friend.
"Yes, I do," Athos replied, clasping his shoulder. "Since I cannot be here to watch your back."
"If you were here, that tippling stick would always be empty."
Athos's lips twitched. "I'll be in touch."
The two men left, and Aramis returned to life as usual—work, stealing moments with Anne, spending time mentoring his son, who grew older every day.
Finally, several weeks later, a package arrived for him with a letter attached. Aramis eagerly unwrapped the cloth first and was amazed to find the tippling stick in one piece again. He almost thought the craftsman must have decided to make a new one after all, it looked so pristine. But Aramis could see the barely visible cracks that had been fused back together. He untwisted the cane and found a new glass vial inside, once again already filled with amber spirits. The topper and cup were working too. Aramis grinned as he finally turned to the letter.
"Aramis, the tippling stick is good as new. I also had Jean-Claude add a new feature. Depress the button on the side of the wood. There is a catch release for the bottom of the stick. Try to use that instead of head bashing in the future."
Furrowing his brows, Aramis angled the stick to search for this button. He found it, a barely raised round ball in the side near the brass join. Curious, he gave it a press. There was a click as the release opened, and a blade shot out from the bottom of the stick. Aramis laughed. He was glad to have the stick back. And one day, he was going to pass it down to his son, who would hopefully pass it down to his, and so on and so forth.
