Chapter Text
Porthos lit a fire while Aramis saw to Athos. The evening was pleasant and the ground dry, with plenty of material to feed the flames. He watched Aramis dab at Athos’ split eyebrow.
"With any luck, this shouldn't leave a scar."
Of course, Porthos had known it was only a minor injury, but it was good to hear Aramis say it.
Athos smirked. "Luck… I see. I shall look like Porthos then."
Even better to hear Athos’ sense of humour hadn’t been compromised.
"You wish." Porthos laughed and waggled his own badly scarred brow. "Nothing the ladies like more than the rugged handsome look."
"Oh, so true..." Aramis brushed his hair from his face and stared wistfully into the campfire. "Just the other night..."
"Don't..." Porthos said. "Nobody wants to know about how Madame Pelletier enjoyed her tour of your scars."
"Oh, but I have this lovely long scar right down—"
"Stop!" Porthos threw a pinecone at him. “Really, we couldn’t care less. Save it for your sweethearts. Not a single swooning lady ‘round here.”
Aramis batted his eyelashes at him. “But it’s the highlight of every tour… the climax you might say…”
Porthos groaned. He could feel his face burn brighter than the measly little fire. Why, oh why did every conversation with Aramis have to turn into something sexual? Since he couldn’t really ask that, he continued to pelt his friend with pinecones. At least that meant he didn’t have to speak about how very handsome and popular Aramis was.
Eventually, Aramis retaliated with a half-burned twig.
“Mind the pauldron,” Porthos said, brushing the soot from it and craning his neck to inspect the damage. So far, he’d kept it remarkably clean given the places they’d been to. He had to make sure to look his best. Bad enough that he couldn’t oil it properly while they were on the road. He didn’t want to risk any stains.
“Might as well add a little character to it,” Aramis said. “Like scars do to a man.”
Porthos covered his eyes. “Figures your character would be below the belt. I don’t even want to know.”
“There’s an interesting story behind that scar—”
“One that you’re going to keep to yourself.” Porthos raised his voice, trying to drown out Aramis’ recounting of a tale that invariably involved a trip to some married woman’s boudoir.
Aramis wouldn’t be deterred. “There was this lady in whose orchard we’d pick fruit for my father’s brandy…”
Porthos was absolutely certain he did not want to hear anything about that lady and her relationship with the long scar in Aramis’ nether regions.
“Athos,” he said instead, trying to chase the images from his mind. ”What about you?”
Athos only reply was a questioning glance.
“Your scar,” Porthos clarified, pointing to his own mouth. “Were you… you know… born…”
Athos nodded. He didn’t look offended, which was something. Actually, he looked quite open and relaxed. Athos was a private man and Porthos didn’t mean to pry.
“I was born looking like a rabbit,” Athos confirmed. “Affectionately known as the hare-lipped monster.”
Porthos grimaced. He’d been called monster in the past, but nobody had any business calling Athos that.
Aramis drew in a breath through his teeth. “Children can be cruel.”
He didn’t mean cruel in the ways the children in the Court could be cruel, but Porthos guessed he was right. Words could be pretty cruel as well.
Athos smirked. “Quite right. However, it was my parents’ assessment of my monstrosity that carried more weight.”
His parents? They couldn’t possibly…
“They loved you just the way you were,” Porthos said with conviction.
“How could they?” Athos replied. “By all accounts, my mother cried for weeks from the shock and disappointment of birthing such an abomination. She couldn’t tolerate my presence until the defect had been concealed.”
“It’s not a defect,” Aramis said.
Athos shrugged. “Well, it was hardly an acceptable look for a firstborn.”
Porthos frowned. They were talking about a baby. How could there be an acceptable look for a baby? Adults, yes. But babies, who’d go about judging them? He shook his head. “That shouldn’t matter.”
This had not turned out to be the slight distraction he’d wanted. Athos rarely talked about himself. They knew he was a nobleman, but none of this was ever spoken about. Porthos tried to imagine the pressure on the eldest son of a nobleman. A bit like having younger kids to look out for at the Court, probably. Only that there were many of them. Hundreds, thousands? However many people a nobleman had to look out for.
“Thankfully, my father summoned a surgeon,” Athos said. He gave Porthos one of his rare crooked smiles. “The matter was resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Aramis nodded. “Facial sutures are difficult. Particularly…” He indicated the upper lip. “That surgeon was a man of great skill.”
“The best my father could find,” Athos confirmed. “He’d remind me frequently that most infants with my condition are abandoned or left to die. I owe him a great debt.”
“He was your father.” Porthos didn’t want to believe that being kept alive by one’s own father would qualify as a great debt. And yet… he knew better. He’d been lucky to have his mum. But Athos’d had his and she didn’t even want to look at him.
“And his son was a freak,” Athos said. “No man expects to father a hare.”
A son with a split lip. A son with dark skin. No man wanted an imperfect son.
“It doesn’t make you any less of a man. It doesn’t matter,” Porthos insisted.
“Well…” Athos smirked again. “I could hardly be a musketeer looking like I did. His Majesty wouldn’t want to look at that.”
Porthos frowned. Athos was everything a musketeer should be. “It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “He’s grown used to me after all.”
Athos nodded slowly, looking at him intently. Porthos wondered what he saw. A moor? A slave? A lesser man? Or, at least, the son of lesser people? He didn’t ask, never said any of that.
“How did you get your scar?” Athos asked.
Porthos traced the long line down the side of his face. It wasn’t something he thought about a lot. It was mostly his skin that mattered to people. “Just soldiering,” he said. “When I was still in the infantry.”
“Looks like it could have cost you your eye.”
It could have. And then, where’d he be? He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s a bit more than that,” Aramis said like it mattered to him.
“It’s fine,” Porthos said. “Some doctor fixed it up and I can see.”
“How did it happen?” Athos asked.
Porthos chuckled darkly. “Not watching my flanks, like you always say. I wasn’t very good back then.”
“Good enough to save our lives,” Aramis said. He had a tendency to speak for the whole regiment. As one of the longest-serving musketeers, maybe that was his right, but Porthos found it annoying. Not everything in the regiment was about Aramis.
Porthos turned a dry twig over in his hands, uncomfortable with how much attention they were paying to his past. He looked at Athos. Athos would understand. Athos who didn’t like talking about himself. But Athos looked at him with interest. It was only fair, probably. Athos had been very open with them. Didn’t mean Porthos liked talking about the past.
“Was my first time seeing musketeers up close,” he said.
“Was my first time seeing you,” Aramis said.
Porthos snapped the twig between his fingers. “You were there?”
Aramis nodded.
“When was that?” Athos asked.
“May 1624, down by the Spanish border,” Aramis said.
Porthos glared at him. More than two years and he’d never said. More than two years and by rights it should all be long forgotten. And instead… this. Aramis. There.
“Right before the Treaty of Compiègne?”
“Which wouldn’t have been signed without Porthos,” Aramis confirmed.
Now that was ridiculous. “I didn’t do anything,” Porthos said. Certainly nothing to do with any treaty. He could barely sign his own name back then. There’d been better people around that day. Tréville, of course, and now apparently also Aramis.
“You saved our lives,” Aramis repeated. “And our mission.”
“What was your mission?” Athos asked, leaning forward.
“Theirs was to go across a bridge into Spain,” Porthos said. “Ours was to hold that bridge until they came back.”
Aramis leaned against a tree, stretching his legs out towards the fire, settling into his usual story-telling pose.
“We had certain… preparations to complete for the treaty,” he said. Porthos hadn’t questioned that then and he certainly wouldn’t now, content in the knowledge that those who needed to know about those preparations did.
“The border is formed by a river in that area. There is only one bridge across,” Aramis continued. “We knew we would be noticed. We took enough men to create diversions, to protect the main party, but we knew we’d be caught. We needed a speedy escape back to France, to safety. To be captured would have meant questioning, torture, and execution, the usual inconvenience.”
“In addition to a failure to negotiate the treaty with the Dutch.”
“Precisely. So we left France’s best to hold the bridge for us.”
“Porthos.”
“My regiment,” Porthos corrected. “We were stationed down there. Tréville asked our captain to send a few men up to the mountains. Watched the musketeers ride ‘cross that bridge. Tréville stopped and spoke to us. He was very kind. Told us he relied on us, thanked us, even.”
“What happened?” Athos shifted in his seat, clearly interested.
“Nothing much for a few hours.” Porthos drew patterns in the dirt with a stick, not looking at them. “We waited, waited some more. Finally, early afternoon, the Spanish attack. There’s them on their horses and us on foot. They didn’t want to cross and be caught in France. Maybe thought it was a trap, more soldiers hiding in the trees or something. But they wanted us off that bridge. A few of the boys ran. Don’t blame them. It was frightening with the horses and all.”
Porthos fell silent, still tracing lines and circles on the ground. He remembered every detail. The ground shaking under the thundering hooves, the dust rising. The soldiers reining in their mounts as soon as they reached the bridge. Shouting words at them that Porthos couldn’t understand.
“We had a horrid time of it,” Aramis continued. “We got what we needed, but they clearly expected us. Word had gotten out about our mission. There were some at the court who were a little too friendly with Spain. We were flying back to the bridge, hoping to not find it held against us.”
Porthos snorted. “You would have fought your way out. Elite soldiers and all.”
“We weren’t in any shape to fight. Reynard had been killed, Tréville shot and most of us were injured as well.” Porthos looked up to find Aramis staring at him. “We needed you there, Porthos.”
“I did what I was told.”
For a moment, all three were silent, listening to the crackling of their small fire.
“You didn’t see who gave you that scar?” Athos asked eventually.
“I was fighting another,” Porthos said. “Thought there was no one over there. Well. Should have checked.”
Athos winced. “A dreadful wound.”
Porthos stared at his boots. “Just knew I couldn’t see. Was all blood. I though my eye was gone for sure.”
“When we rode towards the bridge, there were two men left standing,” Aramis said. “One French, one Spanish.”
Athos hummed in appreciation. “A tremendous achievement.”
Porthos shrugged. “I had a job to do.” And little hope left. Half blind or dead… not much of a difference between the two. He might as well help that nice captain while he could.
“We reached you when you fell to your knees.”
He’d let himself fall when they’d made the bridge. He didn’t say that though. They’d use it against him, make him out to be some sort of hero he really wasn’t.
“I’d done my duty,” he said.
“We got there just in time… ran through the bastard trying to kill you.”
“I remember the horses… then… nothing.”
“Can’t blame you. You were in quite the state.”
“Anyways… it’s fine now.” Porthos added more wood to the fire, then stopped. Aramis was still staring at him. “What?”
“I’d never seen anything like it,” Aramis said. “We were the first ones across. Then I hear Tréville shouting for me, turn around to see him on the ground, still on that bridge. Figured his wound was worse than I’d thought, but no… he’s holding an infantryman. You.”
Porthos shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to think about how helpless he’d been, although it warmed his heart to think that Tréville had held him.
“We have that ham for dinner,” he said. “And with some proper sticks we could grill some bread. That would be nice.”
Nobody took the bait.
“What did you do?” Athos asked.
“They got me to a surgeon and I’m here today,” Porthos replied in place of Aramis. “And I’m hungry. Anyone else?”
Neither of them moved.
“Half of your face was blood,” Aramis said, looking past Porthos. “I couldn’t even see the eye, it was all… Somebody got my bag, some water to clean the wound. The eye was still there and only a slight scratch across the lid, praised be the Lord.”
“Did you…?” Athos let the question linger.
At first, Porthos didn’t understand but then… It couldn’t be. Not Aramis. He’d seen those hands at work, knew what they could do, but he wouldn’t… not back then. Not when he was just some infantryman. He wouldn’t have cared.
“You didn’t.”
Aramis wasn’t a surgeon. And at any rate, he would have said. If Athos’ father demanded gratitude for saving his own infant son, Aramis certainly wouldn’t leave such a debt go unclaimed.
Aramis lowered his eyes and in that little gesture, Porthos knew the truth. “You did. But… why?”
He watched Aramis gnaw on his lip.
“Captain’s orders. I was the medic.”
“You patched him up out there?” Athos asked. “A wound like that?”
“He wouldn’t have made it to the next town. I bandaged it. We got him to a shepherd’s hut a little further down. At least he wasn’t lying in the dirt.”
“You stitched that in a shepherd’s hovel?” Athos wasn’t looking at Aramis any more, staring at Porthos’ face instead. Porthos lowered his head, hoping his hat would hide the scar.
“My masterpiece,” Aramis said. “And it sure wasn’t wasted on a man like this.”
Porthos could picture his smile, his voice sounding modest, but his eyes gleaming with pride.
“That is impressive,” Athos said. Of course, he would. Of course, he’d make it even worse and…
“Only the finest stitching would do, for optical reasons as much as to maintain flexibility in the face…”
Porthos frowned and couldn’t help but notice that everything moved as it should. There was no stiffness there. He had other scars that had hardened over time, turned knobbly and ugly. Not that one. His hand sneaked up under the rim of his hat, tracing the whole long line, so slim and straight. A sword wound to the face… You didn’t see many men with that sort of scar. For good reason. Those who weren’t dead were so badly disfigured, they hid in the shadows.
“You saved my life,” Porthos croaked. He could tell by the looks they gave him that he had butted into a conversation he hadn’t heard.
“As you saved mine,” Aramis said. “That day and later, when you’d joined the regiment.”
“You saved my life and you never said anything.”
Aramis smiled. “You always say I need to be less full of myself.”
“But you should have said.”
“You don’t remember any of it?” Athos asked.
Porthos tried to search his mind. “I woke up in a bed at an inn. The innkeeper told me I’d been feverish for days since they brought me in. Told me the musketeers’ captain had paid for my room and board. Had left me clothes and weapons and a horse, and all of them weren’t mine.”
Porthos wiped his eyes, remembering the captain’s generosity to some stranger who wasn’t even under his command.
“It’s the least we could have done,” Aramis said. “We couldn’t stay, but Tréville was very concerned.”
“Did he ask you to join the regiment then?”
Porthos shook his head.
“I think he expected you to find your way to the garrison when the time was right,” Aramis said. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”
“You were the first one I met at the garrison,” Porthos said, recalling that day.
Aramis chuckled. “You were a sight for sore eyes having walked all the way from the Pyrenees, that scar still bright red on your face.”
“You didn’t remember Aramis from before?” Athos asked.
“He couldn’t have. I was one of many masked riders,” Aramis said. “And afterwards…”
Aramis looked into the distance, kneading his jaw. There was something else, something he wasn’t saying.
“Afterwards?” he prompted. Aramis jerked back to the present and smiled distractedly.
“My face still remembers it.”
“Your face?”
Aramis rubbed his chin. “Very vivid memories.”
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not that as well. “I…?” Porthos couldn’t get the question out. He knew what he could get like… Sometimes when he was hurt, he could… Oh no, please…
Aramis nodded and smiled. “It was only natural.”
“Natural to hurt the man who saved my life?”
“It would have been instinctual,” Athos said. “I assume your last memories were of fighting.”
Fighting hard enough, staying alive long enough for the musketeers to make it across the bridge. Fighting through the pain, the blood. The horses and then… nothing.
“You woke as I was finishing the sutures,” Aramis explained. “You couldn’t see much, probably had no idea where you were. You were in a lot of pain and I was the one causing it. Of course you defended yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant to… I’m so sorry.” Porthos’ face burned in shame.
Aramis winked at him. “I got you back eventually. And really, my own fault for not moving fast enough.”
“No, I should…”
“We should have restrained you. You live and learn. Tréville held you down after that.”
“Tréville was there?”
“Wouldn’t leave your side. Well, he needed me to look at his arm afterwards.”
Porthos buried his head in his hands. “But what if I… I could have hit Tréville.”
“Well you know…” He could hear the amusement in Aramis’ voice. “Rather him than the man who’s got a needle in your face.”
“No!”
“Sure, sure, just hit me…”
Porthos groaned and looked at him above his fingers. “I didn’t mean to. But I could have hit the captain.”
Aramis nodded slowly, like he was weighing the options. “True. If that’s the choice, I’ll always volunteer to be punched.”
Athos got up and rummaged through their saddlebags for the ham, bread, and wine. Porthos sat and stared at Aramis and Aramis stared back. That man… that man and his hands, his fine delicate hands that could save lives as quickly as they dispatched them. Porthos looked away at last, looked at his own hands and thought of the destruction they wrought.
They sat sheltered under some trees, looking out onto rolling fields as they had their food. The warmth of the day had turned into a mild evening. Their mission had gone smoothly and they felt safe where they were. Everything could have been perfect, but Porthos couldn’t stop thinking about what he had learned.
Aramis was the reason he still had his eye. Aramis had saved his life back then. Aramis had done all that and never said a word. And now… now he acted like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t anything special. Just another anecdote, something to be talked about around the fire. And if Athos hadn’t asked, heaven knows if the truth had ever come out.
They sat in silence, all leaning against a large fallen tree. They looked out at the setting sun and lengthening shadows while Porthos mulled this over.
“Aramis,” he said at last. “Why didn’t you say?”
“Hmm?” Aramis already sounded half asleep. “Say what?”
“About my scar. I never knew it was you.”
Aramis shrugged. “We weren’t friends at first and then… I wasn’t going to tell you while you learned how to ride. And afterwards, it just never came up… until now.”
Like it had to come up specially. Like anyone could forget about that. Like a huge facial scar wasn’t a daily reminder. Porthos had seen himself in the mirrors at the palace. He knew it was impossible to miss, much less for the man who had made that scar what it was, who’d called it his masterpiece.
“Porthos?” Aramis put a hand on his leg. “Does it matter?”
Porthos shifted away from him. "Yes, it matters. My life matters to me. And having it saved. And don't say it didn't need saving. You said I wouldn't have made it back to the town."
He drew his legs up close to his body and hugged his knees to his chest.
"I'm not disputing that,” Aramis said. “You knew that all along. But why would it matter that it was me?"
“Because…” How could it not? How could Aramis care so little when he obviously cared so much, when everything he’d done was caring and kind? To know that Aramis had… Porthos couldn’t think of anything that mattered more.
“I’m the medic. It’s what I do,” Aramis said.
“But you did it for me.” And that was it, really. That Aramis would do this for him. That he did it and cared.
Aramis chuckled. The sound was harsh in Porthos’ ears. This wasn’t a laughing matter.
“Give me a few more months and there won’t be a musketeer I haven’t stuck my needle in. It’s work I enjoy, but it’s just that. It’s work.”
Porthos made no reply. He stared at the horizon as it slowly faded in the dusk. Aramis put a hand on his knee again, leaving it there until Porthos finally looked at him.
“We take the lives of bad people,” Aramis said. “And we save the lives of the good. That's being a musketeer.”
The words had barely left his mouth when Porthos reached over and crushed Aramis in a fierce hug. Just being a musketeer. Just being one of those men who cared so much. Cared about him. Cared enough to save his life before they even knew him.
Porthos sniffled, and soon that turned into tears running down his face and into Aramis’ hair. Aramis must have felt it, but his only response was to let his body go lax, moulding it into Porthos’ embrace. Porthos didn’t hear him move, but soon Athos’ hand appeared on his back, just resting there, calm and reassuring.
When Porthos finally sniffed, let go of Aramis, and wiped his eyes, he expected his friends to laugh at his emotions, or to smile at the very least.
“Sorry. Sometimes it’s…”
Athos nodded and met his eyes evenly. “It gets too much. I understand.”
“I don’t,” Aramis admitted. “Anyone would have tried to help in that situation. Thank God I was given the skills to do it well.”
“Not anyone,” Athos said. “And not with such compassion.”
Porthos took a deep breath. “I knew about Tréville. He was so kind to us when you rode out. I still remember every word. And then he paid for all that. I’d never even slept at an inn before. That’s all…” He patted his chest. “That’s all written in here.”
“Porthos…” Aramis put his arm around his shoulders. “He’d do it again any day.”
Porthos cleared his throat, trying to shift the big lump that choked his voice thinking about how right Aramis was.
“Not many men do,” Athos said.
“No,” Porthos said. “And you…” He looked at Aramis. “You did all that for me when you didn’t even know me.” He clutched the leather above his heart. “That’s in here forever.”