Chapter Text
“Porthos.”
The clock in Treville' office was ticking loudly.
“Porthos.”
Tick. Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“Porthos.”
Outside, the sound of friendly sparring; of someone-- probably Henri-- losing at hand-to-hand.
“Porthos.” The voice was no longer Treville's but Athos', and through the dizzy haze of a mind trying to be anywhere but where it was, Porthos clawed his way back to his friend.
“Do you understand?”
All at once, he realized that Athos had him by the arm, was steadying him firmly. Treville's fingers brushed his other elbow. D'Artagnan lingered within easy reach.
“Porthos,” Treville said again. “Do you understand what I've told you? Answer me, son.”
“Yes.” It was a pathetic little croak. Porthos fought not to drift away again. “Yes, I understand what you've told me, Captain.”
“What have I told you, Porthos?”
Tick. Tick.
Porthos blinked.
“He's dead.”
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“Aramis is dead.”
*
“Porthos,” d'Artagnan murmured, and Porthos reached up to wipe his eyes only to find he wasn't weeping. Then why was the world all a blur? He struggled to focus, realized they were in a tavern-- why, were they drinking to Aramis already?
“He's in shock.” Athos' voice was tight and the tiniest bit hoarse. They were sitting around a table, though he couldn't remember having walked there. Perhaps he was dreaming?
“It's like he's dazed.”
He was dreaming. That had to be it. Thank the Lord, that was it-- they weren't in the tavern, he was safe in bed, and Aramis was alive.
“That's what shock is. Take him home.”
He'd have to tell him about the dream tomorrow. They'd laugh. Maybe hug-- he could use one. Silly he was so upset by it, but he was; he could feel his hands trembling.
“Come with us. This is the fourth tavern we've been to and nobody remembers seeing Aramis. Let's quit for tonight. We'll try again in the morning.”
Aramis wasn't even dead anymore, only missing! The dream couldn't even bother to be consistent.
“Athos, we'll find the men who did this. I swear it. It's past midnight. Let's try to get a few hours sleep.”
And then they were home, d'Artagnan's quarters from the looks of it, and Porthos was curled up tightly on the bed. D'Artagnan sat beside him, tears running down his cheeks.
“Sorry,” he gasped, as Athos joined them, and put a hand to d'Artagnan's face and said, “shh, shh, shh--”
Porthos shut his eyes and waited to wake up.
*
Athos woke before sunrise. Wine and grief had soured his stomach, and he made discreet use of the chamberpot and took it out to be emptied before the others came around.
Inside, he slumped once again at the table. The empty bottle spun uselessly in his hands as he wished for more wine, wished for sleep to reclaim him, wished for the others to wake as well.
Wished for Aramis to walk through the door and explain the mistake.
Because it didn't make sense, the captain's story; how could a musketeer of Aramis' skill have lost his life to a gang of common thugs? How could he have survived all he had survived only to die for the coins in his purse? It was ridiculous. It was asinine.
A sound from the bed brought Athos back, and he looked over to see Porthos pushing himself up heavily. He looked around, blinked, and slumped into himself.
“That all really happened, eh?”
“Yeah.”
Porthos hauled himself to the table and stood beside Athos. “What'd we find last night?”
“Nothing. We asked around in all his standard taverns, and nobody remembers seeing him.”
“He might not've been at a tavern. Did we check the churches?”
“Today,” Athos whispered.
And then Porthos had pulled him to his feet and was clutching him tightly; in the warmth of those arms Athos melted like snow, thinning out, shrinking, disappearing. He allowed himself to. For a long moment he allowed himself to know nothing but the safety of Porthos' embrace, with its heat and its broadness and the familiar smell of metal and leather.
“I'll be with you today,” Porthos rumbled.
“Nobody blames you for yesterday,” Athos replied, rubbing his friend's back and taking a moment to ensure that he was holding Porthos as tightly as Porthos was holding him.
“Know y'don't. But I will be with you today.” There was a pause, and then Porthos continued, in a much weaker voice, “can't believe he's gone, Athos.”
Abrupt emotion choked Athos' throat. He tried to speak, but found he couldn't-- found he had no words to offer in any case.
They stood a while longer, then let each other go. When Athos pulled his face away from Porthos' shoulder, he caught sight of d'Artagnan, awake now and staring at them with an absent expression.
“C'mere,” Porthos ordered, opening his arms towards their youngest. D'Artagnan shook his head, climbed out of the cocoon of blankets he'd buried himself in, and stretched tentatively.
“I'm all right. What's our plan for the day?”
“Finish with the taverns, move onto the churches.”
“Should we--” Porthos began, then stopped.
“What?”
“Should we see the undertaker?”
D'Artagnan bit his lip. “Treville doesn't want us to.”
“When did that happen?”
“When he told us. I asked if we could and he said we couldn't-- I think he was right. I don't-- I don't think I want to see him.”
Athos frowned. “If it were anyone else, we would see the body. We'd look for clues to the identity of his assailants.”
“But this ain't anyone else,” Porthos replied. “I don't want to either. 'm sorry I suggested it.”
“All right,” Athos consented, though at the back of his mind he reserved the idea. He could go alone, if necessary. “We should check at the churches first. Save the last of the taverns for this evening, when more patrons will be there.”
“Wait.” Porthos' voice was small.
“What is it?” Athos prompted.
“I don't-- remember what Treville said. I mean, any of it.” Porthos' head was hanging. “'m sorry. I know neither of you should have t'say it again, but-- I just wasn't listenin'.”
D'Artagnan's hand found his shoulder. “It's all right, Porthos. Ready now?”
He nodded.
“Aramis was found in an alley not far from the Wren,” d'Artagnan explained. “They-- that is, the captain, eh-- it was clear he'd been drinking heavily, Porthos. Still in uniform, so the Red Guards did the noble thing for once and brought him to Treville. He'd been attacked, all his weapons and money taken. He was shot in the chest, as well as beaten. There's been a rash of muggings in that area the past few weeks. Treville believes that this was another.”
Porthos took a deep, shuddering breath, and then nodded again. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice thick, and d'Artagnan pulled him in for a brief hug.
Athos watched them pull apart with something that felt all too much like envy; Porthos had embraced him not five minutes before. And yet, he wanted to be held again. Wanted to be held with a fervor that was nearly dizzying; wanted to be taken into someone's arms and soothed and shushed and comforted and-- Christ.
Aramis was dead.
“Churches,” Athos said.
Porthos fetched a paper and writing supplies, and with Athos as scribe they came up with five churches they'd known Aramis to visit. He added small, inky dots next to two. Then he tore the paper in three pieces, giving himself and Porthos both slips with two names on it, and d'Artagnan the last with only one.
“Splittin' up, then?” Porthos remarked.
“Are you all right with that?”
Porthos gave an affirmative grunt.
“The dotted churches are--” Athos began, then stopped, feeling his voice abandon him. Two sets of eyes turned towards him, and he ignored them carefully. “The dotted churches were his favorites. These are our most likely candidates.”
Porthos worried the paper between him thumb and forefinger, then tucked it away. “Let's get to it, then.”
Athos held up a hand, signaling them to pause. “Something happened you both should know of before we begin. Three nights ago.”
“He was answerin' a summons from the cardinal,” Porthos recalled, frowning.
“The cardinal?” d'Artagnan echoed.
Athos nodded. “We followed his agent to a crypt. It held the tomb of Adele Bessette.”
Porthos swore.
“Mostly before your time,” Athos explained to d'Artagnan. “One of Aramis' mistresses, also mistress to the cardinal. It would seem he murdered her. For choosing Aramis over him.”
“How'd he take it?” Porthos asked.
“Not well, apparently.” All at once standing was proving effortful, and he bent wearily over the table. D'Artagnan laid a hand on his back. “We stayed in the crypt for a few minutes, and when was ready to go, I saw him back to his apartment. I offered to stay and he declined. He seemed all right the next morning.”
“He seemed fine,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Fine as he ever had the past few months.”
“I should have tried again that next night. Too much has happened because I've let him have his space.”
“We've all been lettin' him have his space,” Porthos growled. “This wasn't your fault, Athos.”
“I left him alone when I knew he was grieving.”
“We all--”
“You didn't know!”
D'Artagnan's hand vanished as the boy backed up half a step, giving Athos a bit of space that he vehemently did not desire.
“You didn't know,” he repeated, calmly now. “I did. I knew of Adele's death and left Aramis to his own devices. And he got drunk, and let his guard down.”
“Suppose you're to blame for the muggers, too?”
“Muggers didn't kill Aramis. For God's sake.”
“Then who--” Porthos' face hardened. “You think the cardinal did it.”
“That doesn't make sense,” d'Artagnan protested. “Why show him his lover's tomb and then just-- kill him? It would seem more his style to let Aramis live with the knowledge.”
“He did,” Athos replied. “He gave him one day. He ensured that his final hours on earth were miserable and riddled with guilt.”
The world roared to a violent halt. Porthos and d'Artagnan turned towards him, two sets of eyes filling with tears as they bore into him--
“Fuckin' hell,” Porthos rasped.
D'Artagnan wrapped his arms around himself. “If he were still alive I would fucking kill him,” he growled. Then, after a moment: “so what do we do?”
“We gather as much information as we can.” Athos' voice was steady, which pleased him distantly. “We finish the taverns, and then we visit the churches. The cardinal may be beyond our reach to punish, but if we can discover his lackeys, we can see justice done to them at least.”
The others nodded. Athos suspected that they, much like he, were now functioning solely on the thought of avenging their brother; that in fact their real desire was to fall back into bed and weep, and that their muscles were burning vengeance itself to keep moving as they were.
“We'll see them dead,” d'Artagnan vowed, lifting his chin. “Anyone who had anything to do with Aramis' death. Anyone at all. Even a priest. We'll run them through.”
A few furious tears had spilled down the boy's cheeks; Porthos thumped him firmly on the back, and Athos pulled in a breath to steady himself. They would. They'd have revenge.
*
The day had started with grief, but also with a kind of morbid confidence.
It ended with none but grief left.
The taverns yielded no clues; d'Artagnan had no luck at his assigned church either, where the priest could not remember having seen Aramis for weeks. Crestfallen, he joined Athos at his second location. The outcome there was the same, as it had been at Athos' first as well-- and at both of Porthos', the man reported, as he joined them soon after.
D'Artagnan had avenged his father's death on nothing more than a name. And, after a very roundabout sort of adventure, it had turned out to be enough. But they had nothing to work from this time. Not a name, not a face, not even a clear notion of who had perpetrated the crime-- for, as tempting as it was to blame the cardinal, d'Artagnan's faith in this waned as the day wore on. He kept himself from airing his doubts. Instead he shut his ears off to Athos' strategizing, and took a moment to slump against the back of a pew, soaking up the presence of his two remaining brothers.
He focused once more when Porthos' voice replaced Athos'. “Seein' as we're here,” he began, “think we should, eh-- that is, this's where I think he'd've liked the Mass said.”
“He'll be buried in the Musketeer yard,” Athos stated at once. “With his brothers. Don't you think?”
“'course. Ain't sayin' we bury 'im here, jus'-- there should be a proper Mass said.”
After a moment, Athos nodded his consent. “We'll speak to the priest. Then I've thought of our next move. The Red Guards-- the ones that found him. We should speak to them.”
“Agreed. Now-- when d'we do the Mass?”
“We still need to dig the grave,” Athos mused; then, to d'Artagnan's questioning look, responded, “tradition. When a musketeer dies, those closest to him in the regiment prepare the grave.”
“My second in sixth months,” Porthos muttered, and Athos glanced over with a look of near-surprise.
“I realized you'd had a funeral, but-- you dug the hole as well?”
Porthos nodded. “Seemed excessive then. Seems almost like practice now.”
“How long did it take?”
“'bout five hours with both of us going. Three of us, should only be about three.”
“It was autumn then. The ground will be harder now.”
D'Artagnan's hands were shaking, he realized; clearly the two of them were finding peace in details, but it wasn't helping him. He closed his eyes, not sure if he was going to lose his temper or possibly just his composure.
Then Athos' hand found his shoulder; d'Artagnan sucked in a few breaths and opened his eyes.
“We dig tomorrow. Say the Mass the day after that.”
Porthos and d'Artagnan nodded their agreements. “I'll go an' talk to the priest, then?” Porthos offered, and d'Artagnan, realizing that he was being coddled for a moment, gave into it without complaint. Athos squeezed his shoulder, and he leaned against him gratefully. A few moments passed in silent companionship, then Athos sighed a little and cleared his throat.
“D'Artagnan, I won't insult you by implying that you have any less right or duty to be involved than do Porthos or I. But if any of this is too much--”
“Why would it be too much?” d'Artagnan interrupted. He shrugged his shoulder out from Athos' grasp and made himself sit straighter. “Why for me and not for you?”
Athos barely seemed to understand the question. “Well-- your father died so recently.”
“I'm fine!” d'Artagnan yelped-- then, a bit more convincingly, “I'm fine. Eh-- how are you?”
“Fine.”
D'Artagnan actually almost laughed at that. He slapped Athos' back, and when the man let his eyes slip shut at the contact, d'Artagnan contented himself to rub his thumb against the tense muscles there for a minute or two.
Porthos returned quickly. “'sall set,” he announced, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Mornin' after next, we'll have a service here, then the burial. We needa tell the captain. Who else is there that needs t'know?”
“His family,” Athos replied at once, and d'Artagnan felt a stab in his guts. Aramis' brother and sisters-- he hadn't even thought. “Word won't reach them in time for any of this, naturally. But they must be informed.”
Porthos nodded, then sank down facing them, so that his weight was resting on the back of the next pew up. “Anyone else?”
“I can't think of anyone.”
“Never could tell which of his lovers he wanted keepin' in touch with. Awright. Well, I'll go an' talk to the Red Guards. You go an' see the captain. Pup? Who're you taggin' along with?”
“Well, it seems like you're the one most likely to require backup, doesn't it?” d'Artagnan replied, faking a will to rise that he simply did not feel. They pushed to their feet, and set off.
*
He should have been the one to talk to the Red Guards, Athos knew. To them, Porthos was no more than a cardshark and d'Artagnan no more than a wide-eyed new recruit, defeat of LaBarge notwithstanding. They would not divulge sensitive information under such little duress.
And yet, perhaps it was best. Let them know that they were under suspicion-- or at least their former commander was-- and let it eat at them for a bit. He could follow up later if need be. Besides, he had to admit, he didn't mind the thought of a moment alone with Treville. The captain knew how to act in moderation; he could listen without pressing, soothe without breaking down walls that needed to remain standing.
Perhaps Athos was not entirely in touch with himself. But he knew that he needed at least a modicum of comfort, were he going to make it through the next two days.
The door to his office opened, and Treville waved Athos inside. And indeed, as Athos had known he would, the captain favored him with a supportive grip, just for a moment, before stepping away respectfully.
Athos breathed deeply. The captain's presence alone was a balm, and all at once he felt the weight of Aramis' death pressing down upon him. He let his shoulders droop beneath it.
“We've arranged for a Mass to be said the day after next,” he reported. “Eight o'clock in the morning, so we should be at the cemetery no later than ten. Porthos, d'Artagnan, and I will dig the grave tomorrow.”
Treville nodded. “Have you learned anything of import?”
“No,” Athos admitted, and fought the urge to sag down a little more. “Nobody remembers seeing Aramis at any of the taverns or churches he frequents. To the best of my knowledge, I don't believe he had any lovers in recent months, so there are no leads to follow there. Porthos and d'Artagnan are speaking with the Red Guards who found him.”
“You're doing well.”
“We're finding nothing.”
“And even if you never do, your efforts are a boon to Aramis' memory.”
The world tipped, and Athos shuffled his feet to compensate. “Sit,” Treville ordered, pointing to a chair, and Athos sat.
“I haven't asked how you are, because you are how you need to be for now. But don't think that question isn't coming.” Treville rounded his desk and perched on the front edge of it, regarding Athos steadily. “In the meantime, if you need to answer before I ask, you go ahead and do that.”
“Porthos is not taking it well. Neither is d'Artagnan.”
“Neither are you,” the captain replied, and Athos blinked.
“I didn't expect you to,” Treville continued, voice softening. “In fact, I'd've found it strange if you had. You three earned your name for a reason-- I've barely ever seen you parted these past six years. D'Artagnan too, since he arrived. You'll need time, and you'll have it. When you return after the funeral, I'll see to it that--”
“We may not be finished by then,” Athos interrupted.
“With what?”
“The investigation.”
“Athos,” Treville said, voice hushed, “do you really expect that to go anywhere?”
It was not the question that Athos was prepared for; he sat up straighter, feeling himself frown deeply. “Paris is only so large.”
“Paris is incredibly large,” Treville corrected, “and you've incredibly little to go on. I granted leave so you'd have time to mourn, not to play detective.”
“You thought we would not seek justice?” Athos began to rise.
And then Treville's hands were up, and Athos sank down again in response. “I'm not arguing with you, Athos. Not today. Tell me, is there anything I can do? For any of you?”
“You'll speak at his burial,” Athos replied, after a moment. “Of course.”
“Of course.”
“And you should be the fourth to bear his coffin from the church to the cemetery.”
Treville nodded solemnly. “It would be my honor.”
“Other than that, there are no real preparations to be made. Beyond contacting his family, which I will do--”
“I've already written them.”
Athos' stomach clenched. “What?”
“I wrote them yesterday. Sent the letter off this morning. They'll have it within the week.”
Where the sudden rush of rage came from, Athos did not know; but suddenly he was on his feet, heart pounding. “That was--” Athos gasped out-- “my duty--”
“I'm-- sorry. I wanted it done as soon as--”
“They should have heard it from me! Me or Porthos!”
“Shh,” Treville soothed, leaning closer. “I was his captain. No matter what you think, that makes it my task to contact his family.”
“No!” Athos shouted, beginning to shake. “No, it does not! I was his friend!”
“Athos,” Treville murmured, closing the final distance and clapping his hands to Athos' shoulders. At the kindly touch, Athos could not withhold a sob. “Mon fils. Aramis' death is not a weight you carry alone. Sit again, and we'll drink to his memory--”
Athos wrenched himself away and fled.
The next morning he gathered three shovels from the garrison and trekked out to the cemetery, each step a dragging limp. Visiting Treville had not eased his nerves at all. Perhaps at this point nothing would.
Porthos joined him shortly, and d'Artagnan minutes thereafter. “You ain't gonna like what we found,” Porthos began, as soon as they were all together. “The men who found him, the two Red Guards, they're away on assignment. Won't be back for weeks.”
“Where is their assignment?”
“Like they'd tell me?” Porthos huffed. “Maybe we're jus'--”
“What?”
“Nothin'.” Porthos rubbed a hand down his face. “Let's get diggin'.”
For a long moment, Athos could not bring himself to move. What were the odds? Could their luck be truly so awful?
The ground was nearly frozen; the sun had not been up long enough to warm it, and their hands ached as the shovels fought to pierce its surface. Underneath the dark brown soil was equally uninviting, unforgiving. They didn't speak, falling into a silent, sympathetic rhythm of three shovels and three sets of slightly labored breathing. Sweat blossomed beneath Athos' clothes.
The hole deepened, widened.
Though he hadn't prayed in-- Christ, in years-- Athos felt himself sprinkling the growing chasm with silent, tender intentions, lining with affection the space which Aramis would occupy for eternity. Had he known of their kinship? Of course he had, but had he known-- had he truly felt, with the appropriate magnitude, how deeply and truly they had loved him? It snapped at Athos' heels, the fear that he hadn't. What a lonely way to go, killed by a dead man, haunted by a dead woman, alone in the middle of the Paris night--
Athos removed his glove, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Athos!” Porthos called. “Your hand!”
Athos glanced down with disinterest at Porthos' shout. A blood blister had formed across his palm and burst, and was smeared now, which must have meant there was blood on his face as well. It was nothing. But then--
d'Artagnan clamped a hand to his mouth, going pale.
Porthos stepped to the boy's side. “You all right?” he prompted.
D'Artagnan nodded, then shook his head. “I just-- shit, I might--” he huffed, fingers still pressed to his lips.
Porthos steadied him carefully from behind. “If you gotta throw up, go ahead. No judgments.”
D'Artagnan spent a moment visibly forcing his stomach to settle. Then he pulled his hand away with a resolute expression. “I'm not vomiting in a graveyard. Of all the disrespectful things. Jesus, I don't know where that even came from. It's not like blood bothers me.”
“You all right now?”
“Yeah,” d'Artagnan replied, sniffing, as Porthos let him go.
“We should finish digging,” Athos said, and replaced his glove.
Before long it became necessary for one of them to climb in and dig from the bottom; Porthos, being the tallest, did so, while Athos continued to work the sides and d'Artagnan tended to the dirt they both were tossing aside haphazardly. It was a cold day. The wind bit at his nose and ears but the effort of digging heated him from within, so that his body felt caught between ice and fire, and the contrast made his head pound.
It took less time than he'd thought-- perhaps less time than Athos wanted. This was, after all, one of the last moments they would share with Aramis, and although his skin burned and his arms ached, he was strangely disappointed when he realized they were finished.
Porthos seemed to be as well. He passed his shovel up to d'Artagnan; then, rather than climb out himself, he leaned against the dark dirt of the grave wall, pressing hands and forehead to it, and went still.
“Porthos,” Athos heard himself prompting, softly.
“'scold,” Porthos replied, voice made dull by the earth around him. “s'really fuckin' cold down here.”
Such innocence, such despair, as there was in that statement brought Athos closer to weeping than he had been yet. He held his breath and looked away.
There was silence for a minute or two. Then: “you're getting dirt on your face,” d'Artagnan called down, and Porthos chuckled weakly.
“Should see your trousers. Now gemme outta this hole.” This was followed by half a minute of grunting, and another burst of tired laughter.
“Athos,” d'Artagnan called. “Could kind of use your help here.” And Athos went to d'Artagnan's side, and even found it in him to smile a little as they strained to heave Porthos back to ground level.
The moment this was done, though, the energy drained away. Athos grabbed Porthos tightly, holding him-- and simultaneously holding himself up against him.
D'Artagnan stepped away, gave them space.
Athos felt lips on his forehead, next to where the blood had smeared; then he felt himself being pushed back upright. Porthos regarded him for a long, fond moment. Then, together, they stared down at the grave, at the hole they'd excavated, at the resting place of their beloved brother.
“We'll fill it in tomorrow?” d'Artagnan wondered, after another short silence.
“No. By tradition, that is a duty shared by every man in the garrison.”
“We weren't the only ones t'lose him,” Porthos added, clapping d'Artagnan on the back as he came to stand beside them. “How're you feelin'?”
“I'm all right. I was only nauseous for a minute or two.” He rubbed his eyes, mindful of the dirt on his hands. “We did all right?”
“We did all right,” Porthos replied, at the same time that Athos sighed, “we did well, d'Artagnan.”