Chapter Text
Before Athos could even reach for his pistol, Aramis had already thrown his main gauche. The blade stuck quivering in the heart of the bandit. They had thought him dead, along with the rest of his gang, when he had suddenly raised himself onto his knees, aiming a pistol at Porthos' back.
"Persistent buggers," Porthos said while Aramis retrieved his blade, making sure the man was truly dead this time.
Athos nodded to the musketeer. "Your aim is true.”
Porthos beamed as if the observation had been directed at him. "Best in the regiment."
Aramis made a face like he had swallowed vinegar, but Porthos wasn’t watching. He looked west, eyeing the fading rays of the weak late autumn sun suspiciously.
"We should camp here," he said. "It's too far to the next town and this road is treacherous."
A shudder passed through Aramis though his face remained impassive.
"Aramis?" Athos asked, having spotted the reaction. He hoped to pass it off as deferring to a superior rather than concern. Aramis was in command and while Athos doubted that he wanted to stay in the forest, or indeed that it was wise to make him attempt it, this was ultimately Aramis’ decision.
"Of course," Aramis said. "We make camp."
While Porthos strode over to the dead bandits to search for anything of note, Aramis walked to his horse. Athos shifted his weight uncomfortably. His leg hurt.
He kept an eye on Aramis. It was one thing to follow the musketeer’s lead on a simple mission to deliver a letter, but quite another to spend the night in the forest with him. It was well-known around the garrison that Aramis’ mind was addled. He had been on limited duties since Athos joined the garrison.
Aramis didn't retrieve anything from his saddle bags. Instead he leaned heavily against his horse, half draped over the saddle. She was nosing at his back. When Aramis made to stroke her neck, Athos noticed he was shaking. He turned away. Give a man his privacy, some time to compose himself. It was only civil to do so.
He joined Porthos. Together, they turned over bodies and searched their pockets. They discovered nothing of any relevance. There was no evidence that this had been a targeted attack. For all they knew, they might have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Athos had to remind himself that it wasn’t for him to think about such things. He was a recruit. He was to follow directions from his superiors. Aramis would be the one reporting back to Tréville.
When they were done, Aramis hadn't moved. In an instant, Porthos was next to him, talking softly and rubbing soothing circles on his back. Athos needed no explanation. He didn't know much about Savoy, but the general garrison gossip was impossible to escape. The cold, the forest, the piles of corpses. No wonder that was enough to transport a man back there. He'd seen it once. Aramis curled up in the corner of his room, eyes unseeing, body shaking like a leaf. He did not wish to repeat the experience.
"Alright?" Porthos asked. A ridiculous question.
"Of course," Aramis replied, drawing himself upright. Athos had to acknowledge his determination.
Aramis scanned their surroundings. "These rocks should provide some shelter,” he said. “I'll take first watch."
Athos frowned. Bending over repeatedly had aggravated his wound and he could feel warm blood trickling down the back of his trousers. He'd have to see to it. Not here though. Not when he could see Aramis clench his fists and jaw, trying to keep himself from sliding back into the dark hole of terror he had spent months crawling out of. Athos knew what that felt like. He shuddered at the thought of returning to the scenes of his past. He would not wish such torture on the musketeer.
"We can ride on," he said firmly. "We have some light yet and the path is clear. Our horses will find the way."
"But—" Porthos started.
Athos glared at him, willing him to not expose the lie. There was no way they were staying here with Aramis in this state.
“I do not think it a hardship,” Athos said. “An hour or two and we should reach the town. If I recall correctly, there appeared to be a decent inn. May I suggest we aim for a warm supper and an ale there and move on?”
It was no suggestion, at least not in the way of ordinary soldiers. Athos had spent his life making suggestions that were little less than carefully couched orders. He didn't look at Aramis, painfully aware that he was overstepping his mark considerably. As a recruit he was in no position to order a musketeer around. The nobility of one’s birth counted little among these men. Athos liked it that way.
Porthos looked from Athos to Aramis. He was hesitant, clearly not used to making decisions on his own. It seemed simple enough at first glance. They were equipped to camp and had little need to ride on in the dark. Athos’ estimate of two hours was an understatement and they had already encountered evidence of how unsafe this road truly was. There wouldn’t be a decision to make if it wasn’t for Aramis. Porthos cared about Aramis, and when Porthos cared about someone, he wasn’t shy about making decisions for their benefit, as Athos knew very well.
Porthos shrugged. “I’d quite fancy an ale.”
Aramis threw his hands in the air. “Oh fine, if you’re that keen on breaking your neck on the road, who am I to object? Clearly, Athos needs his featherbed for the night.”
Athos did not deign that worthy of a response. He did not appreciate the infrequent allusions to his status. Aramis was no fool. No matter how hard Athos tried to appear to be nothing but an ordinary soldier, he knew that Aramis knew. Probably not the whole truth, but he had a good understanding of class and had sussed Athos’ position relative to his own immediately.
It mattered very little. Aramis was his superior now. Captain Tréville operated a curiously classless society within his regiment, but differences still existed. One only had to look at poor Porthos with his threadbare clothes and the tired nag he rode.
Athos shook his head. The important thing was that they rode on now. Focus on the task at hand. Don’t let your thoughts stray. That attitude had kept him somewhat sane so far. Decision made, he mounted his horse. He quickly regretted that as pain shot through his injured leg. His vision darkened. He took a few slow, careful breaths as he settled into the saddle, willing the darkness away. He yearned for a drink.
The others did not notice his predicament. They had returned to their customary bickering, though it seemed a little more tense than usual, a little strained in an effort to paper over the cracks.
“Supper’s on you,” Aramis said.
“Why me?” Porthos protested. “I haven’t got a single franc!”
“Should have thought of that before you neglected to actually kill your man. If I have to do your work, you have to pay my dinner. I don’t make the rules.”
“You do.” Porthos was laughing. “And they usually favour your own purse!”
“What? Like your rules for cards?”
They both laughed and Aramis rode on ahead. Porthos was still chuckling when he turned to Athos, who followed more slowly.
“Did you hear that? He’s calling me a cheat. The bloody cheek of him!”
“He shouldn’t be here,” Athos hissed. This was no time for levity.
“Oh, come on, now.” Porthos nodded at Aramis who was cantering down the path some paces ahead of them. “He’s fine.”
“He’s not. I lied to Captain Tréville for this.”
Porthos raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t,” he pointed out. “You didn’t say a thing to Tréville.”
“I should have told him Aramis was unfit for this mission.”
“He can’t stay in Paris forever.”
Athos stared at Aramis’ back. As ever, the musketeer was talking softly to his mare. As if everything was fine. And maybe it was. Maybe Athos was imagining the tightness in Aramis’ shoulders, the way his hands clenched around the reins, the strain in his voice.
There was a rustle in the undergrowth. Aramis jumped. In the blink of an eye, he had drawn his pistol and fired. When Porthos and Athos caught up with him, there was a dead fox on the side of the road.
“What?” Porthos asked. “You wanting a fur coat now?”
Aramis closed his eyes and breathed deeply before replying. “More your style. You always fancy useless pretty things.”
Porthos made some token protest, but Athos focussed on Aramis. His voice was light, but Athos watched him try and fail to reload his pistol before stuffing it back into his belt. His hands were shaking too much. He frowned before shaking his head and forcing his mouth into a smile.
“I’ll ride on ahead,” Aramis announced. With grim determination, he spurred on his horse.
Athos couldn’t believe it. The obstinacy of that man was putting him in an impossible position.
“This needs to stay confined to the garrison,” Athos whispered to Porthos.
He wasn’t sure the other recruit had heard until he glared at him. Without a word, Porthos moved his horse next to Aramis’. Athos brought up the rear, waiting for disaster to strike.
It was irresponsible to let Aramis leave the garrison, much less handle weapons. And yet here he was, not merely riding through the countryside, but also in charge of their little group. Free to command them to do whatever his deluded mind yearned for.
Athos soon had other concerns. His leg wound smarted, the saddle pressing against it with every step of his horse. He was no stranger to pain, but this was decidedly uncomfortable. On top of the injury, he also had a headache. He ground his knuckles against his temples. The usual dull throbbing had suddenly become sharper and more intense. He sighed. He’d be happy to see that promised ale and a bed. He was rather hoping he didn’t draw the short straw of sleeping on the floor.
The setting sun cast long shadows all around them. It became more and more difficult to see as they stumbled over roots and rocks. Athos cursed his own lie about a clear path, but nobody made a comment. They simply slowed their horses and carried on. From the glances Porthos kept shooting Aramis, Athos guessed that he had finally understood the severity of the problem plaguing his friend. Of course he had. They had been fast friends for much longer than Athos had even been in Paris.
Athos yawned. It had been a long day. The musketeers rose early and they had had a long, hard ride even before the ambush. It wasn’t his old life, but Athos saw that as a great advantage. It was this tiring work, the mental and physical exercise, that enabled him to get any sleep at all. It was even more important now that he tried to go easier on the wine. But it had only been a day of riding, after all, so this level of fatigue was unusual. He hoped Aramis would not think it necessary to assign watches throughout the night. He doubted he could take first watch, no matter how hard he tried to stay awake. But at the same time he couldn’t blame Aramis for being hypervigilant, not after what had happened to him. He was just so tired.
“You keeping up?” Aramis asked, turning in the saddle. He let Porthos take the lead and waited for Athos to catch up.
Athos gave him a curt nod. There wasn’t anything to be said.
“He’s a fine horse, your Roger,” Aramis said.
Athos eyed him warily. He didn’t think Aramis was truly in the mood for light conversation.
“You know Porthos was really worried about him, right? That first night you met?”
Athos shrugged. He didn’t remember much of that night. A tavern. Lots of wine. A fight. A dark-skinned man by his side. Waking up in the garrison, Porthos fussing over him, Aramis glaring at him from afar.
Now Aramis was smiling at him. Athos searched his face for the fear he knew was hidden behind the mask. Sure enough, Aramis’ smile never reached his eyes.
“Couldn’t understand much of what you said, but there was always that name. Roger. Roger all alone. Roger missing you…”
Athos grimaced. He hated to think he had made such a scene.
“Porthos thought you had a kid, maybe,” Aramis continued. “A friend, somewhere out in the streets. He was very relieved when you went to retrieve your friend from an inn’s stables the next day.”
Fortunately, the path grew too narrow to ride next to each other for a while, and Athos was spared a response. But as soon as there was space, Aramis was onto him again.
"You've had him long then?" he asked, nodding at Roger.
"He was bred—" Athos stopped. It was quite unnecessary to go into detail and further highlight the differences between them. "I rode his mother," he said instead. Which wasn't a lie. He must have ridden her at some point, like he had most horses on the estate. A particularly sharp pain made him close his eyes. He opened them again quickly. He had no need for images of the estate.
Aramis gave him a strange look, but asked no further questions.
“It was different with us, you see,” he said, patting his horse’s neck. “Angelina stole me.”
How could a horse steal a musketeer? Before Athos could ask, Aramis had moved on to discussing the mare’s favourite foods, leaving Athos to ponder his cryptic statement.
Stolen. Sweat beaded on Athos’ forehead. While it was quite impossible for a horse to steal a man, the reverse certainly happened. Had Aramis truly admitted to stealing his horse? Horse theft was a major transgression. He had seen men tortured for that.
Aramis kept up his chatter for a bit, but Athos didn’t listen. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It really was no wonder he felt so affected. If this was true, he rode with a thief and was under the command of a common criminal. Tréville would hear of that. It was a stain on the reputation of the regiment to harbour such a man, an affront to the king to have a horse thief among his personal guard.
Eventually, Aramis left him to his brooding and rode up ahead, next to Porthos. Athos’ stomach heaved watching the tender look Porthos gave the musketeer. The thief. He did not blame Aramis for his trauma, for the affliction that made him unfit for duty for so long. But he would most certainly judge him for disrespecting another man’s property.
Athos fell back further, glaring at Aramis from behind. He loosened his scarf and undid a few of the buttons on his doublet. He was getting rather worked up about this, drenched in sweat despite the seasonable chill in the air.
But a horse. A fine horse like Aramis’ mare was worth a small fortune. For some poor ordinary man maybe a genuine fortune, the means to turn his life around. Horse theft was among the most serious crimes in the kingdom, and for good reason.
Maybe Aramis hadn’t really stolen her. Athos wiped away more sweat. Maybe requisitioning might be the more accurate term. Requisitioned as part of an urgent mission. Chasing enemies of the crown, his own horse shot from underneath him… Athos took a deep breath. That was a genuine possibility. And given the circumstances, returning her might not have been feasible. Yes, that must have been it. Athos swallowed. His throat felt parched. He’d have to obtain the full story behind this. On further reflection, it seemed unlikely that Captain Tréville would tolerate a thief in his ranks.
Aramis held up his hand and Athos’ train of thoughts came to an abrupt halt along with their horses. He copied Porthos, reaching for his pistol and scanning the forest around them while Aramis slid from the saddle.
“Keep an eye out.”
At Aramis’ command, Porthos nodded to Athos, indicating that he would watch their left and Athos’ should take the right. Athos peered into the dark. Beyond the path, the gloom was impenetrable. His eyes stung and he struggled to see. He wiped sweat from his brow once more, trying to remove it from his eyes. When that did nothing to improve his vision, he narrowed his eyes, forcing them to focus, but the mottled grey shadows of the trees wouldn’t stop shifting and swaying. Still holding his pistol in one hand, he dropped the other to his saddle, digging his fingers into the sturdy leather to ground himself.
“A large group of riders,” Aramis said from where he was crouched on the ground. “Twenty at least.”
Porthos swore under his breath. Athos could not blame him. They weren’t exactly desperate to encounter such a large group, particularly given the earlier ambush.
“Today?” Porthos asked.
“Give me a moment. Stay vigilant.”
Athos tried, but no matter how often he wiped the sweat away, his eyes wouldn’t work properly. He needed… just a little. Just enough to steady his nerves. Relinquishing the death grip on his saddle, he reached for his hipflask. Shame flashed across his mind, but he pushed it away. He could not afford such sentiments, not now, not when the others’ lives might depend on his ability to function. Let them judge if they saw, let them comment once more. Maybe he was just that, the drunk that Aramis had called him for so long, but this was no time to think of that. He brought the flask to his lips. He needed this.
No relief came. His hands were shaking as he tried in vain to angle the flask properly. No drop, no sweet burn of brandy in his throat. The flask was empty.
Oh. Of course. An attempt—misguided it seemed—to better himself. He had only allowed himself one small measure of Armagnac for this mission. And he drank that reward after they had delivered the letter.
Not that it mattered. He could just… he would… He breathed deeply and bit down on the soft flesh of his cheek. He could do this. He didn’t need… they always said he didn’t need… he didn’t. He just… The shadows were dancing, moving all around and he needed… he needed a rest. He had to… had to call for a halt, had to tell them, had to… A breather, merely a breather and he would be fine again. He would… he would call for a halt.
“They’re old,” Aramis said. “Three days at least.”
Athos could see the musketeer get to his feet, but somehow his voice seemed dulled. Nevertheless, he admired his skill. Moments like this showed Aramis for the elite soldier he was, past transgressions and current illness notwithstanding.
“No danger then?” Porthos asked.
Aramis shook his head. “All is well.”
His legs didn’t seem to agree. Athos watched him stumble and barely hold himself up, clutching his horse for support. The mare snorted as her master’s fingers clawed into her mane.
Porthos gripped his friend’s shoulder, squeezing it. He left his hand there, a support, tethering Aramis to reality. Athos knew that grip.
“Not long now,” Porthos said.
Athos heard his voice from far away, so far… so… He breathed deeply once more, trying to clear the black spots from his eyes. Of course Porthos was right, it wasn’t long now. There was no reason… He sheathed his pistol, fingers almost as clumsy as Aramis’ earlier. There was no reason at all. He could not call for a halt now. There was no way he would subject Aramis to the forest any longer than strictly necessary. They would ride and ride quickly, helping them both. Once at the inn, he could get a drink and they could rest. Aramis could put his mind at ease and Athos his uncooperative body.
All was well.
He clung to that thought. Not long now, a few more miles and then he could rest. Rest… he was so tired now, he was… tired. Indeed, he might have fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for the constant discomfort. Every one of Roger’s steps sent a jolt of pain through his leg. A blessing in disguise, maybe. It would not do to fall from his horse now and delay them even further. He couldn’t… not with Aramis…
Aramis. Athos focused his thoughts on Aramis. The musketeer rode at the front now, with Athos bringing up the rear. Whenever the path widened enough to allow Porthos to ride next to Aramis, Athos caught a few kind words between the two friends. Porthos asking, Porthos reassuring. And Aramis, Aramis was calm. Athos could appreciate that in a man. Surety, even in face of his own suffering. Aramis was… he was decisive for sure. Once he had a target, he was not easily deterred. He led them through the forest at a steady pace. Athos had to admit that he could not have ridden at that tempo on his own. The way it was, he followed the others, giving Roger the freedom to do as he pleased.
Athos’ heart was intent to keep pace with their swift ride, hammering in his chest as if he himself was running through the night. Similarly, his lungs seemed unable to draw in sufficient breath. He tried to control his breathing, to not pant like a dog.
Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t that warm. Yet his body had a different perception. He was sweating copiously, like this was a hot summer’s day and they had been fighting for hours. He yearned for a drink, but more than that for a rest. For a chance to sleep and recover. To sleep to not… feel like this.
Step after step, pain upon pain. In his leg, in his head. In his stomach as well. Bile rose with the slightest movement. And he hadn’t had a drink. He hadn’t had a drink since they’d delivered that letter in the early afternoon. He wouldn’t be sick and let them think he was drunk. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t. Porthos’ disappointed look… again. Aramis… again… and he couldn’t… not when Aramis… not again.
At some point, the trees had disappeared without Athos’ noticing. It was odd to suddenly find himself riding between fields, the space around them so wide, so open. So much… and he… so little. Athos felt like he was one with the darkness, endless and everywhere and—
“You keeping up?” Porthos’ voice. Somewhere ahead. Dark figures. Aramis and Porthos, of course.
“Yes.” Athos gave him a nod. He shouldn’t have. His eyes, his brain… he wasn’t sure which, but something in his head kept repeating the movement over and over again. It hurt his head and… his stomach… he was so… He wasn’t going to be sick.
Not long now. Not far. They were almost there.
An ale.
A featherbed.
They were asking if he had changed his mind or if he was still eager for the inn and he said yes. Yes to that last part. Anything. Anything to move on, to arrive. He needed a bed, feathers or no. He needed to get off his horse before he fell off. He needed to rest. He simply needed rest.
He needed…
The world swam, swayed…
It was dark. And yet the sweating never stopped.
It had to be cold. And still…
His horse stopped, quite suddenly. There was light and… voices. Aramis and Porthos and… someone else. The inn, of course. They must have reached the inn. He hadn’t noticed. But he was… they were here now, finally. He was glad. Aramis was safe and he… he could rest now. Tension flooded from him and he struggled to catch it, hold on to enough of it to keep him going, to keep him from relaxing and falling off.
He tried to listen to what Aramis was saying but couldn’t make out the words. He understood the tone though. This was Aramis charming the innkeeper. This wasn’t Aramis the broken wreck of a man any more. This was Aramis the musketeer, the libertine, the legendary sniper they spoke of in hushed tones around the garrison.
Porthos said something, softly, just for Athos’ ears, but Athos couldn’t hear. His heart was pounding. There was a ringing in his ears and he knew he was about to pass out. He’d had practice with that, too much. But he didn’t… he didn’t want to… not now. Porthos smiled, nodding at Aramis. So fond, so kind. And Athos knew he would… if he passed out, Porthos would think it was the wine again and he’d be disappointed. And Aramis… he’d be so scared.
Athos bit his cheek again, willing himself to focus on that pain, to stay conscious. He wouldn’t pass out. Only a little further. Off his horse and into a room, a bed. Then he could rest.
Nearly there now.
It was abhorrent to be so weak all the time. He was a recruit, pledged to the king’s elite regiment and all he had done so far was collapse at his companions’ feet. Not today. He wouldn’t embarrass himself again.
Porthos dismounted and Athos figured he should too.
But then what?
He didn’t trust his leg to carry him for however long it took Aramis to secure them a room. Not right now. Not until this weakness had passed and the ringing in his ears… He could hardly hear himself think.
A bench stood outside the inn, a few feet from their horses. Not far. He could sit there. He could wait, could maybe pretend there was something wrong with his boot. He could gather his strength there.
He lifted himself with some difficulty, then removed his right foot from the stirrup. Such a simple action should not feel so arduous. As soon as he lifted his foot, the ringing in his ears intensified. Roger snorted and shifted and that didn’t help at all. Athos’ vision darkened further. He couldn’t even… he wouldn’t…
Not long now.
He could make it to that bench. It wasn’t far.
He swung his leg over his horse’s rear and suddenly all the blood seemed to rush down and out. Out and away and his head… his eyes… his leg. Oh, his leg.
The pain.
There was pain.
Darkness. And falling. He was falling.
“Athos!”
Porthos somewhere, far away… And the pain… the darkness… falling…
No.
Not like that. He wasn’t…
Not long now.
He could…
Porthos… Aramis… He would…
But the pain… It was so dark and he was still falling.
There were hands as well. Kind and soft and… Voices. Far away. He tried to listen, tried to hear. Voices…
His name. The new name. Athos. Porthos calling Athos. And he was getting closer. And Athos… Athos could… There was Porthos and there was pain. And the darkness, but Porthos… The darkness… holding him, but there was also Porthos. Porthos was holding him.
He opened his eyes and there was Porthos. Porthos’ doublet in front of his eyes. Dark leather and… darkness…
“Leave him to me. See to the horses. I’ve got this.”
And Athos agreed. Porthos had him. Quite securely. But why was Porthos… was he talking to Aramis? Why was he ordering him around? That was odd. Not like Porthos at all.
He tried to make sense of that, but the darkness came back in waves. Waves on a beach, a little further each time. The waves built. More darkness. It was almost there now, almost at his face, but Athos resisted. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t… Drowning. He wasn’t drowning. He could swim, he could resist the waves, the darkness. He could…
Porthos’ body shifted. Maybe he stood up, maybe he walked. Athos was jostled in his arms and then…
Pain.
So much pain.
His leg was on fire.
His leg…
Someone screamed.
He heard Porthos curse and then…
The wave…
The pain…
The darkness.