Chapter Text
The saccharine tang of the sea buffeted Aramis's face as he stood on the pier, watching the nobleman they'd just escorted from Paris board the ship to England. It had been a tedious mission, bringing the man to Calais after he'd been exiled for encouraging dissent against the Cardinal. He'd spent the entire journey railing against Richelieu for various things, none of which the musketeers necessarily disagreed with…but they had their orders from the King.
They waited for the ship to set sail, making sure the nobleman hadn't snuck back off, before they could finally call their mission complete and head back to Paris.
"Now he can talk someone else's ear off," d'Artagnan muttered.
"It's not like you had to ride wit' him alone," Porthos rejoined.
"No, but he was loud. I can't believe he didn't wear his voice out yelling above the wind."
It was true; Aramis had been grudgingly impressed with how much the nobleman could bluster, undaunted by being forced upon a dragon's back and by the sheer height of their flight. It was a good thing he hadn't ridden with Aramis on Rhaego—not that they ever had anyone ride with Rhaego—for he was fairly certain his dragon would have lost patience within a few miles and done his best to buck the boisterous man off.
Although they all might have appreciated that.
They made their way to the outskirts of town where they'd left their dragons and mounted up for the return journey, d'Artagnan with Athos. They'd be back in Paris before nightfall, and Aramis was looking forward to a night in the arms of Adele Bessette.
Yet as they flew southeast, the sky ahead began to grow darker. Soon they had flown underneath the pewter canopy and horizontal raindrops began to pelt them. Aramis flipped up the hood of his altitude cloak to help shield his face. Hopefully they would push through this storm quickly.
But the sky only turned black the further they went and suddenly the heavens ruptured with a splintering of lightning and cracks of thunder all around them.
Aramis turned his head toward Athos flying parallel to him. "We need to land!"
Athos signaled that he knew, and Savron belted out a screech to Vrita who was flying ahead. The green dragon dipped her nose to begin her descent, but a streak of lightning suddenly forked down and struck her. With a shriek, she went plummeting in a corkscrew spiral.
"Porthos!" Aramis yelled.
Rhaego and Savron dove after them, but there was no way to stop their uncontrolled descent. Aramis could only watch in horror as Vrita frantically flapped her wings in an effort to correct her trajectory. She managed to right herself, but it wasn't enough to stop her from crashing to the ground, carving a long trough through the mud. Porthos went flying out of the saddle and hit the ground hard, his anchor line bringing him to an abrupt stop when it snapped taut.
Aramis was unclipping his rope before Rhaego had even landed and leaped from his saddle as soon as the ground was within reach. He sprinted toward Porthos, heart in his throat as desperate prayers spilled breathlessly from his lips.
"Don't let him be dead. Don't let him be dead."
Porthos was lying unmoving, his left arm sticking out at a sickening angle. Aramis skidded onto his knees next to him and heard the pained moans rumbling from his friend.
"Porthos!" Aramis swiftly checked him over for other injuries, running expert hands over limbs and the back of his head. Porthos would be covered in bruises, there was no doubt, but Aramis didn't find any blood or other broken bones, save for the one arm. They were lucky Vrita had crashed in an open field and not a bunch of trees.
"Is he alive?" d'Artagnan gushed worriedly as he hurried over.
"Yes, but he needs medical attention," Aramis replied urgently. "We need to find shelter so I can treat him."
Athos's expression was tight as he joined them, rain streaming down his face. "I know a place," he said stiffly.
Aramis nodded and untied his sash from his waist, then used it to make a temporary sling for Porthos's arm until he had a chance to properly set it. Porthos cried out as Aramis moved the limb.
"Get him up," Aramis said to Athos and d'Artagnan, then jumped to his feet and rushed over to check on Vrita. She was crouched low to the ground, panting heavily, wings folded down so Aramis at least knew it was unlikely any of those bones had suffered a break. He gave a quick circuit around her in search of other injuries, but though the crash landing had been harsh and painful, the only real wound was a burn furrowed down her left hindquarter. She shuffled away from him when he drew near it and he quickly moved around to her head with his palms up.
"Okay, girl, I know it hurts, but we have to get moving."
She growled in pain as she pushed herself up, straightening her legs. She walked with a limp but there was nothing to be done for it out in the middle of this storm. Aramis coaxed her along, following Athos as he led the way, Porthos supported between him and d'Artagnan.
They slogged through the rain and wind for about twenty minutes before a large house finally came into view. Athos guided them around the side to a barn big enough for the dragons to fit inside. He unlatched the door to open it and they all hastened in out of the deluge.
By now Porthos was more aware and he pulled away from d'Artagnan to lean against a post. "Vrita?" he grunted.
"I'll tend to her in a minute," Aramis said. "First I need to set that bone."
"I'd rather wait," he huffed.
"I'm sure you would." Aramis began to search the barn for something he could use as a splint. "Athos, give Porthos some of your wine."
"Should we make our presence known to the owners of the house?" d'Artagnan asked.
"There's no need," Athos replied as he went to Savron and fished the flask out of his bag. "No one lives here."
Well, that was convenient. Aramis picked up a board and considered it, then broke it over his knee for a better size. He made his way back over to Porthos and set the piece of wood aside.
"Unfortunately, we're going to need to get you out of your wet coat before I splint this."
Porthos knocked back a swig of wine and then braced himself as Aramis began to help pull his doublet off. Despite his care, the waterlogged leather made it difficult and Porthos still let out strangled cries as his injured limb was jostled. The shirt was only marginally easier with the wide sleeves. Porthos immediately started shivering, gooseflesh rippling across his arms.
Athos looked on while d'Artagnan busied himself with removing the dragons' saddles.
Aramis felt along the obvious break in the forearm, relieved it hadn't broken through skin or they would be in an entirely different situation. This, at least, he could fix.
"Breathe," he warned before gripping Porthos's arm above and below the break and pulling the bone straight. Porthos threw his head back and screamed and tried to jerk away, but Aramis gripped his elbow firmly. He applied the splint and wrapped it with a dry roll of linen Athos handed him from their saddlebags. He then used another strip to make a sling that wasn't soaked through.
"I'll get a fire going in the house," Athos said and abruptly left.
Aramis paused to exchange a curious look with d'Artagnan over Athos's odd behavior. The man usually didn't say much, but there was a stiltedness to his taciturnity since he'd brought them here. Aramis shook it off to mull over later; he still had work to do.
He made his way over to Vrita who had her neck craned around and was nosing at the burn.
"Leave it alone," he chided, stepping in close to get a better look. She tried to scoot away from him again but was already nearly backed up against the wall. "Easy," he crooned. "I need to see."
Vrita lowered her head but still watched him like a hawk. The burn was ugly, but not as deep as he had feared.
"D'Artagnan, can you bring that other roll of bandages?"
The young Gascon hurried to fetch them.
"She okay?" Porthos asked, voice gruff with pain.
"It's not that bad. She'll heal," Aramis replied, taking some fresh linen to pat the area dry before he could apply some salve. At least the rain had helped to wash it clean.
Vrita hissed in pain and bared her teeth in response.
"I'm sorry," he soothed. "I have to make sure it's clean before I apply the burn balm."
Savron shuffled over and snaked his head between Vrita and Aramis as a preemptive barrier in case he hit a tender spot again.
He finished drying the area and then took his tin of salve and applied some to the wound. Vrita grumbled throughout the process but didn't react poorly. Despite her reluctance, she was a better patient than her rider.
Aramis stepped away, finished. "Don't let her lick or prod the wound," he told Savron. Wrapping bandages around a dragon's bulk was arduous and a good way to deplete their supplies, so they'd have to leave it uncovered for now.
Aramis turned back to Porthos with a frown, the sound of the rain pattering the roof in droves.
"Shoulda waited to take my shirt off," Porthos grumbled, reading Aramis's mind.
"Here," d'Artagnan called, pulling out a tarp from the corner.
Aramis nodded in approval. "You two go ahead. I'll get the bags."
He was still drenched himself so there was no point darting out under the cover of the tarp, but Porthos's splinted arm definitely needed to be kept as dry as possible.
Aramis hauled two saddlebags over his shoulders, one each, and scooped up the third in his arms. Leaving the dragons to rest in their shelter, he ventured back out into the storm. The sky above continued to roil and crack with flashes of lightning and thunder, and Aramis darted across the yard to the house. Once inside the foyer, he set the bags down next to the discarded tarp and shook some of the water out of his eyes. There was a trail of puddles leading down the entryway and he followed it into a sitting room where a fire was blazing in the hearth and d'Artagnan was easing Porthos onto a settee.
Athos came in from another doorway bearing an armful of towels. Aramis took one and rubbed at his face and hair, which was continuing to drip water down the back of his collar. Not that he wasn't already soaked through. He peeled his sodden doublet off and draped it over the back of a chair, then went to help Porthos out of his trousers.
All four of them dressed down to their smallclothes, which relieved some of the weight of their waterlogged garments but only accentuated the chill.
"There are some blankets in the next room," Athos informed them.
"How did you know about this place?" Aramis asked.
Athos's expression was carefully devoid of emotion as usual as he replied, "I own it."
Everyone stilled at that bit of news.
"You were the Comte de la Fère?" Aramis said incredulously. While he hadn't been paying much attention to their location when they'd been forced to ground, he did recognize the family crest hanging on the wall of the foyer. "A son of the nobility?"
Athos's look remained bland as he turned and walked out of the room.
Aramis followed and found him raiding a closet for blankets. He moved in to help unload the cupboard.
"How many servants did it take to run this place?" he asked curiously.
"No more than twenty, including my valet and housekeeper," Athos answered with surprising honesty.
Aramis arched a brow. "Quite modest, then?" he quipped.
"Servants make me uncomfortable."
"Why did you leave?"
"I wanted nothing more to do with this life."
Arms full of towels, Athos again walked away from the conversation.
Aramis decided to let it go and followed him back into the sitting room where they laid out the blankets around the hearth for them to bundle up and get warm. Aramis helped Porthos move from the settee to the floor and draped two blankets over his shoulders.
He straightened as a thought occurred to him. "That barn was set up to house dragons," he said aloud.
"My family's owned one or two over the years," Athos replied.
"No wonder you climbed the ranks to dragon rider in less than a year after becoming a musketeer," Aramis commented.
Athos merely shrugged before climbing under a pile of blankets and turning away from them all.
Aramis rolled his eyes, but he was used to Athos being distant and tight-lipped about his past. One of the few things his friends even knew about was that he'd loved a woman and she'd died. Aramis wondered whether she had been part of this past life of their brother's.
It wasn't quite fully dark yet but they all needed to stay warm and rest to prevent catching cold. Aramis lay on his back listening to Porthos's pained grunts as the man tried to get comfortable with his broken arm. Eventually he settled and not long after his breathing evened out.
The fire crackled and the storm raged on outside, rain drumming against the windows and wind howling through the chimney. Aramis rolled over to finally go to sleep when he noticed d'Artagnan sitting up on his pile of blankets, one knee drawn up and an arm hooked around it. His back was tense and he kept staring at the fire.
"Are you all right?" Aramis asked quietly.
D'Artagnan startled. "What? I'm fine."
Aramis propped himself up on one elbow. "You should get some rest."
"Not tired."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." D'Artagnan flicked a nervous look at Athos and Porthos.
Aramis sat up all the way. "D'Artagnan."
A muscle in the boy's jaw ticked and he glanced at the window. "It's just…it was raining like this when my father died."
Aramis nodded in understanding. "And it's only been a few weeks since then."
D'Artagnan's throat bobbed. "When Porthos and Vrita fell out of the sky," he whispered. "I felt that terror again. And now I can't close my eyes without seeing my father dying in my arms. Not with the rain pouring down like this," he added with a bitter glare at the storm outside.
Aramis waited a moment before responding. "It will get better, with time. Eventually the rain will remind you of the event, but it won't make you relive it."
D'Artagnan shot him a half doubting, half hopeful look. "You know so?" he asked almost in challenge but mostly in search of confirmation.
Aramis nodded sagely. "From experience. In the meantime, why don't we fish out that deck of cards from Porthos's bag and hope they're not too soggy to play with."
"You don't have to…" d'Artagnan started.
But Aramis had already gotten to his feet and made his way over to the bags. He quietly fished out Porthos's cards, happy to see the leather satchel had protected them. He then went back over and sat on the floor across from d'Artagnan, reaching for one of the blankets to pull around his shoulders.
The boy gave him a grateful look as they settled in for a few friendly rounds while their companions slept.
.o.0.o.
Athos stood outside the closed doors of the sunroom. It had been Anne's favorite room in the whole house, the place she liked to spend her time, sitting on the settee as the warm rays of the sun bathed her in their soft glow.
The storm had passed and the morning had dawned clear and bright, meaning those rays were once again spilling into the space on the other side of this door. But there was no one there to bask in them. The room was now cold, just as everything else in this house.
Athos hated that he was standing here again. When he had left, he had intended to never return, yet circumstances had forced his hand, for his brother had been in dire need. But all the memories and pain that he'd gained a little bit of distance from were now crashing down on him tenfold as phantoms of the past played across his mind's eye. He could see it all so clearly—walking into this room and presenting Anne with a clipping of her favorite flower that bloomed in the meadow they frolicked in like lovestruck children. They had been so young and carefree then.
He turned away from the door and walked down the hall past another, one tainted with darker memories of his brother's body covered in blood and Anne standing over him with a knife. She'd claimed Thomas had tried to force himself on her, that she'd acted in self-defense, but Athos could not believe that of his brother. And then had come the news from the magistrate that Anne was not what she seemed; she was a criminal, a thief. She had seduced Athos to gain his wealth and title.
He had no choice but to let the magistrate take her away, and with her had gone all his hopes and dreams for the life they'd shared. He'd dismissed the household servants, sold the family dragon, and left without ever looking back.
Until now.
And it was eating at him.
He went back downstairs to the sitting room where the others were munching on a meager breakfast from their provisions.
"Is Porthos fit for travel?" he asked abruptly.
For the third time since arriving here, his friends all went still at his words.
"He can't fly by himself and it will be painful," Aramis answered. "Vrita's also injured."
"Porthos can ride with you."
Aramis shot him an incredulous look. "That's asking for disaster."
"Can you not get your dragon to behave, just once?" Athos snapped.
A stunned hush descended over the room and Athos bit back his frustration.
"My apologies," he forced out in a neutral tone. "I would just like to return to Paris as soon as possible."
"If Vrita's good to fly, I can make do ridin' her," Porthos said.
"Not alone," Aramis countered.
"I could ride with him," d'Artagnan offered. "But can Vrita handle the weight?"
Aramis huffed in consternation and ran a hand through his hair. "I'll check her wound, and if she's up for it, we can go, but we should make several stops along the way. And I should bandage it to protect from the wind shear. I don't suppose you'd object to liberating some sheets from a bedroom?" he asked Athos with a tad pointedness.
"Use whatever you need," he replied.
Then he pivoted to march out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door, needing to get out of that house before the memories suffocated him and the concern of his friends caused them to push where he didn't want them to.
He bypassed the barn and the company of the one friend who never pressed him for information, because Aramis would be out there soon enough, and headed out on foot in a random direction. He didn't realize his steps were taking him to the meadow until he pulled up short at its edge. The long grass was weighed down by last night's rains and the scenery lacked that certain magical quality he'd remembered when graced by Anne's laugh and dancing smile.
Even so, the memories assaulted him yet again. He would find no peace from them anywhere near this place.
Athos had overheard Aramis and d'Artagnan talking the evening before, heard Aramis tell the boy that the tragic memories that haunted him would get less painful over time. Aramis would know; he'd survived tragedy of unspeakable magnitude. And while it was true, and Athos had attained some minor blunting of the pain during his time away in Paris, returning to the scene of such tragedies would only ever reignite the pain for any of them.
He knew Aramis would understand if Athos just told him. Porthos and d'Artagnan would too. But it wasn't something he wanted to confess to anyone, not even his closest brothers. The weight of his greatest pain and deepest shame was something for him to bear alone, and always would be.
He was about to head back when he heard the thundering of horses' hooves and movement near the edge of the meadow caught his attention. A peasant was running as though for his life, and behind him a group of four riders broke from the tree line, apparently giving chase. The men on horseback wore scarlet sashes either across the chest or wrapped around the head like a bandana, save for the fourth who wore what looked like a finer breastplate.
They caught up with the peasant, whom Athos now recognized as a villager from Pinon, and cut off his flight as they circled him with their horses. The leader not wearing the scarlet colors raised a multi-tail whip and began to beat the poor man, ignoring his cries for mercy.
Athos surged forward, unnoticed as he strode toward the riders and broke between them. He grabbed the young man with the whip and hauled him off his horse. "That's enough!"
"You dare lay a hand on me, peasant!" He raised his whip again, but Athos merely caught his wrist and torqued it.
On the ground, Remy the blacksmith stared up at Athos with wide eyes.
"I am a King's Musketeer. Now, what cause do you have to beat this man so?"
"I don't answer to you!" the boy spat. And he really was a boy, no more than d'Artagnan's age. "These are my lands to do as I wish."
Athos narrowed his eyes. "You are on La Fère lands and therefore trespassing."
"Unhand me!"
Movement in his peripheral vision alerted Athos that the other men had dismounted and were closing in. He released the boy and spun to thwart a punch. He delivered one to his attacker's jaw instead, but the other two converged on him and one of them struck him on the back of the head, pitching him into blackness.