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It was a raucous afternoon in the garrison underneath a hot midsummer sun. Aramis and Porthos sat slouched on their usual bench, watching the fray as a handful of the most recent recruits traded harmless blows and insults back and forth. Both men ignored the sound of approaching steps as a pair of boots clopped down the stairs, until a long shadow fell in front of them. Aramis looked up, shading his eyes against the sun and found Athos was standing in front of him. The newer arrival to the garrison had turned his back on the fraternal amusements in the yard, as he often did, and was eyeing Aramis impatiently.
"Let's go," Athos commanded, brows drawn together in a dark scowl as his attention fixed on Aramis. Without waiting for the other musketeer's response, Athos turned and stalked towards the stables to retrieve his horse.
Porthos eyed the retreating figure, then looked at Aramis sympathetically. "Well. I imagine it'll be a cosy ride, just you and Monsieur le Duc."
Monsieur le Duc was Porthos' private nickname for Athos, never used within earshot of Athos himself. There was no denying that since his arrival in their company a few months earlier, Athos' bearing and diction clearly mirrored that of a noble. It was unlikely Porthos' guess was correct, since there was no reason a titled noble should be among the numbers of the musketeers. Though he could perhaps be a younger son or brother, Aramis supposed, appearing in Paris in the wake of some scandal. But Athos kept to himself, haughty and watchful, and no opportunities to choose a more fitting nickname had been presented.
Aramis glared at his friend's amused expression. "Are you certain you don't want to come along?"
"And miss my chance to stand around in the heat, watching all the nobles in France parade like peacocks and stuff themselves all day?" Porthos' dry tone indicated that he could not, in fact, think of anything worse. "It seems like everyone in the country is invited to this party that the King's throwing."
"Except Athos and myself," Aramis said wryly.
"Look on the bright side," Porthos said, picking up Aramis' hat and thrusting it at him with a grin, as the other man stood to depart. "He probably won't say a word the whole trip. It'll be peaceful, like."
*
For once, Porthos' observation had been entirely accurate. Their horses made their way along the westward road out of Paris. The day was drawing to the lull that preceded dusk, the hot sun mercifully beginning to dip in the sky, and still Athos had not said a dozen words to him. Every opening repartee of Aramis' was met with a polite but terse response that invited no further inquiry.
Finally Aramis sighed. "Are we to ride in silence all the way? It is a long journey."
Athos' gaze flickered towards Aramis, a trace of surprise on his face. "What do you wish to talk about?"
This was not a response Aramis had been expecting, and his mind cast about for an answer. Eventually he said, "You could tell me a story. How did you first arrive in Paris?"
Athos stared at him, as if trying to decide if he were being made fun of. "I think I shall decline," he responded, in a polite but certain tone. "But if you wish to tell such a story, then by all means."
Aramis hesitated. Such stories inevitably led to more things he did not wish to discuss, such as his mother, or the events that had driven him from his father's house and towards the musketeers. "I think I shall also decline," he said, with a small smile as he recognised the joke.
Athos' responding smile was a minute upward twitch of his lips. "Well. You were right. This is much better than silence."
After a time, long enough that Aramis began to think Athos had fallen back into ignoring him, Athos spoke again. "I do not intend to be rude," he said. "It is only that I do not wish--"
"To be on this mission," Aramis finished for him. "Yes, I believe the entire garrison worked that out."
Athos' face stiffened. "Riding across half of France to deliver a trinket back to the king hardly seems like a mission. More of an errand, and a frivolous one at that."
"And you're missing the grand fête," Aramis said, quietly testing.
A look of frustration darkened Athos' face like a thundercloud, then passed again into tense stiffness. "I do not wish to attend a party. I wish to do my duty."
"Tréville has decided your duty would be best served here." Aramis shrugged, gesturing to the expansive countryside rolling with lush summer greenery. "And mine, as well."
Athos shot him a dry, sideways glance. "I believe your only duty here is to be my nursemaid. Which I do not require."
"I'm sure that's not what Tréville had in mind," Aramis said, frowning.
*
It might have been, Aramis admitted privately to himself some hours later, exactly what Tréville had had in mind. They stopped at a small inn at sunset. In the village tavern Athos picked reluctantly through a bowl of stew, then drank an alarming amount of wine without regard for his health or his purse. Aramis was no stranger to evenings spent cheerfully drunk in the company of friends, but Athos seemed to get no pleasure from any drop he swallowed. His mood only seemed to grow more dour, until he was staring dully at the scratches in the tabletop, seemingly insensible to the din around him.
His drunkenness was not evident as the tavern's revelry continued around him. Athos stood at the end of the night, his cup finally emptied, and his chair scraped against the floor. His normally straight posture swayed unsteadily as he took a step. Aramis guided him up the stairs with one hand in the small of his back, watching carefully as Athos, improbably, remained on his feet until he reached the bed. There he collapsed in a desolate pile, kicking loose his boots and burying his face in the pillow as he slipped into sleep.
With any luck, whatever demons he sought refuge from would not follow him there, Aramis thought, as he blew out the lantern.
*
The second day passed much the same, and the third. On the fourth day, their horses trudging through the dusty, sun-baked countryside, Athos cast his gaze to the sky and said, "I believe it will rain today."
Aramis glanced upwards. They were still a few hours away from dusk, yet the sky was rapidly darkening. Grey clouds moved over the sky and dimmed the sun. Aramis frowned in irritation. If the roads were wet then their journey would be slowed, and Aramis was already impatient to be done with the mission and back in Paris.
The weather held for another hour, both men uneasily watching the clouds as their horses trudged the long road. Then the sky broke, pouring bucketfuls of rain down on the travelers as they arrived in the next town.
*
Athos and Aramis left their horses in the inn's small stables and stopped in the tavern. As they entered the room, shaking rain from their clothing, dozens of wary eyes swung towards them.
Athos and Aramis glanced at each other, hesitating, then Athos gave a barely perceptible shrug. Aramis nodded, claiming a chair in the centre of the room as Athos greeted the barmaid, ordering two servings of dinner and his usual quantity of wine.
Athos buried himself in his dinner and drink with no words. Aramis turned to his own meal, then jerked in surprise as an unwelcome hand landed on his shoulder. He turned, and found a large man eyeing him with open hostility as he leaned forward to speak. "Are you the king's men?" He gestured at Aramis' epaulet. A deprecating joke sprang to Aramis' lips, but before he could speak, Athos had cut in.
"And what if we were?" His voice was a low rumble, sounding only curious.
The tavern-goer looked over at Athos with a bellicose scowl. His clothes were dark and dusty, and the stench of alcohol was particularly strong as he spoke. A sword hung off his hip, though Aramis thought it was very doubtful he knew much about how to use it. "We don't much like the king around here," he said.
Privately, Aramis supposed that that was any man's right. Athos shook his head. "That's treason," he said.
The drunk villager stood, kicking back his chair and squaring his shoulders. The two musketeers rose to face him, moving in unison. "And who's going to hang me for it? You?" he demanded.
There was a rustling of moving chairs and a chorus of aggrieved murmurs, as much of the tavern stood to glare at the two musketeers. Aramis reluctantly placed a hand on the hilt of his rapier.
"Now, friends…" he began.
"I ain't your friend," the man shot back. In the blink of an eye he lunged forward with his sword.
Aramis drew his blade, but Athos was faster, rising and thrusting his weapon forward with nearly invisible speed. One by one, the surrounding men leapt into the fray.
The villager who'd spoken was a more practised swordsman than Aramis had given him credit for, and Aramis soon threw his focus into the fight, feinting and parrying each attempted strike. The other opponents brandished an array of weapons, from swords and daggers to heavy candlesticks, and one gleaming edge of a butcher's knife. Beside him Athos fought with ease, his form as impeccable and graceful as one of the dancers that sometimes performed for the king. His limbs extended and retreated with perfect control, his sword twirling in the direction of each attack.
"Friend," Aramis shouted to his opponent as he found the upper hand, knocking the villager to the floor with a well-placed kick of his boot, "this is not--"
There was a blur of motion to Aramis' left. He spun, and saw the butcher's knife had come slicing through the air in his direction, gripped tightly by the angry hand of another villager. Aramis blinked, too late to evade, and then Athos was in front of him, off-hand dagger held out uselessly as the knife collided with his body.
At the thump of the impact, their opponents all froze. Aramis watched Athos with held breath, thinking that he would fall, but the man simply swayed to and fro, touching a curious hand to his shoulder. When it came away shockingly clean, he looked up, finding Aramis' gaze. Around him, the men remained still. Starting a brawl with the king's men was no doubt quite different from the prospect of having killed one of them, Aramis suspected. He took advantage of the hesitation, holding onto Athos' arm in case he would fall after all.
"We bid you goodnight," Aramis said, firmly and clearly, and the two men made haste towards the door.
*
They retreated to the stables, where they saddled their horses quickly. Athos' movements were mostly one-handed, Aramis noted, favouring the injured side.
"You are supposed to parry with your dagger," Aramis said, his worry disguised with annoyance. "Not your person."
Athos' gaze shifted from the task in front of him, and he didn't quite manage to smile. "I see. Thank you for the advice."
"You're welcome," Aramis answered dryly. He watched Athos mount his horse, prepared to offer help, but Athos swung into the saddle, guided by his uninjured side. The man was propelled, Aramis was beginning to suspect, by sheer stubbornness.
Athos gestured to a stable boy, watching them with wide eyes. "Is there another inn close by?"
The boy shook his head, taking a moment to find his voice. "No, Monsieur. But Monsieur Jacques farms the land in the direction you were riding. He sometimes lets men sleep in his old stables, if the inn is full."
"I thank you," Athos said, very formally, passing a sous to the stunned boy. "If the men ask, tell them we rode in the other direction."
The boy nodded mute agreement, and watched as the men rode off into the stormy grey evening.
*
Monsieur Jacques turned out to be a drooping, grey-haired man with a stone-faced wife, who pointed them in the direction of the stables and then quickly shut the door.
The stables were home to an aging plow horse, and a family of pigs who greeted their new neighbours with excited squeaks. Aramis watched Athos dismount gingerly from his horse. The rain tapped steadily on the roof, but inside the stables was orderly and dry. The farmer's wife had reluctantly parted with a lit torch, which Aramis placed on the mount on the wall, to lend brightness to the fading light. When the horses had been unsaddled and watered, Athos collapsed into a clean pile of hay, staring up at the ceiling. His face was pale under the flicker of torchlight.
"Very well," Aramis said briskly, "off with your shirt."
Athos' eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your shirt. I'll need it off if I'm to stitch the wound."
Athos shook his head, lips pressing into a stubborn line. "I'd heard you fancy yourself some sort of physician, but I'll thank you not to practise on me. In any case, it was merely a scratch."
"I'm no physician," Aramis returned. "I simply know that open wounds ought to be closed, and I am not going to stand here and watch you bleed just because you're too good for my assistance!" Aramis' frustrated speech sputtered to a stop.
There was silence, as the two men stared at each other. "I am not too good for your help, of course." Athos' voice was small and quiet, holding a tinge of apology. "I will disrobe, if it will satisfy your concern."
It was easier said than done. Athos' doublet only came off in slow, jerky movements, with Aramis kneeling beside him to tug loose the stiff sleeves. Athos audibly grit his teeth. Next was the shirt, sticking to his skin from the patch of blood at the shoulder. He could not manage the buttons one-handed, and so Aramis carefully pulled the small, delicate fasteners through their holes.
"Just a scratch?" Aramis asked, raising his eyebrows as he examined the jagged wound. The knife had sliced deeply enough that Aramis could see a faint glint of torn flesh when he dabbed away the dripping blood. The blood had flowed down Athos' arm, until it was staining his fingertips, and Aramis cleaned away the scarlet liquid until he was satisfied that there were no other hidden wounds.
"It will heal," Athos answered, with a defensive glare.
"With some care," Aramis agreed. He reached for his saddlebags, pulling free his carefully wrapped tools--a needle, with a length of thread. Athos watched him, his eyes full of suspicion. "Do you have any drink?" Aramis asked.
Athos' wary scowl deepened.
"Listen, I do not care if you are carrying an entire tavern," Aramis explained impatiently. "But I will need some for my work."
"In my bags," Athos admitted, finally. He watched as Aramis rummaged through, finding a bottle of dark wine, then pulled free the cork and splashed it over Athos' injured shoulder.
Athos barely seemed to notice as his eyebrows shot up in shock. "This is a curious treatment."
"It prevents any illness from reaching the wound," Aramis explained, "and causing fever."
Athos' confusion visibly grew. "But that is not the cause of fevers. Hippocrates clearly states so."
"Yes, that is one theory," Aramis agreed, "but there are others. I met a foreign philosopher who was quite convinced of this approach, and so far I've had no reason to doubt it." Aramis poured another river of wine into Athos' wound, and then held up the bottle and shook it, listening to the faint sloshing of the remaining liquid inside. "Here. You may as well drink the rest. This will hurt."
Athos took the wine bottle and complied, tipping the dark liquid down his throat in one gulp.
Aramis threaded the needle, squinting in the dim torch light. He started at the top edge of the gash, placing his fingers firmly on both sides. Athos jerked in discomfort as the needle pierced him.
Athos grit his teeth, but did not audibly complain. "Do the other musketeers submit to this?" His voice shook only slightly.
Aramis nodded. "They do. Porthos claims I have the neatest needlework in the regiment, though I am not sure he has been stitched by any other."
Athos nodded. The next part of the wound was deep and crooked, and Aramis' fingers dug into his arm as he brought the split-open flesh together, laying it evenly as best he could. Athos' teeth flashed in a grimace, but he had fallen silent.
"That knife was meant for me," Aramis said, speaking quietly as he worked.
"I suppose it was," Athos agreed, his voice cooly neutral.
If Athos had not intervened, it might have pierced Aramis' own side and slid beneath his ribs. Athos did not seem inclined to say any more about it, and so Aramis was quiet. He laid another stitch, and another. Fourteen in all, and when it was done Athos' eyes shone with the intensity of his discomfort, his breathing coming slightly too fast.
"There," Aramis said, soothingly. "We are done."
"Thank you," Athos murmured. His head drooped with exhaustion.
"You should sleep," Aramis suggested.
Athos made a noise of agreement. His eyes tracked Aramis as he moved towards the open stable door, casting his eyes over the dark, moonless. "Aren't you going to rest yourself? We should leave at first light," Athos said.
Aramis shrugged, still watching for shadows in a nearby cluster of trees. "If those men sober up, it won't take much thinking to work out where we may have gone."
"I can fight them. Even one-handed," Athos added.
"Of course. Though it would be simpler for them to skip the fighting and burn down the stables with us in it."
Athos considered this practical observation, then said, "As you wish." He lay on his back in the hay, closing his eyes, and fell into an ill, agitated sleep.
*
There were no unwelcome visitors in the night. The rain finally slowed, then came to a stop. An owl cooed, unseen somewhere on the roof, and Athos shifted without waking, muttering something that Aramis couldn't make out. As a crack of light appeared in the sky, signalling the approach of dawn, the torch went out. Aramis sat next to Athos on the bales of hay, his chin dipping low towards his chest as he drifted into sleep.
*
Aramis woke up alone. He sat up in a rush, his gaze darting around the stables, but there was no sign of Athos. His hat lay abandoned on their makeshift bed, and his horse was still where he'd left her, standing quietly in a corner. The sunlight filtering through the stable doors told Aramis that it was a couple of hours past dawn. Yet, Athos had not woken him.
Perhaps the ruffians had chased them down after all, and dragged Athos off while Aramis slept. Perhaps he had wandered off in search of drink, and now lay half-conscious somewhere, or maybe the needlework to his injury had broken, and he was bleeding again, weakened and confused. Propelled by worry, Aramis stumbled to his feet and into the bright morning.
He circled the building, and finally spotted a figure sitting in the grass, a short distance from the stables. Aramis picked his way down the sloping ground to the spot Athos had chosen, where a small brook of clear water streamed over a rocky bed. Aramis sat down beside him, causing Athos to finally look up.
"You should have woken me," Aramis chastised.
Athos shrugged. He looked better than he had the night before. His eyes were clear, seemingly free of any physical pain. He still had not replaced his shirt, his injury still evident on his left side. "We are in no great hurry."
"We are on business for the king," Aramis reminded him.
"As I said. No hurry," Athos replied. He scowled as Aramis took hold of his shoulder to peer at the stitches, and satisfy himself that they were still in place, but did not further protest. Athos remained perfectly still, as Aramis' fingers skimmed over the injured skin.
"That is not for us to say," Aramis commented when he was done. "The king's spies pass on their messages in all sorts of ways. I retrieved a clock from Rouen once, that was rumoured to have a message hidden inside, but Porthos and I could never figure out how it was done."
"Perhaps," Athos agreed reluctantly. "Though I think it is far more likely that Tréville wished me out of the way."
"I should not have thought you particularly cared to attend a party," Aramis said.
Athos shook his head. "I do not. It is a waste of time, a monument to vanity, and a distraction from their own everlasting boredom." Athos' volume rose with each word, in a mixture of irritation and curious hurt.
Aramis' brows shot up. "Well, maybe you are right, and Tréville did not wish you to express this philosophy to the king's guests. For your own sake," he added, when Athos looked ready to argue. "Though I must say, Monsieur le Duc, that I am quite surprised to hear you do not approve of the nobility's pursuits."
"I did not say I do not approve," Athos muttered, then frowned. "Monsieur what?"
"Monsieur le Duc. That's what Porthos calls you," Aramis admitted.
"He flatters me."
"Oh, I assure you, he does not. But he does not know you," Aramis added when he sensed his joke had fallen flat. "None of the men do."
"That is probably safest for them," Athos said softly, turning his head towards the wind.
There was a reflective pause from both men. A flock of birds flew across the sky, squawking loudly.
"I was in an ambush, a few years ago." Aramis rarely spoke of Savoy. His voice cracked on the last word.
"With the musketeers?"
"Yes, some of us. Only two of us survived."
"I am glad you did," Athos said softly. "War causes terrible losses."
"That is just it. We were not at war, or we did not know we were." Aramis shook his head. "The point is, I came back to Paris quite injured. It was months before Tréville would allow me to go on missions with the others."
"I'm sure he was just doing what he thought was best," Athos said, then shot Aramis a glare when he realised what he had said. "Even if it was wholly unnecessary."
"Maybe. But if Tréville wishes to care for us, it does us no harm to allow it, does it?"
Athos stared at him, but he could not seem to find words to argue. Finally he shrugged, turning to watch a gull dipping its impatient beak in the stream. "I believe that bird is looking for its breakfast. It may have the right of it."
On cue, Aramis' stomach rumbled. "I believe I still have some of yesterday's bread. Let's see what we can conjure up, shall we, and then we'll be on our way."
"At a reasonable pace," Athos suggested, with an expression that was almost a smile.
"Not too quickly, not too slowly," Aramis agreed. "We'll be back in Paris soon enough, and Porthos can tell us everything we missed." He reached out a hand, helping Athos to his feet, and the two men began their day.
*fin.