Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

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“You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions.”

– M. d’Artagnan the elder

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“Grab him!”

Athos and Porthos caught him up, arms acting like a net across his back. It had to be Porthos, given the thickness of arm and hand on the one side, and it was Athos’ scarf, he knew the pattern of that fabric.

He was dizzy, and he’d tried to indicate that before sitting down. He’d moved to sit, well he’d thought about it, but he’d remained on his horse. Had he remained on his horse? D’Artagnan recalled standing, or thinking about it, maybe he’d still been seated on his horse.

He did not faint. He did not swoon.

Except he wasn’t on his feet.

A crack of light, broke across his vision and dark shapes blocked out the lowering sun streaming through the shifting leaves overhead. They were fluttering and rippling, but d’Artagnan didn’t recall when it had turned windy.

“D’Artagnan…” A lilting voice, Aramis’ he thought; he’d certainly be the one to utter his name in so musical a manner. “D’Artagnan...look here please…”

His tongue felt thick, cheeks swollen in and preventing his mouth from opening; the ache reminded him of that after being punched. Had he been punched? Kicked?

He tried to peer at himself but instead felt the mildly nauseating sense that accompanied crossing one’s eyes. Maybe he had. Why couldn’t he speak?

D’Artagnan would have to interrupt if he did. There was a rumbling over his head, and though muffled he knew the others were crowding around him. All three gathered about him and yet he couldn’t make out the features of a single man.

“No, no...not that way…”

Turning his head back to center – his approximation of it anyway – he dropped his chin. Blinking rapidly he still couldn’t clear his vision so he looked back up trying to force his eyes to find one of them.

“Over here, please…”

Gentle and bare fingertips tipped his chin, moving him in their desired angle.

“Watch it, he looks like he’s gonna – ”

That was Porthos?

“Don’t say it.”

Yes, it was Porthos, because that had been Athos.

“D’Artagnan.”

Aramis’ voice encouraged him to focus, using that calm tone of his that dulled all the noise in the chaos. He wanted that, whatever had happened he needed a focal point; that was wise of Aramis. Hands bracketed either side of his face, glove-warmed palms preventing his head from toppling to the side, and his vision narrowed to where it was made to meet Aramis’ eyes, crinkling at their edges.

“Ah, there.”

D’Artagnan returned Aramis’ smile, pleased with himself that he’d succeeded in maintaining concentration.

“Now...how many fingers am I holding up?”

He couldn't see a hand, let alone individual fingers. Aramis enjoyed teasing him, well-meaning and mostly amiable – he’d not be deliberately cruel, not to d’Artagnan. Not to his friends.

Unless they were endangering another one of his friends. Aramis had been unnerving when Porthos had – what had happened with Porthos? His back had hit a wheel or was it a cart? He’d been forced to step back? Had he? What had happened? Had he fallen off his horse? Were they walking, no they’d been running and there was a carriage, and velvet. There had been two coaches.

His leg hurt – why was Aramis rambling about fingers. He should be attending to his leg. Maybe Aramis was unaware of the injury!

D’Artagnan needed to tell him. Aramis was quite talented at tending their minor wounds, he excelled at needlework and he took genuine care – and no small amount of pride – in looking after their health. However, there seemed to be much confusion on the part of his friends and it was understandable that Aramis might’ve overlooked the limb.

“He’s done,” that was Aramis’ caretaking voice.

Athos often told him that he needed to choose one interest and commit. Aramis countered that he’d committed to a variety of options and that one never knew at what point the skill of setting a bone or that connection to this abbé would provide good fortune. D’Artagnan thought he was a fool for wanting to join the clergy; he’d make a poor Richelieu.

Thankfully.

He shuddered in the grasp of the arms supporting him. Aramis. In a cassock. Great robes swamping him and one hand teasing the end of his beard while pouring over papers on a huge mahogany desk, fire cracking to his left. His ribs threatened to splinter from the gusts of air trying to shudder out of him.

“He looks odd.”

Was that Porthos?

“Perhaps he struck his head? Did anyone see?””

That was Aramis again.

The unknown voice floated in, the man’s accented French a strain to d’Artagnan’s clouded mind. His head ached working to decipher the words; words he knew but that confused him for having to translate them as they were spoken.

“It appeared that he bounced against the ground before he slid down the incline.”

“His eyes aren’t tracking.”

Was that Aramis?

“We’ll escort you to the crossroads.”

“Shouldn’t we accompany them to their lodgings?”

“No. We separate.”

“And hope they follow us?”

D’Artagnan lost track of which man was speaking, but had some sympathy for the unknown man. He’d learned slowly to portion his questioning of Athos even if he rarely acted on the wisdom. Other times he’d delay the urge to ask and instead brought his concern or theory to Aramis or Porthos before broaching it with Athos to avoid a barrage of questions. Athos was a man of considerable patience, but even he could be worn thin by too much inquiry – especially when they were under duress.

They had been attacked, hadn’t they? Ambushed. He certainly felt as though he’d been set upon by multiple men.

“Shall we all take shelter?”

“He’ll have to,” stated Aramis.

“You mean us to keep traveling?”

“You’ll be safer on the road,” Athos said crisply to the stranger.

He wasn’t pleased. D’Artagnan found this particular tone meant he didn’t care for his own plan but he didn’t like his options otherwise. The strain on his words made d’Artagnan think he also didn’t care for the newcomer’s interjections.

D’Artagnan wondered a great many things, but all he wanted was to sink further in the strong hold of his friend’s.

He wondered too, if he’d sounded so eagerly wrong footed when asking questions. He’d dearly love to clarify a few events at present. What had preceded this mattered little; he swayed into a larger torso – Porthos, had to be. The man was crowding him a bit, blocking him from potential attack while he was down, definitely Porthos.

He couldn’t rest – what was he thinking? They were being pursued. Or tracked. There was a valid foundation for Athos’ concern. They couldn’t tarry here.

Wherever they were.

Scuffed leather boots made ruts in the wet grass as he attempted to stand and his leg made itself known as a staunch objector to movement. He gave up as much from Athos pressing upon his right shoulder as he did the searing pain that stabbed like a knife dug and dragged along his left calf. Knowing it was Porthos on his other side his mind calmed him that his friend was not pressing a hot iron against his leg.

The fiend behind the agony of his injury was absent.

Another unanswered question: what had been done to his leg.

Whoever caused the wound was of no consequence now.

Not immediately.

Someone said he’d hit his head. That might be true. Pain battered at him whenever he tried to shift his gaze, and his eyes swiveled around without seeing. Shapes and noises were noted by his mind but they wouldn't translate to fully realized images and thoughts.

“D’Artagnan!”

His face wrinkled and he turned it where he guessed Athos’ face was located. There’d been no need to shout. His head ached after all; why did Athos believe that would help.

“Get him up,” Aramis directed them, “...gently…”

D’Artagnan chewed his bottom lip, legs skidding in the mud with his attempts at getting his boots level with the earth. Leaves that were damp and brown, unlike their counterparts dancing overhead, spun while he felt his head swivel across his shoulders.

“He’s favorin’ – ”

“I know, but I can’t risk dressing the leg here.”

Porthos jammed his shoulder further under d’Artagnan’s taking more weight and hefting him in an effort to half-carry his body.

“It’s not fatal,” Aramis’ voice sounded like it was coming from behind him, “but remaining here might prove so…”

They began to lumber forward to whatever direction Aramis had given them.

“Don’t fight, we have you.”

D’Artagnan wanted to drop his head to Athos’ shoulder at the low-spoken assurance. He wanted to squeeze his arms tight across both their shoulders in thanks for their assistance; unfortunately the muscles were capable of little except draping over them.

“Keep his leg straight,” Aramis’ voice floated down now, “lift him from this side.”

“Take his arm, we’ll heave him up.”

Crushed between his friends he could see Aramis’ distinctive boot with its butterfly already slipped through the stirrup. D’Artagnan tilted with their movement, and groped the air for Aramis’ hand. He left his arm extended, expectant, for a touch that never came.

“I think…” Aramis hissed in a breath overhead, “...he may have misinterpreted you, Athos.”

Athos’ glare, even though not directed at him, was palpable. D’Artagnan glared at the mismatched leaves, casting his eyes from the mess he’d added to the mud and where he’d caught Athos’ right boot.

The stranger’s voice drifted over while d’Artagnan continued panting, his fingers scraping over Porthos’ arm in an attempt to keep upright.

“The clothes are no matter, it’s all of our skins I’m concerned for.”

A firm grasp wound around his bicep, squeezing in assurance as he was pulled side-on to the horse in front of him. He was pushed and pulled, losing track of the hands that held and hefted him up to the saddle. Thankfully they’d taken care to keep his burning leg from being agitated and he leaned back when the firm press of a forearm encouraged him.

“Our Florentine friend may take no offense, but I shall be very cross,” Aramis’ warning was in opposition to the soft press of his hand to d’Artagnan’s side, “and I would very much appreciate a warning should you feel the need to do that again.”

“Doubt there’s anything left in there,” Porthos called from somewhere off to their right, patting his corresponding thigh. The hand moved off, and he sensed Porthos remained close, but he didn’t feel a touch to accompany the sound of his glove finding leather. “You take care.”

“Look after that wound,” Athos told Aramis.

That was unnecessary in d’Artagnan’s opinion. Aramis would be fretting over the leg if he were in a position to do so, and d’Artagnan chose to believe that’s why he’d made a fuss over warning him. It was hardly his fault, Aramis surely knew how difficult it was to speak when one was - well, no need to relive unpleasantness.Athos curled his glove around d’Artagnan’s elbow, pinching lightly for his attention,

“We’ll return.”

D’Artagnan wasn’t certain he nodded, or even indicated that he’d heard, but Athos made a motion that he caught in his peripheral vision before the Athos shaped blur moved away. Aramis shifted their combined weight and patted his hand over d’Artagnan’s velvet doublet and d’Artagnan sunk further, taking refuge in his hold and voice.

“Lean back,” Aramis told him, “and remember to warn me, yes?”

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Chapter Text

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Delirium

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“Aramis?”

His throat felt like it’d been coated in soot and his mouth, well, it was better the state of his mouth remained unremarked on. He needed water. Aramis was forever plying them with broth or water when they were incapacitated, and d’Artagnan imagined he’d be more than willing to procure some for him.

Chances of walking on his leg were low, pivoting his ankle he sent lightning up his calf and he hissed, air sucked through his teeth so fast he they became oversensitive being exposed to the air. He angled his chin, seeking to see by the firelight, and by great fortune the small hearth in the room was crackling and casting shadows.

Its light silhouetted Aramis who was slumped by the fire in a spindle back chair.

He’d discarded his mercenary’s guise to hang over the back of the chair and he’d stripped to an assortment of his own clothing; his shirt had been rolled to his elbows. D’Artagnan felt a lump of guilt traverse his insides at the sight of blood on the fingers of Aramis’ left hand hanging against his thigh. He must have been exhausted not to clean them before settling down at the fire. Aramis was meticulous about cleansing his hands between the duties of stitching the skin of others and any other undertaking.

“Aramis…”

His throat only allowed him to call a fraction above a whisper and Aramis did not stir. D’Artagnan’s own eyelids were threatening to shutter closed, but he fought sleep and pulled his brows higher to force himself awake. That the tip of Aramis’ beard nearly touched his chest was further evidence that he’d succumbed to the day’s trials.

“Aramis?”

He strained his neck, a muscle under his jaw twinging for his effort, and peered at the slumbering figure of his friend.

Aramis was very still.

The dark shirt he wore billowed over his torso, draped limp in all directions and bunched at his waist, it obscured the movements of his chest. In all likelihood it was haphazardly tucked while he’d sorted their lodging into enough order to see to d’Artagnan’s leg. Aramis would have been in a hurry to attend to that terrible pain, along with any of his other possible injuries. A moment’s assessment informed him his head did feel a bit tender at the back. The longer d’Artagnan stared at the angle Aramis was slouched – his feet tilted up and ankles rather than heels on the floorboards – the more about him piqued his curiosity.

And plucked at his nerves.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan pushed as much volume as he could muster to force the name across his lips, but Aramis didn’t rouse at the sound.

The room was stifling.

Aramis hadn’t opened the windows. No candles were lit and the fire cast the corners into shadow, recessed parts of the room were obscured further for the brightness flickering behind Aramis. Altering patterns in the light cast over his skin made d’Artagnan stare longer at what he’d first thought were shadows – they were too dark, too consistent.

Those were stains. Blood stains.

That wasn’t all his, he didn’t think, unless Aramis had needed to staunch a gaping wound. D’Artagnan would have been in greater danger to bleed that much, and Aramis had said it wasn’t fatal. He’d said that. Hadn’t he?

For one terrifying moment d’Artagnan kicked at the bed-linens fear cutting off his air that he’d find a missing limb. Marking the point of his toes beneath the sheets he breathed out so hard the room spun. He waited for the lightheadedness to wane before he attempted to throw both his legs over the edge.

“Aramis!”

God, why wasn’t he moving; he looked still, too still.

“Aramis,” he gritted his teeth, growling the words out as he stood on shaking legs, “wake up.”

His knees hit the wood hard, skin catching on an uneven plank and digging into the bone of his right one.

Spreading his palms flat he pushed against the floorboards, muscles feeling like they could tear from the effort, and he felt uneasy. The floor beneath him pitched and he tipped as though he were crouched on a ship’s deck. He shivered under the drape of his loose shirt, bare legs dragging stiff and numb as he moved.

An inarticulate noise clawed loose from his throat, like a panicked dog, and his face heated with the, thankfully unwitnessed, shame of his actions. None of it mattered, he’d tear across snow barefoot if he had to and if he could endure pain for his friends he would bear indignity. Hands clawed over wood, nails lifting with teeth grinding discomfort, and rivulets of sweat tickled over his ribs; d’Artagnan shoved aside any fanciful thoughts of heroics and altruistic motivation.

His friend, a man he called brother, sat with a waxed pallor and lax limbs a few strides from his position.

Strides his entire being revolted against. Brought low by the turmoil of his body and forced to obey the rebellion of muscles gone recalcitrant from overuse d’Artagnan staged his own resistance. Mustering the strength of his considerable resolve d’Artagnan moved himself in increments across the floor. His bones trembled with such force that he might have believed the earth beneath them quaked if he wasn’t near passing out from the ruthless task he’d set his body.

D’Artagnan moved through more will than ability, and he centered Aramis in his gaze as a ship sought a beacon. His aches faded, ignored in the same manner he neglected to acknowledge the disgrace of a man crawling across the floor.

He needed to set the pads of his fingers toflesh, to feel the essential motion of blood moving and warming beneath that well-cared for skin.

“Ara-mis,” he panted and internally raged against pausing, but his body brooked no argument from him.

His knees cemented themselves, rooting him mere feet from where Aramis remained unmoving, the unnerving pose of one given over to a fatigue that mirrored one departed. Had he not needed both arms to keep from collapse he might’ve reached for his friend. At his current distance he’d need a forearm twice the length to clasp Aramis’ stained fingers.

“No, no!”

He wasn’t in a room, he was trapped in a crucible. Pressure mounting alongside his dread, d’Artagnan slammed his eyes shut in a futile effort to stave off the sweat and salty liquid mixing in the corners of his eyes.

From his bent position, reminiscent of a penitent, he wished fervently that Athos and Porthos were near. As the desperate hope came over him so did his gratitude for their absence. To have the fear of the inevitable that haunted every man, every step and breath, actualized before them? D’Artagnan would spare them the pain and the sight if he could. Men such as his friends banished those fears from creeping into the cracks of the mind when solitude threatened to throw the doors open and invite despair to settle; each of his brothers defied them by the force of their own being.

Porthos’ unconquerable strength and Athos’ indomitable skill of blade, while balanced with vice and melancholy, instilled hope – they gave men an aspiration for which to aim. They’d given d’Artagnan the measure by which he’d tested himself and with his determination and their friendship he’d forged a place in the Musketeers.

He couldn’t reconcile the graceful, unrivaled marksman and eloquent speaker that was Aramis with the wilted figure before him.

As he’d had the thought a dark trail leaked from the deepening patch at the end of the wide cuff surrounding Aramis’ wrist.

“Someone! Come quickly!”

He rocked forward on his knees, straining to take hold of Aramis, to grasp some part – any part – of the man that would prove the grief rising in him false. His fingers appeared to double in number as his anxiety and the overreach extracted their price by compromising his stability. D’Artagnan’s voice was stolen and he swallowed reflexively around the rising bile of an emptied stomach pouring upward to fill his mouth.

His hand had knocked against Aramis’ fingers, stiff and chilled; the very hand that had patted him in comfort hours prior, and Aramis, remained motionless.

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D’Artagnan clenched his fists tight enough that his knuckles cracked, the shock of sound akin to a pistol in the overheated room. Panic threatened to consume him, closing in and stealing his breath; the edges of his vision darkening like the recesses he’d observed in the corners of the room. He struggled to move which awakened his calf, the forgotten limb roaring to the forefront of his mind and feeling as if he’d shoved it beneath the logs in the hearth.

Moving without thought he dragged it closer, attempting to pull his leg tighter under his torso, protecting the soft belly on instinct.

He dropped his head to his splayed hands and growled against the tightness of his body, the building scream within him mutinously transforming to a whisper when it leaves him.

D’Artagnan has heard tales of men – some told by the very man in front of him no less – whose minds splinter, fractured from the aftermath of battle.

He’d no explanation, and no enemy to take revenge on, for this unthinkable tragedy. Slamming his fists down he feared them shattered when they’d not met with satisfying resistance, and no thrumming pain skittered up his forearms. The sensation was instead like sinking, as though his hands had pushed deeper into the ground.

It’s unnerving and he struggled; he struggled to reach Aramis, to deny with his mind and mouth what his eyes and hand had witnessed. The room is suffocating and he writhed in place, knowing it’s his emotions that have trapped him for all it felt as if he grappled against a net. As though invisible hands have pushed against him when he fought to rise.

“D’Artagnan!”

He froze, stilling at the impossible utterance of his name.

“D’Artagnan?”

If his mind were split would he truly have imagined only Aramis’ voice?

A voice may readily echo in one’s mind but a touch is more difficult to recreate on oneself. One hand had a hold of his shoulder; thumb tracing the same arc, slow and measured, and it slid in steady assurance. The other rested, palm open, over the jumping thrum of his heart and d’Artagnan was certain Aramis could feel the traitorous beat slamming underneath.

As certain as he was that it was indeed Aramis who bent over him. Waiting. Easing him from the terror and guiding him back.

“Aramis?”

Fingertips moved from his shoulder to stroke lightly over his bare collarbone.

“It’s only me I’m afraid…”

D’Artagnan swallowed a whimper, converting it to a querying noise; unsuccessfully by the soft appearance of Aramis’ eyes when he opened his own. Aramis hummed, a considering sound, and pressed the hand over his heart more firmly down.

“Deep breath.”

D’Artagnan stopped breathing.

“Not what I meant,” the fingers of his hand tapped an indecipherable pattern against his breast, “try again, with me…”

Flattening that hand Aramis took an exaggerated drag of air, motioning with the other one which he lifted from stroking d’Artagnan’s shoulder to indicate he should follow along.

D’Artagnan’s breath burst forth, and into Aramis’ face, from having been held back too long a time.

“And,” Aramis dragged out the word, “in…”

He attempted to obey, but the sight of Aramis’ encouraging expression and animated features pushed his next breath into an exhalation of soft laughter.

“So long as you’re not returning to the rapid breathing of your dreams I shall count this a success.”

Aramis patted over his heart, but let the hand settle back to rest there once he’d finished the motion. D’Artagnan was grateful for the connection, leeching warmth, and proof of Aramis’ existence, from the touch.

“I was dreaming?”

“Yes,” Aramis smirked down at him, hand fixed on d’Artagnan’s chest, “and of me by the sounds you made. I trust your imaginings provided an adequate representation of my heroics.”

“Did I...I said – ” d’Artagnan wondered if the words he recalled speaking, shouting really, had been uttered while he’d slept, “...you heard...?”

“Well, you have been calling to me these past few minutes,” Aramis smiled, shaking his head with a bewildered expression, “but in counter to your words you resisted my attempts to wake you.”

“I...I saw you...but…” d’Artagnan found he was robbed of the words.

He didn’t wish to speak them; an irrational part of himself feared uttering the vision of his nightmare would prove ill fortune.

“I felt the floor when I fell, and the scratch of the wood on my knee,” his eyes widened as the words came unbidden past his lips, “and you...you were cold.”

Aramis didn’t pursue that description further, and d’Artagnan’s tense shoulders released their position near his ears.

“Occasionally we’ve a visceral reaction to our dreams,” Aramis shrugged, leaning back but leaving his hand, firm and real, on d’Artagnan, “I think we all have experienced the sensation of dropping from a height or jerking to waking before drifting to sleep, yes?”

D’Artangan nodded. Those occasions were scarce, but he’d had them. This had felt so real, so unlike any fever dream he’d had when sick; it would be quite some time before he could banish the image from his mind.

“Your eyes have been fluttering the past hour,” Aramis glanced behind himself at the abandoned chair, “perhaps you caught an impression of me seated by the hearth and your mind mistook what you saw?”

D’Artagnan swallowed. It sounded reasonable, but did nothing to banish the persistent shadow stretching in his mind of Aramis’ motionless figure.

Aramis leaned closer, only pausing to watch d’Artagnan when he examined Aramis’ unstained cuff; satisfied – somehow – that d’Artagnan had not completely lost his wits Aramis brushed the back of his hand across his brow.

“You’ve been sweating,” Aramis leaned away and d’Artagnan heard swishing before a wetted cloth dabbed at his forehead, “but whether from your exertions or a fever alone I can’t say.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes in an ineffectual attempt to block the relief and embarrassment that warred to overtake him.

“Your calf might have made you feverish.”

“Is it –” d’Artagnan cut himself off as a yawn pushed back his words.

“You’ll heal,” Aramis brushed the fall of d’Artagnan’s hair from his face, “and better for having rest.”

D’Artagnan pulled in a deep breath. Snatches of the damp earth, the clanking of bits and stirrups, and the rustle of cloaks pulled him back to the afternoon. “The others?”

“Athos and Porthos continued on, I expect the rest have also headed off to their planned destinations or diversions. Our charge is not yet safe, but our part is done.”

D’Artagnan nodded, pinching his eyes closed against a flash of dizziness. The burst of heat that edged toward his neck was chased away by Aramis’ words and his reapplication of the cloth to the hollow of his throat.

“You did well, none of us would have been able to avoid that strike.”

He huffed out a protest, following the motion of Aramis’ arm rather than meeting his gaze. That might have been true of the assault, but there was little that could be said to banish the unbecoming panic of clawing sheets and crying out like a child. D’Artagnan twisted his mouth, angling his head to catch less of the fire-light, but it wouldn't mask him from Aramis.

Instead the other turned from him, groping one-handed out of sight from d’Artagnan who wanted to groan at the sound of liquid transferring vessels. The impulse to shove his head under the pillow – to hide from his own distorted visions – was great, but he succeeded only in resolutely closing his lips.

“When will – ” Aramis’ tone was fond, and he patted the hand he’d left anchored to d’Artagnan’s chest, “all of you know that never works.”

No, it never did. D’Artagnan thought of the others and his mouth parted on a laugh at the memory of Porthos’ large arms crossing in refusal. D’Artagnan hadn’t been prepared to witness that; it was rare Porthos would seriously resist Aramis’ advice. He’d tease him, trading jest and barbs – all in good nature – and loudly complain, but Porthos had staged outright mutiny that time. Had he not been ill that day d’Artagnan expected he’d have risen and bodily removed Aramis from his presence.

Many a man lacked grace when he was ailing.

“I’m crediting all of this to delirium,” Aramis informed him as he brought the cup up to press d’Artagnan’s bottom lip, “your injuries have altered your senses and chased away good sense.”

D’Artagnan blinked at him, and unbidden he saw Aramis back in that chair.

“Drink.”

Deciding it would not harm him, and it kept Aramis by his side rather than endangered in his memory, d’Artagnan accepted the proffered cup. His limbs began to take on the weight that generally settled in post-battle, and the exertion he’d undergone in his mind added to his apparent conflict with the bed-linens, extracting their price.

“There,” Aramis inspected the emptied cup as he lifted it away, long-used to half-drunk and accidentally spilled portions. “A few hours here and we’ll see what we may accomplish come morning.”

D’Artagnan wished to expel the entire day from his mind, including a ban to all the parts he’d not yet remembered. Allowing his eyes to fall closed he blinked them open when the eerie silhouette appeared to him. Aramis removed his hand, rising, and turned to an intention d’Artagnan didn’t care to guess.

He tangled his fingers in the puff of Aramis’ shirtsleeve before he’d concocted an excuse for doing so. Was he to tell him he couldn't stand the thought of him seated in that chair? Or that his skin prickled from the absence of a solid thigh at his hip and the simple weight of a palm covering his heart.

He’d been commissioned, and there was no allowance for such childish urges; Aramis needed his own respite not d’Artagnan’s imposition.

“Shh,” Aramis obliged his hold, but made a gentle tug against entrapment, “merely an adjustment.”

He bit his lip, cheeks heating at the appearance of his knuckles turning white and released his friend. D’Artagnan stared at the beams of the ceiling, stubbornly refusing to close his eyes and listened – gathering his dignity like a discarded blanket over himself – to Aramis’ retreating footfalls.

Irons scraped over the hearthstone and his chest fluttered with remembered uncertainty. He focused on the intake of air and turned to his side, fighting the twitch of his legs to draw upward, to curl against threat.

Aramis had stoked the fire, but d’Artagnan felt a shock of chill, blushing at the gasp he let out before he realized it was owed to the bedclothes being lifted. A look of patient affection in his eyes, and a twinkle of mirth, Aramis lightly shook the corner he held.

“May I…?”

D’Artagnan nodded, expecting his eyes appeared owlishly large and he shuffled over, wincing against the twinge of his leg.

“Easy,” Aramis soothed, “mind that leg.” He slipped alongside him to lay down on his back, smoothing the sheets before interlacing his hands atop them.

Aramis’ own eyes fluttered shut, his features highlighted by the flickering shadows stretching out from the fire. He watched the light thrown over skin cast a warm glow to it, a contrast to the colorless palette of his nightmarish counterpart and skimmed his eyes lower to mark the lift and fall of Aramis’ torso.

Emboldened by their closeness, or perhaps owed to the delirium Aramis referenced, d’Artagnan gingerly slid his legs nearer.

“Aramis?”

“Hmm?”

He faltered, feeling a fool; a spark of anger made him duck his head. He therefore missed the motion of Aramis’ hands unlacing and was startled to feel one lever under his shoulder to rest on his upper back, encouraging him forward. D’Artagnan was wise enough not to spurn the gesture and cautiously lay his head on the space between Aramis’ neck and shoulder.

“There,” Aramis tightened the arm about him, before sighing out and pressing his own body to the mattress. He took hold of d’Artagnan’s other hand and brought it up to press atop his chest, laying his own over it to prevent a retraction. “Nothing more to worry over.”

A denial rushed forth, but D’Artagnan ultimately smiled against the fold of Aramis’ shirt and burrowed his face further against his neck. After a moment’s indecision he rotated his hand to clasp warm fingers that squeezed his in return.

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Chapter Text

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No. 23: “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.”

Shadows | Stalking | “Who’s there?”

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An autumn dawn acted as a trickster.

Mornings might be cool and give way to a sun that made the collar of his doublet warm against his neck; others the dew was deceptive and lingered to bring a gray sky that carried a chill which caused him to regret not digging out his woolen cloak.

Aramis had never tolerated the cold well, he’d been born in the south of France and would swear they had more sunshine a year than anywhere else within its borders.

He’d grinned at his foresight to leave his stockings near the fire, but it was before he recalled he’d have to traverse the floorboards to retrieve them. His skin still bore the little bumps of chilled flesh beneath his clothing and he tugged the shorter gloves favored by the Florentines further up his wrists. He’d donned his own breeches, leaving off any insignia or indication of his identity.

Pulling the door closed in increments, he cursed the creak of the hinges that thwarted a silent exit. Waiting a moment he heard no rustling of sheets or calls for his return and he moved down the hall, confident that D’Artagnan slumbered on behind the door. The light that diffused through the narrow hall gave a skewed indication of the time, the glass of the narrow window set into a recessed portion at the end was cloudy.

The hostelry was convenient, nothing more. Aramis avoided missions near Lyon when he could and by the grace of God, and Athos’ quick decision, he’d avoided the town Treville had brought him to in the aftermath. Originally, they were to head to Montpelier – in the south – before the ambush and Aramis would have preferred to head west along the coast.

They were supposed to escort the decoy, not place the king’s guest among them and take to back roads.

Now they were stuck on a northbound path, lingering in the south-east, and Aramis meant to get them turned from Savoy before long. He might’ve expected venturing so close to the border would foul their luck.

Life connected the oddest of paths, and Aramis would have preferred not to tempt fate when he was accustomed to carving his own.

Ducking around a crooked wall scone of bent iron with a nub of wax, its disuse was obvious from the thick dust, he hoped the disrepair of the small lantern was not indicative of the proprietor’s attitude. The common room of the tavern had appeared similar to dozens he’d seen prior and he’d noted nothing to be concerned about when he’d carried d’Artagnan to their room.

Aramis had not possessed the hardness of heart to untangle from his bedfellow immediately on waking. He’d been grateful for the rest, watching over the younger man provided him an opportunity to settle his own disquiet.An ambuscade was possible every moment of a soldier’s life. Anywhere. Every day, whether on foot or horseback, while walking or sleeping – if Porthos was of mind to startle him when brushing down his mare – and Aramis was as vigilant for such as he was a challenge to a duel.

Porthos taking position behind and Athos drawing alongside him in the column as they approached Grasse to await the escort of the king’s guest had bolstered him despite no words exchanged. Their youngest became a near shadow, requesting Aramis to sit with him while he cleaned his pistol, baiting Aramis to offer advisement. D’Artagnan retold a well-known story of when he’d learned to shoot and subsequently made a shallow, round, scar on the side of his nose. The tale, as it did from the first time he’d shared it, had quickly devolved into boasting of prowess with their weapons and ribbing each other over ‘misfiring.’ He had remained near Aramis regardless of how many taps he’d made to the bridge of his own nose with a single finger and a teasing grin.

Although their orders placed them much further south than the massacre had occurred, they would be awaiting the group a few miles from the border. Treville had insisted the Musketeers would remain within France, regardless of the treaties currently in place. The Republic of Genoa and France were only separated by a few miles along that section of coast, but Nice remained in Savoy’s territory and even Richelieu was supportive of the regiment not crossing to meet the party.

Aramis rolled his shoulders against the memories reaching to pull him to darker reflection. He couldn’t allow the past to stalk him. Tilting his neck he shook off thoughts of whom had last caused offense to the other; the duke and the cardinal’s dance about the king was not one he wished to cut into. Enough misfortune befell those who stood on the edge and soldiers were only considered for their use, their leverage.

Most every step of their young friend demonstrated his eagerness and that enthusiasm carried over on assignments. Alert and anticipatory he could be awakened by a whisper. Or, Aramis’ lips moved with the memory, with the lightest scrape of nails to the underside of his foot; Porthos’ skill with sleight-of-hand had aided to lift the sheet and reveal the target.

When he’d lifted the bedclothes to slip over the side, D’Artagnan had clung to his torso, chasing Aramis’ warmth. He could feel the light drag of them against his ribs, snagging in the folds of the dyed linen, as he fought the chill of the narrow hallway. Aramis plucked a stray thread from the blue fabric as he descended the stairs, he was intent on keeping the shirt – there were a few items he hoped to retain from his disguise options. Not the breeches. The striping was garish, and they were too voluminous.

Checking his weapons he adjusted his belt and resolved his focus onto the present. The lattice windows illuminated the unoccupied tables, and a disinterested hound lounged on a faded nest of scalp linens. The sparse occupancy and that hazy sunlight proved it was late enough that they’d missed breakfast. He’d see to their victuals once he’d organized their supplies.

Sighing out his deep inhalation of the mid-morning breeze he tilted his borrowed hat – too square for him despite his attempts at folding and pinning one side – to divert the sun from his gaze. Transitioning from the darker interior to the clear sky forced him to stop and blink against the haze of shadows at the corner of his vision. The ground squelched as he strode for the stables, yesterday morning’s rains still lingering. Hefting the saddle-bag he’d slung onto his shoulder he took an inventory within his mind of their crucial tasks for the day.

He skidded a step, his sole sinking in a saturated patch under an alder tree the shadows prevented its drying out. Frowning at the muck, he scraped the edge of the sole on the white birch trunk, bracing his arm he tucked his chin closer to his neck when a tingle slid along his spine. Allowing his memories to filter into his thoughts had allowed the past to stalk alongside him, and now his senses were confusing the two. Or, they’d heightened his awareness.

Relying on the shadow of the wide brim to conceal his eyes over distance he slid his gaze to the pathway back to the inn, before he tracked it to the road. Swallows gave full-throated chirps, and cicadas buzzed, the sparse leaves fluttered noisily, all expected; however, years as a soldier had honed Aramis’ instincts to discern the sounds underneath, to isolate the one note off in the familiar song of nature.

Giving the impression he was adjusting his balance, Aramis pushed more weight against the trunk and angled his torso inward to cover reaching for his pistol.

He heard a wet squash, soaked leaves depressed by the tentative tread of a boot.

“Who’s there?” Aramis demanded, pivoting to fix his weapon on the perceived threat.

“Monsieur!”

Aramis flicked his wrist to level the muzzle with the blue sky rather than the startled stable-hand struggling not to dump the feed he carried.

“Why...” Aramis asked, more exasperation in his tone than accusation, “...would you sneak behind a man?”

The youth couldn't be more than thirteen, certainly not a boy, but perhaps not one experienced enough to avoid mistakes no trained soldier or seasoned traveler would.

“You looked to be heading for the stables,” the lithe stable-hand hefted the bucket he carried, leaning to counterbalance the weight and giving a defense of himself, “I thought you’d need of me.”

Appreciative of the keen sense of his duties Aramis restored his pistol to his belt and inclined his head. He didn’t need anyone rifling through their belongings, but he could engage the boy to assist him with obtaining the provisions required for d’Artagnan. Aramis expected the weight might be a third of the stable-hand’s own and motioned him to lead before he toppled. He squinted over his shoulder, nerves not resolved with the young man as the sole source of his unease.

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There’d been a well out back and beyond it was the field Henri, as the stable-hand was called, had advised him to check. Aramis tapped the yarrow along his leg, as he moved for the innkeeper reviewing the bottles on his side-board.

Aramis waved the leafy stalks in accompaniment to his query.

“I wonder if you might have a mortar and pestle to loan me?”

“You’re a Frenchman?”

Aramis raised a brow at the non-sequitur.

“Yes,” he replied, drawing the word out.

“Ah, I only meant you weren’t taken for one last night,” the older man placed both hands on the scarred plank between them.

He peered at Aramis as he leaned forward, examining him with dark brown eyes that stared through a film. Both of them were membranous and the bluish cast of them appeared to glow at the angle he tilted his chin to observe Aramis’ features.

The man was on the younger side for the condition, Aramis would have placed him nearer Treville’s age than his sixties, and there was no scarring to indicate an accident. He’d some fear of gutta serena, a man with limitations to his eyes was no soldier, and made a poor scholar – were he to be afflicted he’d be lost for purpose. Shadows and blurriness to vision absent injury, and the accompanying headaches it was rumored to carry, happened mainly to the elderly. He softened his gaze, life rarely dealt miseries in proportion to a man’s deeds, and his esteem for the man grew for one who worked to keep his establishment despite his hardship.

“I’m a...soldier,” Aramis offered.

The man straightened his back, arms extending, and nodded deeply.

“Ah,” he smiled and drew a rag to rub between his hands.

“For you?”

“My young friend, as you,” or those in the innkeeper’s employ, who’d reported on his arrival, had informed him, “may have noticed, has suffered an injury. I thought to make him a poultice.”

The man ducked down, rummaging and knocking earthenware and glass below Aramis’ sight-line. He knocked his head on rising, but waved off Aramis’ care in favor of holding his prize aloft.

“For a man in the king’s service?” He set the heavy stone vessel on the wood and pushed it across.

“Thank you, as he requires this – I’d best start preparations. Would you send boiled water up?”

The older man nodded at him, chapped lips cracking into a smile; he was pleased to do much more for Aramis now that he felt he knew him better.

Aramis lifted his borrowed hat, the yarrow catching in the plume. His manners delighted the older man; there was a reason, after-all, that Aramis preferred to be polite. He tucked the stalks into his boot before he turned for the stairs.

He’d folded bandaging from his saddle into his doublet during his visit to the stable and some remained beside the bed. D’Artagnan’s initial dressing needed changing and he was prepared to wake him for the undertaking. By some grace and no small amount of deliriousness his friend had slept through his attentions.

Delirium served some purpose.

Slouching toward their door he chuckled at the footsteps plodding up the stairs; he’d won the old man’s favor quickly.

The filtered rays from the time worn, nearly opaque, glass threw enough light to cast shadows and Aramis slowed his pace. That was not the shape a short man of the proprietor’s width would form. He’d been passing under the sconce and masked his intention by ducking to avoid its lean. It allowed him to yank the iron free of the loose nail that held it and thrust it out as he pivoted. As his arm swung he adjusted his angle to ensure it struck his opponent’s chest, giving him the room to flip the mortar in his hand. He grasped the pestle in the other one to fling at the man’s head, and though he ducked the projectile it smashed into the eye of the man coming up behind his attacker.

He drew his blade, cursing against the narrowness of the hall – close quarters were more of an advantage for amorous pursuits, he didn’t favor them for a fight. Especially once a third, and disappointingly a fourth, man shoved onto the landing. Maneuvering the mortar like a main-gauche he advanced, and slammed the stone into his initial opponent’s temple.

Once he’d staggered, Aramis thrust his rapier into the next man; he couldn’t overwhelm them alone but he’d snatch as much advantage as he could steal. With luck D’Artagnan would be rising already behind him, but he knew counting on support would not be wise. Using the momentum of his lunge be swung the mortar upward.

It was his last advance.

The men behind surged forward, and he was grabbed on all sides, the crash against his ribs squeezed all the air from him. While he lurched for balance, they swung him around and forced him back. He braced for the weightlessness of tumbling down the stairs, anticipating the reason they’d turned him. The shattering panes came as a novel surprise he’d have appreciated more if it hadn’t been accomplished with his shoulders.

He’d a moment to appreciate the significantly brighter hallway before it disappeared along with his sight.

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Chapter Text

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No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

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D’Artagnan ground his cheek into the pillow, already aware that Aramis had slipped from the bed.

He grumbled into the folds of the fabric the slide of his face caused and his leg made itself prominent in his thoughts, a constant refrain of ‘make it stop, make it stop, make it stop’ hissing past his lips.

Recollections of the ambuscade were beyond his reach, he could recall impressions and voices, but not the sequence of events. Their mission had blown apart in seconds, like the spectacular burst of a cannon ball launched tearing through a bale of hay. It had sent them scattering, but they’d moved as the fanning of a birds wind – each cluster of musketeers moving to reroute themselves according to their plans.

D’Artagnan remembered a carriage, and being inside the bouncing contraption. Had he been guarding the king’s guest? There’d been several plans. They’d run through them, gathered in the requisitioned common room of a hostelry they’d taken over. Treville had petitioned the funds from the king for the sole purpose of their accommodations in Grasse.

His calf burned and he was prepared to accuse Aramis of causing the agony until he recalled he’d sprung from the bed in the inn himself. There’d been a reason he’d fought to get up.

Aramis!

Instinct drove him; his mind felt wrong, but he knew to his core there was something amiss. He pushed up and blinked hard rather than risk a shake of his head; his mind had caused enough difficulty for him of late. D’Artagnan poured his hope into his current view being owed to the deliriousness Aramis spoke of.

The man himself was absent.

D’Artagnan stared at craggy stone wall where he should have seen wood-grain and dark shutters. There was no fireplace, and no spindle back chair. Weight near his ankle revealed his clothing, or rather his disguise, was in a folded pile at the foot of the bed. It was a small wood-frame, relatively similar in size to those in the garrison, and gone were the thick square posts anchoring the one in the inn.

He was tempted to plead the words he’d growled: make it stop.

He’d no desire to navigate another series of twisted visions; scenes and feelings he could decipher but not interact with.

Without a clear memory of the past he’d little to ground himself. The bed-linens clumped beneath his palms, nails digging in to pull toward the tender skin – desperate for touch, a solid hold. D’Artagnan couldn't be certain his present was proved by these surroundings. Met with no image of his friend limp and bloodied he counted that a win for his sanity.

Would he imagine himself confined to a strange room absent his friend?

His mind provided no clarification and d’Artagnan remained sat up on the thick mattress. The straw stuffing poking his thigh felt real enough and he’d imagined himself in pain; the impact of his knees to the floorboards echoed in along his bones in remembrance. Knees he now wished to draw up and press his forehead to.

Instead he continued to peruse the room, whether he dreamed this or Aramis had brought him here while he was unconscious mattered little. He was confined here whether he solved the cause or someone intervened; he held still and closed his eyes hoping to feel the press and shake of hearth warmed hands waking him. He made a crooked shape of his mouth when no intervention came.

The tension of his lips increased when he allowed another explanation to gain dominance in his thoughts. He’d been brought here – wherever the location – by the men who’d ambushed their convoy. Except, he did recall Lagarde and Athos calling to each other, the former leading a group of their brothers to against their attackers, to drive them back to the border. Athos. He recalled his closeness, his concise promise: ‘we’ll return.’

They might choose now.

D’Artagnan huffed out a quiet puff of air, not loud enough to be thought a madman amused by his own imaginings. He was confused, not relieved of all his senses.

Unfortunately, as with awaiting Aramis’ gentle grip, neither Athos or Porthos burst through the door. The thick wood remained on its hinges, the long black spears firmly supporting the door, gleaming black and absent rust. It was a thick door, he could make out the width through the grating on his side despite the darkness created by the flat piece on metal on the other side. Abandoning the door he pressed his weight into his right hand to the bed and craned his neck to the slim window over the bed.

He’d not be slipping through that narrow rectangle.

Not even if he could reach the opening and remove the iron grate.

Any further investigation or planning required he get to his feet, at least the action would serve as an accomplishment. It would not disprove an illusion. He’d felt every step and stumble of his previous imaginings, and instead of crawling toward an imperiled friend, he’d now be seeking a missing one. If this were a dream he preferred looking for Aramis than seeing him bloodied.

His own blood was stark against the dressing when he slipped it free of the covers. D’Artagnan’s fingers traced the clean edging and efficient tucks Aramis made of the bandaging, it flaked with the rust and burgundy mix of staunched blood. Best to leave it undisturbed, he didn’t think the bucket in the corner held the means to clean a wound. It stood near a squat wood stool that had a pewter bowl set atop it, a crumpled cloth bunched within.

He disliked his accommodations.

If he were dreaming this space, then he was disappointed with his imagination.

Grumbling to himself he rocked forward and willed his memory to move under the same will as his body. Forcing the mind after injury turned out to be more difficult than his damaged limb. He’d no control of which fragments flashed before his eyes and no choice but to filter them into order as they came.

Regardless of the cost he wouldn’t sit in bed. Aramis could scold him for it when he returned, but arguably it was the fault of Aramis that he was moving about unaided. He knew well-enough not to leave his brothers alone when they were ill. Nodding at his decisiveness and finding no flaw in his logic he set his feet to the floor.

If Aramis had brought him to this new location he’d be returning and could tend the wound. Were he taken here by their assailants then he’d benefit from learning the limitations of his enclosure.

His solitude meant his colorful swearing went unappreciated, but it certainly lifted his spirits. The words did nothing to mitigate the throbbing jolt to his calf protesting his weight. Foregoing the bundle of clothes he engaged in a shuffling hobble to the door in his small clothes and shirt.

His bare feet twitched on the dirt and straw catching under his toes and he looked back to see if his boots had been left for him. In his haste they’d gone unobserved beneath the bed. Halfway from them he decided it best to continue to the doorway rather than expend the effort to return.

As expected the metal covering didn’t shift under the press of his fingertips.

Already he was itching, a light thrum under his skin building for a resolution. Or an action to take. Someone to provide answers. An interaction to break the isolation.

“Aramis?”

Whether he was held by a dream or tangible captors there was little risk in calling out. If he were being held it would only encourage a sooner introduction to who’d confined him. He’d prefer that altercation to come faster; he hated the speculation that came with waiting, especially without his brothers to while away the time with inventive conjecture.

He attempted the handle as an afterthought, already moving to let the uneven stones and cement scrape beneath his fingers. Aramis wouldn’t lock him in. He’d devised some inventive means to enforce his opinions on their recuperation, but imprisoning one alone had yet to be a choice. Even when he’d sat Porthos in a chair at the end of Athos’ bed, setting his leg along Athos’ and lashing them together, he’d guaranteed Athos company. D’Artagnan recalled the frustration at being bodily barred from entering by Aramis leaning across the doorway until he’d extracted a promise d’Artagnan wouldn’t be persuaded to free the patient.

A laugh burst from d’Artagnan when he recalled Aramis’ visage, caught between astonishment and exasperation at Porthos’ helpless gaze when he'd held up the freed binding. Athos had raised a self-satisfied brow. They’d become d’Artagnan’s shield from misery; never alone unless he wished it, he’d grown accustomed to their presence as a buffer to all the stings and trials a man endured.

He knew he was a captive in that moment; Aramis would've left a sign – he wouldn’t leave d’Artagnan with no clue as to his absence. Unless he’d been forced; it was within the realm of possibility that it was Aramis who had been taken. Except how had d’Artagnan come to be alone in a locked building? Aramis might've moved them, settled him and then been abducted? Unlikely, but they’d been subject to worse.

Regardless of how he came to be here, he couldn’t accept imprisonment. Weaponless, unless they’d been hidden under the bed, d’Artagnan debated smashing the stool to the stonework to fashion into an instrument.

Determined to make use of his time, and having uncovered the few items in the room, he continued to examine the perimeter. The rough surface of the wall gave no indication of the thickness, but the sizes of the differing stones told him this was a well-made structure. He curled his fingers over the bumpy curve of one stone and tested how well maintained the building had been.

His shoulders rounded with the force of his exhalation.

Leaning on the wall he was about to poke at the bowl and see if there was anything useful under the cloth.

“Speak!”

He deemed it a shout to carry through the stone and gauged it to be coming from the furthest wall, opposite his position.

He cared little for the ridiculous motions he made, scrambling to hop toward the sound. In his eagerness his cheekbone collided with the lumpy end of a cracked stone, but he ignored the sting and turned to press his ear to the wall. The tickle of liquid tracked down to drip from his jaw and he arched his neck straining to catch any further words.

Muffled rumbles were punctuated with sharp barks of exclamation. D’Artagnan couldn’t translate the few words he was able to isolate, but he knew the cadence of that one sonorous voice.

“Aramis.”

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Chapter Text

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No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Cattle Prod* | Shock | “You in there?”

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The water felt it had slivers of ice in it and reminded him of the buckets Athos made intermittent use of to refresh himself.

Aramis had no need of the shock to revive him as he’d been feigning sleep to await their arrival. He hacked out a cough, droplets flying as he shook his head. Glaring at the bucket scant inches from his face he followed the curve to the arms, and men holding it.

Athos and Porthos had Francesco, and Lagarde’s company had pursued their attackers. If these men were seeking the Florentine then it was likely their ruse had worked; they’d not expected there to be multiple parties in such close succession. It had been Treville’s belief, and Richelieu’s plan, that the second carriage – escorted by members of the Red Guard – would be followed.

D’Artagnan was a finger’s width taller than Francesco, but over a distance – given he’d be seated in a carriage – it was not noticeably so. His build and facial structure had been of greater import and prior to their departure they’d even seen a miniature portrait confirming the likeness. D’Artagnan passed better than anticipated once they’d met the young man and he’d donned the extra clothing he’d brought for the purpose.

Aramis set his back teeth, if these men believed the ruse it fell to him to prevent them questioning d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan’s knowledge of Latin was rudimental and only enough to see him through a mass – he’d never comprehend, let alone reply with, any Italian dialect. He’d little chance of fooling these men shoud he open his mouth.

Sending thanks for d’Artagnan’s stubborn nature Aramis hoped he’d manage to hold his tongue.

He ground his teeth together, sniffing to clear the excess water.

It fell to his linguistic abilities – and his considerable acting skills – to trick these men. Were they Genoese he’d have to be careful of his accent.

It came as a shock, then, when the men began speaking to each other in French.

“How loyal are you to your master?”

A broad-shouldered man, approached from behind the two lowering the bucket to ask him. He was of a similar age to Aramis, a bit shorter, and broader through the arms by the look of him. Less handsome, but then – in Aramis’ estimation – that was an unfair measure as so many men were disadvantaged in the comparison.

His relief at the confirmation d’Artaganan was alive – and with luck, nearby – had put him in a humorous mood. He needed to concentrate on the important piece for their continued survival: they believed d’Artagnan to be Francesco.

Which would have made him a servant in their eyes. Had he not altered his dress then his attire would have made his pretended status clear; he supposed he could attempt to pass for a well-dressed servant. A servant that carried multiple weapons. A servant that had fought using a rapier, perhaps they’d believed it belonged to ‘Francesco.’

He loosened his posture to temper the appearance of a soldier’s reaction. They may yet believe him a guard, and that would serve him and d’Artagnan better than being thought king’s soldiers.

For now.

“By the looks of you you’re kept well enough,” he’d a crooked nose, more prominent as he bent at the waist to loom over Aramis, “but is he worth suffering for?”

Aramis splayed his palms flat, resisting the impulse to push to a stand and meet the man’s eye. Instead he tucked his chin, appearing deferential, to hide the resolve in his features.

D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan, as with each of his brothers, was very much worth enduring such.

“Worth your life?”

Aramis couldn’t help flashing his eyes at the man, he’d not cower from a threat on his life even if he should. Angling his chin up he remained silent, internally affirming that yes, he would give his life for d’Artagnan.

The men who’d held the bucket had shifted to either side of him, angling closer to Aramis’ legs should he choose to rise. He recognized the one to his left, the swatch of deep bruising darkened his profile. The force of the injury a testament against Aramis being a servant, unless they believed Francesco ranked high enough to afford employ the type of man they might guess him to be.

The men on either side of him moved at a signal unseen by Aramis.

Hands grabbed at him and he fought on instinct, not bothering to lessen his strength. They’d crouched to either side of him, using their combined weight and superior positioning for leverage to hold his torso immobile. The clank of metal dragging against stone was high pitched to his ears, focused on the men who took up most of his vision he’d not looked about the room.

The men holding him blocked his peripheral vision, crowded by them he only had sight of the ‘leader’ of their group. The man approached, pincer held across both hands as though he were presenting Aramis with a fine blade and not demonstrating the threat he was under.

He kicked out, depending how the men viewed him the move could appear aggressive or as one born of fear.

“Coin may only purchase a measure of loyalty; every man must judge that balance for himself…”

Servants, guards, family members with aspirations? All of these persons could be swayed with the proper incentive. Musketeers? These conspirators would never conceive of the loyalty in the bones of him and his brothers.

The gray at his temples reflected the light from a very narrow window Aramis marked to be well over his head even were he standing. He’d no smirk on his face, no shallowly concealed glee at the prospect of what he intended and hefted the iron as though it were entirely Aramis’ decision should he use the blacksmith’s tool.

“He will not be worth what you’ll suffer,” the man warned, keeping an arm’s length from Aramis’ feet and raising the long metal by the handles.

He would.

Aramis had a duty to fulfill but, outside his responsibilities as a soldier, no matter what befell him d’Artagnan would always be worth the cost to himself. He hoped that whatever he was to endure meant d’Artagnan was not also suffering for his sake elsewhere; he’d observed that not all the men that had crowded the inn’s hallway were among his captors.

“Spare yourself,” his adversary warned, as though negotiating a bargain in the marketplace, “we’ll begin simply...tell me your name.”

Aramis’ chest rose and the men tightened their grip on his upper arms, but he only released the breath through his nose, lips firmly closed.

“No?”

The man may not take pleasure in harming him, but the tool he held would not be an idle threat – he’d strike. Aramis had only a brief time before the man took action on what he hinted. He bit his bottom lip angling his head as if he were considering the wisdom of compliance. Aramis had no intention of speaking but the longer he waited he would delay the inevitable.

A fool’s errand, or it would be if Aramis weren’t laying the foundation for a longer scheme.

He shrugged against the fingers digging into his biceps.

It didn’t make the metal jaws slamming into the side of his knee any less of a shock.

He’d been prepared, at least, to swallow the scream and groaned low as his head dropped.

Nails scraped his scalp, digging, and tangling into his hair pulling his head back so far the tension strained his throat on his next swallow. He’d credit the man with cleverness, compromising one leg meant Aramis would struggle to lift the other.

“It will not become easier.”

Aramis inhaled and exhaled, slowly, with purpose. He willed the burning ache to ebb, the pain to subside. Time was his only commodity until he could gain more details about his captors and their aims.

The other man crouched, wisely to Aramis’ side, and considered Aramis’ legs while he held the pincer above them. He turned his head to him and Aramis reevaluated his guess on the other’s age, the skin appeared more weathered than he’d first estimated. He bore no insignia on his clothing, and carried no weaponry on his belt; favoring a practical tool over a gentleman’s weapon.

“Your master will not reward this, he’ll never have the opportunity,” the man rumbled the words lowly, as if chatting to him, “and you’d do well to secure your own future.”

He tipped the pincers close enough that Aramis nearly flinched, nearly, at the proximity to his nose.

“If you wish to see more days.”

These men would have no future if Aramis could secure enough time.

It was easier to disguise his relief when the metal gripping end lowered. He pulled against the straightening of his arm, catching the opening of the jaws before they were jammed against his forearm. Blood would wash out of the fabric, but it would take someone as skilled as, well, himself to repair the shred to the fabric if it could be accomplished at all.

He really had wished to keep this shirt.

His laugh broke on a keen as the nerves in his arm recovered from the shock and alerted him to the wound he’d already guessed at from the spreading stain on the dark blue fabric.

“Your name has cost you much,” the man spoke evenly, his words punctuated by sharp accusations, “worth it? I assure you that your master is not.”

Aramis made a negative motion with his head, but it was clear to all he was declining to give his name and not denouncing his ‘young master’s’ worth.

He tapped the heavy end on Aramis’ unharmed knee, sliding it over his shin in contemplation. Teasing the weapon where he might choose to hit when he decided to attack.

“Speak!”

Aramis’ didn’t utter words but he’d no hope of holding back sounds after the force of his next strike. Harder than the one had been to his other knee, this one felt like it had cracked bone. He closed his eyes against the flashes being set off like lightning behind them, but the shield of his eyelids couldn’t hide him from bursts of light following their closure. He panted out long breaths, sagging in the hold of the men bracing his torso and counted every inhalation as one more moment won for d’Artagnan, and for his friends to gain more distance.

Laying the first stone on the path to their assailant’s downfall, Aramis spoke to them in Latin.

“I’ll tell you this: ‘I am not led, I lead.’”

He’d watched his tormentor as he spoke, ignoring the men pressing in on him. He risked his play at an alternate identity with his confidence, his tone bordered on a threat, even if he delivered it in the same teasing lilt he often employed on his own captives. The men at his side jostled him, and he stiffened against the sparks the motion set off in his legs, but he kept speaking.

“It will not become easier for you.”

“He prayin’?”

The man to his left bit the question out and from the sound it was obvious he held his jaw tight against the damage caused from Aramis’ earlier blow. Aramis’ neck stretched forward as though his body were sending its efforts to his legs rather than supporting the rest of him. He didn’t bother concentrating on the men’s expressions or counting time between their silence.

His chin was lifted by the end of the unpleasant tool, his own blood wetting his beard.

The man waited for Aramis’ eyes to align with his own gaze.

“He should be.”

Before Aramis could challenge the man’s assertion he was falling back as the other two released their hold and shoved him. He stared at the rafters, concentrating on the thin slats of light overhead to distract him from the stabs to his knee bones. They’d not return immediately or they would not have left at all. Aramis was certain he’d have a respite – they wanted him in a cooperative state – before they attempted to pry information from him. He’d not given them what they wished, but what he had indicated was that he would not be an easy man to threaten. A harsh beginning could not escalate immediately or they’d need to increase their threats in increments, at first.

He’d have to be measured in his resistance, or he’d risk taunting them into aggression and that could incapacitate him. The man who’d struck him was not the man who’d orchestrated this, he was certain of it, but not of these men’s purpose, not yet.

“Aramis...”

Rolling to his side he snarled at the lack of floor, and lifted his wounded forearm to keep from sliding through the dirt. He’d not given them his name; he wouldn’t, not for some time. It was leverage, as was his loyalty to the crown of France.

“Aramis?”

Maybe he was delirious? He ran through the blows he’d been dealt, ruthlessly suppressing the pain that came from each one, to focus on whether or not his head had been struck.

“Can you hear me?”

He almost answered. Devoted to silence as his initial plan he resisted on impulse, distracting himself with questions to keep from speaking aloud. For a long moment he thought he might’ve asked the whisper low question of himself.

“Aramis, are you in there?”

No. His lips parted finally, to allow a tiny smile, he knew that voice.

“D’Artagnan.”

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Chapter Text

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No. 5: “You better pray I don’t get up this time around.”

Debris | Pinned Down | “It’s broken.”

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Aramis strained to hear movement from the other side of the door having instructed d’Artagnan, unseen on the other side of the stone wall, to do the same.

Satisfied with the lack of activity beyond their sight he slid for the wall separating him from his friend. Pushing his palms flat in the dirt he levered more weight onto his left arm and lifted, he hinged his hips and dragged his legs to move without encouraging more blood to run from the wound to his other arm.

His heel caught on a small rock, the leather snagging and the minimal change disturbed his knee. He’d been relieved by his success and was unprepared for the jutting stone. The sound he made was animalistic and he gave a forceful exhale, cursing silently before answering d’Artagnan’s concerned query.

“It’s fine,” he directed his voice where he’d presumed d’Artagnan to be crouched.

Or stood, he guessed, from the origin of his friend’s words.

He tipped his head back in relief when his shoulders met the bumps of stone but jerked forward. The feeling of shards of ice in the water hadn’t been slivers of frozen bits. Carefully he tilted forward and flicked a finger into his hair, and looked down to find two small granules of glass fell to his lap.

D’Artagnan had called something he didn’t catch, but before Aramis could respond his voice floated down from the opposite side of where he’d been asking his questions earlier.

“Are you on the floor?”

Shaking his head at the deduction Aramis moved to tip his head back again before he thought better of it – his scalp was alight with tiny stings and isolated burning spots. At least the water cleared most of the debris from his hair; he’d a lot a more appropriate time to pick through his curls for errant shards once he took stock of d’Artagnan and their chances.

“Aramis?”

He reversed his hand and brought the finger he’d tangled in his curls to rest on a bulging rock end.

“I’m here,” he closed his eyes, sorting his thoughts, he needed himself focused as much as d’Artagnan, “however, standing is a challenge at present…”

“Are you hurt? I – ”

D’Artagnan’s voice cut off, tone wavering, and Aramis guessed he’d lost his balance, most likely hurt himself further, Aramis dropped both hands to his thighs as he waited for d’Artagnan to recover. No sense wasting breath in cautioning him over that calf, he’d likely aggravated it loping around. Which brought a frown to his face.

“Mind my work, please.”

“That’s your concern?” d’Artagnan huffed. “Let me...sit…”

He heard a scrabbling against the stone and felt more glass slip loose. The powdery pieces dusted his collar. Moving to brush them, Aramis stilled his hand, taking a gamble with his smallest finger’s tip to press against them. He brought his hand to his face, the pad of his thumb against the grit to rub together with his other finger and examine the small pieced. They weren’t glass.

“D’Artagnan…” he called, wondering if it had only fallen on his own side.

“Wait!”

A crunch and a high-pitched scrape that made him flinch for its nearness to his ear bent Aramis forward.

“It’s loose…” d’Artagnan caught himself from announcing his excitement – and his discovery – to their captors, “I think I can get it free…”

Aramis twisted his head tying to determine which stone d’Artagnan was manipulating.

“Can you push? Or pull?”

Aramis’ mouth condensed to a twisted frown as he glanced about himself; only one limb remained without injury. Bending at the waist he strained his abdominal muscles to keep from bracing on his wounded leg and raised his elbow. He craned his neck to check he’d the correct stone, noting the dust trailing from the loosened corner of a thin, rough, rectangular one at a height that didn’t require he stand.

“Keep pushing, I’ve…” d’Artagnan’s voice rose, and muffled, as they worked to move the tiny slab through the cement. “...almost…”

Aramis twisted and bent his arm to shove with his hand, surprised to find his fingers disappeared to the knuckle as he flattened them in the revealed space.

“Th – ” d’Artagnan’s voice faded as the stone gave way, “ow!”

“D’Artagnan?”

Aramis twisted to squint into the opened space. The wall was thinner than he’d guessed, but it still required his hand to be up to the wrist against the wall to reach the other side. He bent his fingers, fanning them and making a fluttering motion.

“D’Artagnan…” he drew out his vowels and bumped his nose to the side of his wrist, peering in the narrow space between his skin and the broken cement. “Please tell me you didn’t smack that against your head?”

Not receiving a response he moved to withdraw his hand and allow more space to see to the other side. As he began to slide his fingers back they were caught – grabbed – by d’Artagnan’s and held fast. The back of his fingers met with d’Artagnan’s forehead, the younger man squeezing before he released Aramis.

Carefully, it wouldn’t do to poke or scratch an eye, he spread his fingers to catch the top of d’Artagnan’s head, ruffling the hair.

“Are you, um, you?” The small opening conducted their voices easier, and at a volume that would not alert their captors. “I’m not still delirious, am I?”

“You might be,” Aramis teased, lightly patting his head and lifting his hand at the same time d’Artagnan ducked away. “Though I doubt we’re sharing a delusion…”

Reluctant to break the connection Aramis waited a moment overlong to withdraw his fingers.

“Now, as to my name...Francesco,” he leaned closer, careful not to push forward enough for impressions to be left on his skin, “these men believe our feint and are unsure of my role in your employ…”

“You think that’s why they’ve not come?”

Satisfied with another piece of their shifting puzzle Aramis nodded, although it only moved his eyes in d’Artagnan’s view. D’Artagnan had leaned back and Aramis was able to see his face and upper body, along with a portion of the space around him.

“I suspect it’s why you’ve a bed. Whoever these men are, Francesco is a part of their scheme.”

“And you?”

“Not so much as a three-legged stool on this side,” Aramis lamented in a light voice before answering. “They thought me a servant, but my actions and reactions have given them grounds to be suspicious over my role.”

D’Artagnan glanced at him, amused, they were both resistant to passivity.

“I heard…that is...” d’Artagnan cocked his head, looking at Aramis with a soft, squinting gaze, “they weren’t only asking questions.”

Aramis appreciated that d’Artagnan had reined in his rush to action, and his brash assertions of late; he’d been rather tactful – if not a bit obvious – in distracting Aramis from his memories near the border.

“You can’t stand!”

He was young, there was time for improvement.

“Not at the moment, no.”

D’Artrgnan took the opportunity to deter Aramis’ eventual review of his own leg and he leaned toward the wall.

“One leg?”

“Both,” Aramis had each of his legs extended and he’d been careful to isolate his torso when moving.

Keeping tension through the limbs had allowed him to move and with all the excitement of opening the wall he’d distracted himself from having to examine them. Contrary to his friends’ assertions he took more pride than joy in being able to care for their ailments; there was a process, a method, and, at times, the use of creativity. When it came to caring for himself he preferred efficiency and, if possible, not having to treat himself. There was an instinct, an inclination towards preservation of the self perhaps, that kept one from deliberately causing harm to one’s own body. Even if it were meant to be part of the path to healing.

Holding his breath, he bent to palpate his knees with as light a touch as he could accomplish. Hissing out his pain meant he’d needed to suck more air in and begin halting, tense, touches again. D’Artagnan occasionally hissed in response, or sympathy, to Aramis’ noises, but he remained an otherwise quiet observer. Aramis felt his gaze as of it carried weight, and drew support from him rather than consider it a distraction.

“Bruised, deep,” the pressure Aramis used wouldn’t make a mark on sand, but it felt like he’d dug a knife pommel along his flesh, “it’s swollen…”

He moved on to the other leg, pressing along the edge of the bone, the curve and bend of his knee. Sliding his thumb over the soft depression under the bone he was so startled by the pain he forgot to lift his thumb before he flung his hand up so quickly he nearly caught his own chin.

“It’s broken?”

“I’d have screamed when he did it,” he’d have been blinded for long moments with that level of pain, and his outcry would have echoed, “you’d have heard – it’s fractured. At the very least.”

“I could distract them.”

Aramis brought his brows together, but as he was side-on to his friend he’d only see the sharp angle of one.

“It won’t accomplish our goal.”

“Our goal isn’t to lame you.”

“It’ll take more effort, I assure you,” he wanted to set both eyes on d’Artagnan and rotated using his hip, incrementally, and with lengthy inhales between movements, “they’re being careful.”

“Doesn’t seem it.”

“It’s mild by comparison, they appear to want my cooperation for a yet undiscovered task. They’ll not succeed through torture; they won’t escalate so soon.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Alas, there’s only one path to gaining such knowledge.”

“I could – ”

“No,” and here he’d needed to be firm, d’Artagnan was much too earnest and it would harm their chances if he couldn’t squash his instinct. “No, you can’t. And you won’t. I’d say the same were I you, and advocate as you are, but even if I wished to exchange our places, we can’t.”

D’Artagnan frowned at him, a glare that could be mistaken for petulance if one didn’t know how noble a heart his friend carried, but allowed Aramis to continue.

“D’Artagnan, you must be silent,” Aramis insisted, before turning his tone to one of persuasion, “if for no other reason than your Latin is atrocious, and your knowledge of other dialects you’d need is non-existent. You’re no Florentine.”

“I could fake, well I might use my...” d’Artagnan motioned to his head, wiggling his fingers and looking at Aramis.

For a brief moment Aramis feared he was lost to his confusion of last night, but decided it might be his own. In the end he determined they were both a bit slow to understand the other for varied reasons, however d’Artagnan’s suggestion had merit.

“When they approach you, that will serve you well. Show them your leg, let them believe you were harmed in the ambush, but – ”

“Don’t speak?”

“Precisely.”

“They spoke French?”

Aramis nodded, that had been unexpected. “Yet they don’t know Latin, which points to them not being members of the nobility…” he smirked “or the clergy...”

“You do.”

“Athos knows it better still, and I will blame your head injuries if you claim I said so, but these men, they’ve scant knowledge if any. They aren’t Genoese that I could tell, but I mean to test that.”

“What am I to do?”

“Hmm?”

“Aramis I can’t sit silent.”

“That’s not up to either of us. Not until we know their purpose.” Aramis placed the tips of his hand on the edge of the opening on his side of the wall. “Which we won’t discover if they discover you are not who they believe.”

“So I say nothing? Do nothing?”

“We survive by controlling what we can and uncovering what we are able. The longer the game is played the more chance Athos and Porthos have to get our friend to the king. If this isn’t the same group Lagarde drove to the border, then we need to root out their purpose or – ”

“Bide time until the others return, or we can slip away.”

“Bit difficult that,” Aramis’ lip twitched, and he slid his eyes to indicate his legs.

“Well, there’s something I can do.”

“Hmm?”

“Carry you.”

Aramis rolled his eyes but his shoulders moved with the light laugh he released.

“What a pair we shall make, limping from here.”

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

D’Artagnan must have caught he was favoring – as in only using – his left.

“Bit of blood. A shame too, this was a lovely shirt.” He shrugged one shoulder and traced a fingertip along his own cheekbone in mirror to the cut along d’Artagnan’s. “This?”

“Small cut,” d’Artagnan shrugged at him, “little blood.”

Aramis nodded his chin, it was fair enough.

“You must be Franceso, wounded and resistant, ignore them if you have to – you’re above their station. Say nothing.”

“If they think you’re my servant…”

D’Artagnan trailed off at Aramis’ glare, it may be a part they’d need to play but d’Artagnan needn’t take enjoyment from it.

“...or my guard,” he appeased. “What am I to call you?”

“Must you have something to say?”

“I’m being practical.” D’Artagnan persisted, rocking a bit to adjust his leg.

Aramis wished they occupied the same space so he might give him a shove, and then collapse onto his shoulder. Or crawl onto his bed. He settled for a friendly riposte.

“Agostino.”

“What?”

“If you’ve a need to call out to me, or provide them a name in cooperation – use Agostino,” Aramis pressed his unhurt forearm along the wall, pushing forward to regard him with both eyes, “it means magnificent, or great.”

D’Artagnan raised a brow at him, tilting his chin down so Aramis would not be able to miss his expression.

“You need to add a little more exasperation, fond of course, and the slightest hint of disapproval if you wish to accomplish an impression of Athos.”

D’Artagnan compressed his lips, but they trembled and broke open on a laugh.

“We’re escaping,” d’Artagnan leaned back on his arms turning his head to consider the walls and high rafters, “once we devise a plan.”

“Naturally. Since we’ve possibly one good leg between us…” Aramis grinned to mirror d’Artagnan’s own, they’d take their first opportunities to get free regardless of their physical impediments. the first duty was protecting their charge “If we ascertain who these men are and what they’re about, I’m all for seeking alternate accommodations.”

“Maybe let me choose our next inn?”

Aramis waved a dismissive hand at the opening and ignored the uneven ridges digging into his shoulder so that he could slouch on the wall.

“I’d say it was you who dictated our last lodging.”

“I was unconscious!” D’Artagnan’s protest came with a flicker of amusement flashing in his eyes.

“Therefore,” Aramis closed his eyes, letting his temple soak the coolness from the wall, “my choices were dependent on you.

He decided against making light of d’Artagnan’s access to a bed, and he believed he’d spied a small table and stool there too, in comparison with his own empty chamber. Recalling hooks, he cracked one eye and confirmed that his ‘room’ indeed had two racks – emptied of tools – and a row of hooks fixed into the wall across from him. The space he occupied might have been a store room, it was narrower than d’Artagnan’s section and there were ruts where he’d been dragged in and other materials taken out.

“Not much of use here,” Aramis remarked, closing his eyes and taking respite from the continued ache in his legs. He should staunch the deep scrape on his arm.

“I have – ”

Aramis’ eyes were unfocused when he snapped them open.

“The stone!” He hissed the order at d’Artagnan, turning and dragging himself from the wall.

As the piece grated back into place he wheezed against the rebellion of his legs moving. Aramis couldn’t get back to his original place in time and he opted for laying down along the wall. It wasn’t ideal but it kept out of alignment with the door and required only the smallest movements of his legs. He took some comfort in knowing he was not alone even if he held the slightest of worries that d’Artagnan wouldn’t heed his plan.

The door banging open covered the last shove of the stone sliding into place. He didn’t bother lifting his head when his questioner from earlier walked toward him, but carried nothing in his hands. Aramis doubted that would remain the case, but he meant to keep circumstances as peaceable as he could manage.

“Would you like to speak,” he stopped alongside Aramis, palm gesturing along his prone form, “or continue as we were?”

In his defense he had tried to convey an expression of compromise. He was conjugating a verb in his mind when the breath he’d been gathering to speak was stolen from him. Pinned to the ground with a boot to his knee Aramis didn’t have choice, and there was no stifling his yell.

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Chapter Text

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No. 6: “Do or die, you’ll never make me; Because the world will never take my heart.”

Made to Watch | “It should have been me.”

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They’d dragged him from the wall. D’Artagnan had heard all of their voices much more clearly when they’d reentered, but Aramis had drowned out all sounds with his own shout before he’d cut himself off and the men had demanded he answer them.

Aramis had moved on to providing responses – or taunts, d’Artagnan had not gleaned enough words from Aramis to tell – in Spanish. The replies, while sharp and guttural from the men, were muffled from the inquisitor but all of them conversed in French; he noted a roughness to the men that didn’t match his own dialectal variations that continually marked him as a Gascon despite how long he’d now resided in Paris.

He couldn’t decide if he admired Aramis’ dedication to suss out their origin, or thought him unwise for not outright fighting for answers. Had there been more time before the return of their captors d’Artagnan might have asked for an explanation of whether it would be better for these men to believe Aramis from Pairs or Florence so long as they accepted him to be Francesco. His position left him little choice but to go along with Aramis’ plan, he didn’t believe Aramis would forgive his interference after all he’d suffered.

D’Artagnan flinched from the harshly breathed yelp that they’d squeezed from Aramis.

A man braced himself for torture by focusing the mind on his cause, his friends and that which he’d vowed to give his life to protect. Over the course of hearing leather impacting with flesh and iron clanging over stone he learned it would herald a muted cry. D’Artagnan had also discovered he’d less fortitude for the torment of listening to another man endure pain, especially one he considered his brother.

Determination, and pride, had kept Aramis’ outcries sparse and d’Artagnan expected some of that effort was for his own sake; a favor or tactic to aid his temper from loosening. After what he’d guessed to be several hours, but may have been nearer three-quarters of an hour, Aramis lost motivation for his resolve to keep silent. Although, in lieu of sounds he’d taken to covering such utterances with a snarled curse.

Latin tended to confuse him and Aramis took delight in teaching d’Artagnan the cruder speech from the variolous dialects he’d picked up through his studies and his travels. D’Artagnan suspected he’d gleaned several from being insulted in campaigns of war and the heart across the country and various borders.

‘¡Hostia!’ and ‘¡Vete al Diablo!’

He recognized the exclamations and once he’d heard Aramis swearing and cursing at them he guessed he’d confirmed them men didn’t understand Spanish and he did not care if they knew they were being insulted. The men spoke French and would know or have said ‘Va au Diable’ so d’Artagnan expected they – as he – had taken the meaning the first time Aramis had spoken the words.

He wondered if he were to shout ‘Ad Diaboli’ if that would go against their agreement. Francesco would know Latin, wouldn’t he? It would not be inappropriate, well, the words could be. Aramis might also not appreciate the humor of appropriating what limited knowledge he’d had from church services for such a purpose. Then again, if ever a man could shrug off the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane – so long as it was cleverly accomplished – it was Aramis.

Aramis, who instead of laughing along with his attempts to teach d’Artagnan to call Porthos a giant scobberlotcher – which even had Athos raising his brows at where Aramis had come upon that bit of English – was currently half-moaning an indistinguishable expletive in retaliation to some unseen torment.

D’Artagnan clenched half moons into his palms, not wishing for a moment that he’d had the softening barrier of gloves.

He hated this.

The muted words and indiscernible actions conjured worse than his nightmarish visions had shown him. He’d no control over either, but at least in his mind-induced madness he’d felt he could attempt some motion, some intervention. He’d railed against his incremental movements towards Aramis, but he’d not felt so impotent, even then, as he did now. The worst of the unfairness was his loyalty to Aramis meant he had to reconcile maintaining his silence and that felt to d’Artagnan the greatest betrayal.

“...is madness!”

The portion of the shouting that echoed through the wall was followed by the ringing of iron on stone. He didn’t hear taunting, or questions, but more important than that he didn’t hear Aramis.

No.

He’d kept as near to the wall as he could flatten himself in an attempt to catch the unsettling sounds and any hints of what Aramis had said. Or rather, the sound of his voice since everyone save Aramis was conversing in French. In his rush to press closer he paid less attention to where he placed his hands and leaned his ear.

The scratch of the stone reverberated louder for the relative quiet on both sides.

No, no, no, no, no.

He flattened his palms on either side of the section he’d inadvertently pushed, waiting, breath held in his lungs.

D’Artagnan kept still and watched the stone with a detached sense of disbelief even as it moved.

They’d heard!

The loose rock was pulled free at the level of his eyes and hazel ones bordered by deep ruts looked back at him wide and bulging.

“Maybe ‘e wants t’watch?”

The two other men in the room laughed, but not the leader. He was visible just as the wide face moved back. Slender and colder of countenance he stood at the furthest wall, gazing at d’Artagnan from the portion revealed at edge of the opening. He’d a duty and took no obvious pleasure in whatever plot they were involved with.

“Want t’see?”

The round faced man who’d yanked the rock free shuffled back, but remained crouched to view his reaction. As he shuffled backward more of the space was revealed and d’Artagnan bit the inside of his cheek to prevent calling out against what he saw.

In the darkening room they’d brought in a lantern and a man with a deep bruise along one side of his face held it one hand to light their workspace.

It enabled him to see that they’d lashed each of Aramis’ arms to the wall, spread to the side, and connecting them by rope to hooks protruding from the cement between the stones. Curls matted to his waxen skin and lighted from the small flame Aramis’ eyes – adamant, alight with purpose – stared at him.

If Aramis had been inclined to speak the message was obvious by the tension in his frame: keep silent.

Instead the tallest of them, his expression giving no hint of his feeling, gestured with the length of metal he held.

“You’ve quite a loyal man.”

D’Artagnan swallowed not breaking his stare with Aramis. This man, these men, had no conception of the strength of that assumption.

Hands roped to one hook each, the dark blue shirt Aramis had coveted was torn in places; he recalled fabric fluttering, and Porthos ducking under a shirt with an embroidered collar that Aramis tossed while sorting the pile. He claimed that none of them would fit the dark blue before admitting that while it might fit Athos it really would be a more flattering shade with his own complexion. D’Artagnan expected Athos hadn’t cared so long as he would not be donning his disguise bare-chested, but proceeded to debate over the color with the barest upward tilt of a corner of his mouth.

Aramis watched him. The meticulously dyed fabric was stained darker in sections, outlining the tears and cut strips with sweat and blood. His boots lay in a lump to the side, legs straight out, soles visible and facing d’Artagnan. They were joined by a length of chain and a spike was driven into the dirt floor between them.

“Will you reward it?”

D’Artagnan wanted to smash against the wall, rip out the stones and tear down the barrier. He gnashed his teeth against speaking. He could only reward with his silence.

The voice he knew to be the man who’d questioned Aramis continued.

“He speaks many words,” the man prodded at Aramis’ jaw with the end of the pincers he held, “yet says nothing.”

Turning to d’Artagnan the man addressed him: “Why?”

D’Artagnan wanted to ask Aramis, to reach through and shake him, so that he could release him from the vow.

“What does he hide for you?” Shoving the end of the implement to knock Aramis’ face aside he arced it down to dig into his knee. “Hmm?”

Aramis threw his head back into the wall but the tightness of his bonds prevented more than a few centimeters of motion. Rolling his head as the man withdrew from prodding at Aramis and turned to him.

“Who is he? Lanzichenecco? A mercenary? You must pay him well.”

Aramis had dropped his face back down and d’Artagnan’s stomach rolled at the subtle motion of his chin.

He’d no choice but not to respond.

“Very loyal,” the man nodded, glancing down to Aramis before squinting at d’Artagnan. “Nothing to say?”

D’Artagnan wanted to drop his forehead to the stone. He could speak, he could stop this, but all he was able to do was press his lips together.

For the first time since he’d seen the man his face changed, eyes tightening as they flashed before he turned back to Aramis.

“Choose, here...” he kept himself facing where his friend sat bound to wall and floor. Glancing over his shoulder, he pointed the gripping end of the pincers to Aramis’ hand and then toward his feet, “or here?”

D’Artagan’s eyes widened and were drawn to the man along with Aramis’ own gaze and neither said anything. He swallowed, clawing at the wall, and felt a welling around the phantom lump he couldn’t dislodge.

“Choose, or it will be both.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, a rush of noise in his ears overtaking whatever Aramis had bit out at the man. Even if he broke his silence how was he to choose when he’d rather scream at them and offer his own limb in exchange.

“Hand or foot?”

At an unseen sign the man with the lantern hung it from one of the hooks and stepped to Aramis’ feet. D’Artagnan couldn’t see Aramis’ face. The bruised man tore the thin fabric off while the other man slammed Aramis’ wrist back, pinning it to the wall and using the blacksmith’s tool to wrench down and to the side.

He remembered to drop the second n when he yelled ‘no’ but it was largely swallowed by Aramis’ shout. The noise had escaped him as his leg was yanked at the same time as the breaking of his finger occurred. D’Artagnan could only seem the tension on the ropes, the shaking hand suspended in a tight coil and the backs of the men. His toes curled against the inevitable and the blotchy-faced man grabbed the iron around his ankle while pulling at the pad of his foot.

Without turning, or speaking, the man with the pincers got the jaw around Aramis’ longest toe and began to twist. Brutal and efficient. D’Artagnan blinked and ducked his head before he realized, and angry with himself for the shield of his eyes and he forced them open – it was over that quickly.

He ignored the crouched man calling something to him, and the exchange of the other two standing over Aramis. D’Artagnan centered his gaze on the dark clumps of the top of Aramis’ bent head, waiting for the drooping curls to raise and show him his brother's will.

Before Aramis could lift his head the man holding the pincers turned back to him.

“Nothing to say?”

D’Artagnan was confused for a moment because the man had angled his head back to ask the question of Aramis.

He turned back, mouth open and working – possibly stunned, likely impressed – before he spoke.

“And you? Still silent?”

He swung the instrument and for a moment d’Artagnan feared he’d strike Aramis, his pulse pounded so hard he feared it would burst from his neck. D’Artagnan had followed the motion, and flicked his gaze to man before returning to watch Aramis. They needed to know who these men were to protect Francesco – and possibly the king – but the most important man to d’Artagnan was a few yards away.

“You expect us to believe a Medici doesn’t know French. You were traveling to meet the king!”

D’Artagnan was beginning to not care what they believed.

The man had already turned from him, and moved to the wall, letting the weapon hang at his side. He dropped to Aramis’ side, tapping the back of his hand on his chest before bringing the hand up to tilt Aramis’ head back.

“There’s a better bargain for you than this, not even a king would be worth such loyalty.”

Aramis’ eyes slid to their captor, before he used the leverage of the man’s hand to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze. He rolled his shoulders, shrugging his arms in the confine of the tight ropes and left his eyes on d’Artagnan.

The man studied his profile and then to glanced to d’Artagnan before he stood.

“Choose.”

Aramis said something light in volume, and interspersed with pants, that d’Artagnan guessed was an offer to make a selection for himself.

“Choose, or I will.”

D’Artagnan knew that meant he’d attack both limbs again. He debated, thoughts racing, not wanting to condemn his friend to even a scrape to his cheek on his own say, but knowing it was inevitable he had to select the one that would cause them the least trouble. His knees were already stunting his mobility, but Aramis may need to run and he could hobble so long as his toes were in tact. Although they might need to grapple with the men and Aramis’ hands – any man’s – were necessary. In the long-term, once they’d returned to Paris, he couldn’t imagine which Aramis might prefer.

In the end it was Aramis who spared him and took the decision from him.

He slid his eyes down to the floor indicating his choice.

D’Artagnan turned his lower lip over his teeth in a futile effort to protect them both all the while his heart counting out the lack of time they had. It would seem preposterous to an observer, but d’Artagnan could offer no retort.

“Caput supra cor,” Aramis’ low voice carried across the mostly silent room.

“All these words an’ ‘e don’t speak French,” the hazel eyed man shook his head and swung it, while chuckling at his own joke, between Aramis and d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan nodded, not caring that his sniff echoed loud through the opening in the wall and any of them looking closely would see his eyes welling. Whatever these men assumed was their own affair, he had both comfort and absolution given to him in those words.

He made a motion with his finger toward the floor.

“You see how little he cares for you?”

Aramis tipped his head back, still watching d’Artagnan. As if pleased he’d recalled the translation of Athos’ favored phrase, or from the man’s absurd suggestion, he let out a breathy laugh. D’Artagnan caught himself from shaking his head and pushed a knuckle to the corner of his eye before joining him.

Rather than pinch the next one of Aramis’ toes, the man handed the tool’s handles to the bruised man and left the room. When he returned Aramis’ smile weakened and he followed the man’s movement, while d’Artagnan pressed closer to peer through the opening.

He blinked against the glow of the heated end of the tool and dug his fingers along the uneven wall. He smacked them against the stone and shook his head, but uttered no sound.

“I suggest that you reconsider my offer.”

As he brought the fire-heated iron into Aramis’ side the other man began twisting the metal clamped on the end of Aramis’ foot. The crouched man picked up the discarded rock and d’Artagnan made out Aramis’ slackening leg just before he lost sight of him entirely.

He let out a scream of frustration having nowhere else for his rage to be vented. Why only question Aramis? Did they only speak French? There had to be a reason beyond his identity that he had been left alone.

Except he couldn’t couldn’t ask them any more than they couldn't question him. He squashed the irritation at Aramis’ plan that bubbled up and threatened to force the staunched tears from his eyes. Time and again he’d proven that he’d shoulder his share often trying to grab more than was reasonable, but Aramis had asked him to be silent. He couldn’t respond to their captors taunts, he couldn't answer without betraying who he was.

Robbed of the sight of his friend all he could do was strain to hear sounds from the other side of the wall.

“It should have been me…”

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Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 7: “I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds.”

Radio Silence* | “Can you hear me?”

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A thick glove pushed his head forward before d’Artagnan evaded the press of fingers and shook his head to the side, ducking under the light touch with a huff of annoyance rather than a verbal protest.

“Caput...”

The hand slid down in counter and cupped his neck resting for the count of several heartbeats. Several, racing, heartbeats because d’Artagnan’s chest was still heaving and his pulse still pounded from his previous exertions. The blood coursing through him still found excess to warm his cheeks, the stain hidden by the late afternoon shade and the dirt streaked across them.

“...supra…”

He took a ragged breath against speaking, a blunt rebuff on the tip of his tongue. D’Artagnan’s muscles remained tense and his shoulders rose toward his ears even as the hand cupping the base of his neck began to slide over his collarbone. He glared at his hands, tugging off his gloves to prevent curling his fingers into fists even though he wanted to lean into the firm assurance of that hand.

“...cor.”

Aramis’ hand slid around to pat over his doublet, making a clapping sound on the leather over his heart. The older soldier kept walking around him to sit opposite and his hand drifted off as he moved to drop onto the bench.

The words hung in the air, settling over the tension with the exact weight Aramis had intended. D’Artagnan rolled the points of his elbows into the scarred wood, scuffing the leather of the right one on a roughened dent on the outermost plank. Not ready to release the grip his frustration had on him he folded his hands one over the other buffered by their gloves.

“I don’t need a benediction,” d’Artagnan protested, hunching forward over his forearms on the table, unable to stop a slanting frown forming across his darkened face.

“I don’t think Athos intends it as a blessing so much as a warning.”

D’Artagnan’s lips couldn't finish their downwards motion and slid up into a wry angle.

“‘Cor’ is similar enough…” Realizing, belatedly, what Aramis had been telling him in words and motions, now that his anger was dissipating.

“He knows Latin confuses you,” Aramis brushed imagined dust from his mustache, “and I’m certain he wishes to impart the lesson clearly.”

“Lesson,” d’Artagnan snorted, his nostrils flaring like his mount, and quickly tensed his features to prevent a wince at how mulish he sounded with his dismissal.

Aramis’ brows rose, but he tugged his gloves free and let it pass without comment. He instead reached for the chipped pitcher and nodded with his chin that d’Artagnan should select a cup.

“You don’t believe you need lessons?” Aramis asked with the same tone he would if they were speculating about the possibility of rain based on the clouds overhead. He watched the dark liquid pouring into d’Artagnan’s cup, unhurried.

D’Artagnan felt as though he’d been tricked into chess, and that Aramis already had several moves planned to secure his win. It wasn’t fair of him to think, but his temper was still flashing in mild prickles under his skin. He wasn’t some unskilled youth that Treville had taken in as a courtesy for his aid with Athos’ arrest – he’d talent with a sword.

He’d been trained by his father.

“We all need practice,” Aramis said casually, taking a cup for himself and pouring an equal measure as he had for d’Artagnan.

“You’ve been a musketeer longer than Athos,” d’Artagnan wanted to smack his head to the splintered bit of wood his fingernail was picking at. He’d a talent for blurting out his heart, as much as acting on it, even when his initial thoughts weren’t the most charitable. Or true.

“I have,” Aramis nodded, taking a sip and making a click of his tongue at he set the cup down between the cradle of his hands. “I’ve also the humility to realize that my own – considerable – talents can benefit from a man who’s been trained since near birth to handle a blade.”

“I have plenty of – ”

D’Artagnan snapped his mouth closed before he said the word and his teeth ground from the motion. He glared at Aramis even though he was annoyed with himself for being led into the verbal trap in an echo of the one Athos had set for him to step into – or, more accurately lunge – moments prior.

Aramis smiled at him, closed lipped and broad enough to lift his mustache.

“Of course you’ve never moved rashly in – ”

“Are you kiddin’? He follows his heart like the sun over the horizon,” Smiling down at him as he lowered Porthos plopped onto the end of the bench with a groan of relief, and gave him a nudge with his hip.

D’Artagnan obliged him and shifted over, while Aramis pulled another cup and refilled his own after allotting some to Porthos.

“Think Athos never said similar to him?”

“Yelled, more like…” Aramis complained mildly.

“That’s ‘cause y’never listened when he told you the – ”

“Yes, yes,” Aramis had his cup aloft in one hand and fluttered the other at Porthos, “we’re speaking of d’Artagnan…”

Porthos grinned, shrugging before he downed half his cup and set it back with a motion for Aramis to pour again.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Do you remember?”

Aramis didn’t confirm he’d heard the recollection.

He shifted and braced one hand on the floor behind him. His fingertips bore the impression of his efforts and he backed his hand out to flex them in the gloves he’d retrieved after his earlier attempts.

“Athos confiscated the wine before setting us all to work…”

He’d murmured something low and unintelligible to Aramis that he still, after all this time, had not confessed to him or to Porthos but that caused their would-be monk to rise and take up his rapier without comment. D’Artagnan had been made to face both Aramis and Porthos for the remainder of the afternoon.

“...and finished it.”

Including their own cups.

“I thought we’d be circling and lunging for hours,” he jammed his fingers through the space in the wall as if thrusting and still there was no give to the barrier. His fear was held at bay by reasoning that Aramis had passed out, he must have, as evidenced by the limp leg he’d caught sight of before they’d plugged the wall.

“We’ll need to prevent infection,” how they’d accomplish it absent their supplies he’d no answer for, but thinking of something he might do for the other man helped keep his imagination from supplying what else might have happened after they’d closed up the opening.

“I don’t think they continued,” he cupped the ends of his hands on the flat portion of the cement, peering at the stubborn impediment, “wouldn't mind hearing you tell me...”

D’Artagnan pushed at the loose rock, but it held as it had every time he’d pushed it. The broad-faced man who’d set it back hadn’t pushed it entirely through to his side and d’Artagnan wasn’t able to get purchase on the edges with his fingers. He’d no choice but to push, but it wouldn’t budge and he’d begun to fear they’d jammed it.

“Can you hear me?”

D’Artagnan had brought the stool over, his calf alight with pain from overuse. His head hadn’t been able to overrun his heart when he’d leapt to the door and pounded on the wood in a fruitless attempt at bringing their captors back. He’d more success with resisting his desire to smash the stool when he’d limped over to that corner of the room in hopes of fashioning a means to dislodge the rock. Although, he could admit to himself in the silence, it was a near thing to prevent; ultimately he gave into the ache of his leg and used it to prop up his foot.

“I could use your help.”

After the sight of the heated pincers he knew it would be Aramis whose need for care would be greater. Aramis who would have to instruct him in this. D’Artagnan had some knowledge of wound care, but without normal means they’d either need to request supplies from their captors which was unlikely or rely on Aramis’ knowledge learned so informally through experience and cobbled bits from writings he’d managed to access. Regardless of which of their injuries they were tending he’d expect Aramis to guide him through; he’d little knowledge of how to treat a burn so large and his mind was throwing visions of charred flesh at him. He shook his head, focusing on what was in front of his eyes rather than threatening behind them.

They may have braced it, but he’d felt a little give on his last push – he needed better leverage.

“Are you awake?”

He kept pushing, not expecting a reply or much success. His own cry of surprise at the give was short, but loud. Not worrying over their captors he took hold of the stool and flipped it to get his hands around the curve of the seat. Rising to make use of the full weight of his body he jammed the long leg into the space and shoved.

Whatever they’d braced the stone with was fixed into the dirt, not a crate or solid piece as he’d thought. He could move it. His attempts were awkward, and his leg slipped more than once; his good leg dug a rut in the ground in counter to whatever was on the other side. However, Aramis’ side had looked to be exclusively packed dirt while his own had scattered flagstones, smooth and solid under the dirt and hay. Once he’d thrust his shoulder into the wall and got his leg lengthened to stretch that foot onto the stone he was able to drive the stone further.

He heard the clang and scrape at the same time he stumbled and knocked into the wall, a light smack of his forehead as he flailed. Dropping the stool he knelt to temple his fingers and use them like a battering ram. Having freed the brace on Aramis’ side it was the work of a few moments to dump the stone in a muffled drop to the earth.

He guessed they’d angled one of the pincers against it, but he spared little thought to it once he made out Aramis against the far wall. His head was dropped forward, chin on his chest and slumped to his left-side, possibly protecting the burn. His outstretched arms limp in the ropes, and his hands were pale from their constricting bonds.

“Aramis?” He hissed the whisper across the empty space. There had been few sounds and he doubted the men would make out his name even if they were close enough to hear him speaking. As with any words he’d said prior he’d kept them to a volume similar to their captors, he’d not been able to hear clearly and make out individual words unless they’d raised their voices or outright shouted at Aramis.

“I’m going to keep talking until you wake.”

Aramis remained motionless, limp and waxen, in the pale light emitted from the torch stuck into the wall. Even if Aramis could stand his bonds wouldn’t allow him to reach it, but d’Artagnan was grateful that it cast enough light to prevent his own mind from filling in a worse vision of his friend. The impression of his fitful imaginings of the night were too clear, but he banished them with the very sight of his brother across from him.

“You’re not alone, I’m here…”

He leaned his temple of the rough edge of the opening, angling himself to keep Aramis in his view and watched the shallow, but steady, rise and fall of his chest.

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Chapter Text

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No. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”

Outnumbered | “It’s all for nothing.”

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D’Artagnan shivered, his eyes surprised to find the room light with what his slow to wake mind recognized was the earliest hours of the day. He blinked rapidly and turned to check on Aramis at the same time his body recognized the sensation of being watched.

Aramis waved the fingers of his right hand, all unbroken, at him.

“Ar-mis,” he smiled, his eyebrow pulling along the stone as he pushed his face closer. His relief was so great he relaxed against the wall and stated the obvious with a yawn, “you’re awake.”

“And wishing I was not,” Aramis told him. He used the ropes to pull his back up against the wall, wincing from his efforts. From the way he held his body it was obvious he was guarding his torso. He shrugged his arms, blue cloth full and fluttering with his wing-like motions to glance at his hand. “Rope helped to keep this still…”

His hands were paler from their positioning and it made the bent first finger, swollen and dark all the more obvious. Aramis pulled his head up and peered down his nose to look along the length of his leg. Keeping both straight he studied the toes of his left foot, making the slightest bend to the dark skin. Two of the toes appeared to d’Artagnan near black with bruising, the dark blue and purple marks wrapping around all sides if he were to guess. He let out a frustrated little sound of pain, straightening the toes immediately.

“Your side?” D’Artagnan asked, not wanting to make his friend disturb the skin but he wished to know if they’d continued even after Aramis was no longer conscious.

Closing his eyes Aramis took a deep inhalation, pain twinging across his features as he leaned his head back to the wall.

“Can you see anything?”

D’Artagnan pinched his eyes tighter and leaned further in until he felt the scab on his cheek flaking from the friction.

“Only shadows, and…” he sucked his lip and a quick, rough breath in, “the fabric on your lower ribs looks stuck.”

“Ah,” Aramis opened his eyes and tilted his head angling his chin down. He spoke towards his breastbone, looking down to ascertain the extent of his wounds, but d’Artagnan was unsure how much he’d be able to make out from that angle. “That would explain why it feels like a hot iron was held to my side.”

“I only saw the one...before…”

“Thankfully,” Aramis wheezed, straining too hard to see and being forced to pull his head up, “the only one. Feels like it’s the size of my hand though...”

D’Artagnan wants to yell at him, to come up with some turn of phrase to tell him how useless this plan is. How reckless, how stubborn, how stupid, Aramis is being and he tries to imagine what Athos would say. That angle of his thoughts deflates his anger, he knows full well that Athos would insist they protect their charge; their duty came before all else.

D’Artagnan wants to stoke his anger but he can’t gather it looking at Aramis secured to the wall, patiently – stubbornly – taking stock of his injuries. This wasn’t Aramis slipping off on his own to offset an injustice outside their orders; it was Aramis remaining steadfast to what he’d determined the most expedient means to accomplishing their mission. He spared a thought to wonder if this was Athos felt when he’d consented to d’Artagnan getting himself arrested with Vadim. At least there was no danger of him being blown up, and he’d company in his prison this time.

“Is there no other way to determine who these men are?”

“They’re not Spanish, unless they’re very good actors.”

D’Artagnan sighed out his friend’s name, his real name, and received an answering gust of breath. Admiration raced against frustration to swell larger in his heart but all he could manage was an ineffectual warning to Aramis.

“If this get you killed I’m going to be – ”

Aramis’ laugh was strained, a stuttering wheeze that he pushed his lips to smile through. At least the memory had lightened his features and d’Artagnan’s spirit, despite anticipation of looming violence for the day.

“I appreciate the sentiment, and if it’s any consolation I don’t believe they mean to kill me.”

D’Artagnan tucked his chin lower his brows contorting as he stared through the wall. Aramis had the decency to glance down at himself before adjusting his arms and leaning back.

“Yes, well. Regardless of my pains, we can’t give them a reason to suspect you’re not the individual they want…” he ducked his head and clenched his unbroken fist against some pain d’Artagnan couldn’t see the origin of, before Aramis took a breath gazed back at him, “...they’ll leave you alone so long as they think you’re who they seek.”

“I could draw them in here,” d’Artagnan said, an undeveloped plan attempting to form in his mind.

“Unless you’ve acquired an entirely new vocabulary overnight, that won’t end well.”

“They don’t seem interested in harming me,” d’Artagnan offered. They hadn’t implied much regarding Francesco, only that they desired the identity of his accompanying man. And with their focus on Aramis he’d been spared, so far, but it had also indicated they wanted Francesco for some purpose. If they’d meant to kill the young Florentine it would have been accomplished already.

“Yet,” Aramis told him, tipping his head back and swallowing several times to wet his mouth. “How long do you suppose that will continue when you’ve irritated them? When you refuse to communicate, even if you imply that you can’t. Regardless of your injuries they won’t believe you’ve no capacity to speak, Francesco is well-educated.”

“Exactly,” d’Artagnan insisted, the fingers of one hand curling at the opening, “they’re not going to harm a Medici.”

“We don’t know that. You may be a captive of high value, or they may wish you to sign a document, or they may wish to use you in a scheme; none of which requires you remain unharmed.”

But it would be so much easier to confront them. He wanted the simplicity of plain action – to do something. Anything. Instead of sitting idly by like the Florentine gentleman he was masquerading as and watch them slowly break and tear and bruise Aramis.

“So we wait until they maim you?”

“They may have already,” Aramis proclaimed with a tilt of his head, but realized by d’Artagnan’s darkening expression that such humor would not win him over.

Before d’Artagnan could protest the action Aramis held his leg up as much as the chains allowed, keeping it stiff at the ankle. With more cheer than d’Artagnan, even in his better health, could muster Aramis angled the foot to show him the top and the side, before flexing it and returning his heel to the ground.

“Come now...I’m quite well...look...see perfectly fine…”

“That’s why you’re struggling to breathe now?”

Aramis fixed him with a look that signaled he’d protest if he could, thus proving d’Artagnan’s point. However, like d’Artagnan, Aramis was not one to concede a debate without exhausting all of his arguments.

“We’re outnumbered…” Aramis began, calm and holding himself upright against the wall to give his shoulders a rest from the yank of the ropes. “We need to learn what we can from these men, we’re not in a position to fight them when we don’t know how many there are.”

D’Artagnan swallowed down his guilt over that; he’d been sorting through what little he could recall, but there was no memory of leaving the inn.

“How many were there?”

“More than I was able to count,” Aramis looked to the door out of d’Artagnan’s sight-line, but none of their captors entered and it yielded no answers. “Four were on the landing, but the shortest man – ”

“The one who removed the brick?”

Aramis nodded.

“He wasn’t among those that I confronted in the hallway,” Aramis gasped, flinching against his pains, before trying again. “They may not all be here, but there are more than I saw before we were taken.”

“Too many to overtake?”

“Not entirely what I meant. As for extending our guard’s interest in us, it seures everyone’s safety.”

D’Artagnan didn’t point out it did nothing for Aramis’ own.

“Besides think of the others. The more of these men that are here and believing you are him...”

“Our friends are safe.”

“All of them, and they’ll reach their intended destination, otherwise it’s all for nothing...not if the intended mission remains unfulfilled.”

If Francesco didn’t reach the king was left unsaid.

“I think it’s also worth noting that I’ll have suffered for nothing if they were to discover our ruse.”

D’Artagnan glared at the floor, it would be unfair to direct his anger at Aramis. He pulled his knees up and clasped his arms around them, belatedly noticing the singular rocking motion he made before nodding his agreement.

“Not unless you’ve smuggled in a salve or three.”

Expecting his wistful joke would not yield anything Aramis continued to look about his own space.

“They’re not Genoese, these men...they may be Savoyards,” Aramis paused, swallowing and taking a deep inhalation before staring directly at d’Artagnan. “They may be French.”

“Why would our own countrymen want the king’s cousin?”

“The same reason men have sought the Queen Mother,” Aramis offered.

“You suspect they’re moving against the king?”

“Or the cardinal,” Aramis nodded, before catching himself mid-motion and leaning his head back. Eyes closing and taking a series of slow, measure breaths.

D’Artagnan considered there was equal possibility between the two; if anything a move against one was the same as the other. Richelieu wielded as much, if not more power than the king.

“I thought he was a distant cousin of the king’s.”

They’d provided a substantial escort and the port city had been chosen as it meant the travelers spent the least time in Savoy while crossing to France. Perhaps he should have sailed, although Aramis’ dislike of boats would have seen them in a different configuration. Aramis was staring up at the small window possibly ruminating over his own scenarios of what might have been, but more likely thinking through what their captors may be trying to achieve. He shifted his gaze back, a slow motion of his head, and gave an impassive assessment 

“This could be an internal conspiracy, after all she had Treville arrested and Richelieu exiled at one point. It could as easily be someone who wishes to use him against his family in Florence.”

“We really have no choice,” d’Artagnan set his chin on his curled knuckles, all his unvoiced irritation ebbing from him under the force of the realization, “do we?”

“No...or else it's all for nothing.”

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Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.”

Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.”

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D’Artagnan would later take the time to be grateful, once again, that he’d not splintered the stool into pieces. With the fingers lifting at the nail he swayed in counter to the shifting foothold of the stool balanced on the thin mattress he’d folded to gain the height. His proximity proved he’d not be able to squeeze through even if he could loosen the grate that his fingers were currently having a layer scraped from.

His injured leg he kept angled to the side in an attempt to keep himself stable. Even with the minor motion and holding it tense he leg burned with the strain. He twisted up on his toes, bending and flexing the tiny bones all the while he cursed the high rafters of the building.

D’Artagnan counted himself more fortunate than Aramis even as he cursed the futility of being enclosed in his room. He’d banged his head on the wall when he’d scrambled up as the bruised man and the broad-faced one, along with a bald man with a scar above his left ear began releasing Aramis’ bindings. Smacking the wall with a wordless cry of his mounting frustration he chose to believe what he was seeing was real. They had dragged Aramis from the room on the order of the man who’d interrogated him.

He’d crouched to the floor, sliding his cheek against the straw in an attempt to view boots or an indication of where they might bring him. As he’d been about to close his eyes and turn his forehead to block out the overwhelming sense of foolishness – what had he even thought to see – a brightening of the ground alerted him to the sunlight shining in from the door opening. Before the light faded he’d shoved his arms straight to force himself back to stand and rushed about the room to cobble together the means to see.

Which he had. Caught in the terrible moment he was suspended between observing events and guessing what would happen.

His big toe rolled, but he managed to keep the top of the stool balanced under him. If he’d had a more solid foundation he might've been able to break the pane, but the height of it and the view confirmed they were in some sort of outbuilding. Well he was in the building, everyone else – of those he’d seen so far – was outside.

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“Very kind of you all,” Aramis kept his voice light, and he pulled back slightly to slow the pace of the men marching him toward the wooden vessel, “but I’d rather not have a bath presently.”

“Then you do speak French.”

Aramis smiled, twisting over his shoulder, trying to view the man who’d been questioning him since their arrival. He hop-stepped with his left leg, both knee and toes burning their rage at his movements and his feet were skimming the ground. That bothered him less than the forced weight on his knees, but his unprotected feet were dragging and scraping on rocks and pebbles and debris in the dew damp field.

“I speak several languages,” he confirmed, casting a glance over his questioner’s head to the stone outbuilding.

“You may avoid this…”

Aramis found himself fighting a scream, his eyes blurring with the effort when he was shoved to his knees before the large, wooden trough in the field a few yards from the building he’d been locked in.

“...if you tell me who you are.”

Staring at his own watery visage Aramis thought of the tales he might weave, and the identities he could play to his advantage. He’d taken care, and suffered pains, to let little slip that could mark him for one man or another and his features played to his advantage in that he could pass for a man from many regions.

“I am merely a man loyal to his mission.”

“Loyal?”

The man’s voice was nearer and Aramis had enough time to see his own image joined by the interrogator before he was plunged under the water. His body held enough resistance in the shock that he didn’t take a breath, but it was close, and he pushed precious air outward as he shoved his shoulders up against the men’s hold.

His knees felt like they’d been thrust on hot coals even as his face was sunk in water that stung his cheeks with cold and all the while his lungs felt like a deflated bellows as he struggled to keep from breathing in – or out. The murky dark in which his hair floated and tickled at his skin rushed against his ears before the force plastered the strands to his face and droplets flew outward with his gasps.

“Will he be worth this?”

Always.

The single word would have been the answer Aramis had given, but if he were to use more words it would mean more time he could be breathing in; dragging pulls of air into lungs that felt as though they were throwing themselves at his ribs. Expecting that waiting too long to speak would result in being thrust back into the water Aramis rationed himself a final few breaths.

“Not all men...” he filled his chest with air, preparing for their retaliation, “...drink the poison...of disloyalty.”

And not all men were thrust into large repositories of water. The extra air he’d managed to steal bolstered him as he twisted in their hold, shoulders attempting to throw the men off at least succeeded in knocking some of it over the wooden sides.

A hand scratched his scalp and the fingers snagged in his hair, yanking him deeper. The rapid motion tricked his mind and in his confusion he inhaled rather than exhaled. He’d an absurd picture of d’Artagnan’s face blinking up at him with a lack of comprehension as to why his body’s movements hadn’t matched Aramis’ suggestion. He fought wildly to prevent the cough he wanted to release, the impulse to dislodge the water was overwhelming.

With no sense of where his captors were other than by how they held his arms he drove his weight into his left knee – ignoring the flare of pain – to kick out with this other leg. He sent his elbows upward, and back, but their grips followed his disjointed movements. Fortunately his leg connected but it didn’t loosen the hold of the arm attached to the body he slammed the limb into.

For the blink of an eye begin submerged underwater can be calming, but once the body or mind recognized that along with a deadening of sound there were limited moments before a man understood he needed to extract himself. Aramis noted, from unfortunate experience battling the sea, that even without a conscious thought the body itself would fight instinctively.

He thrashed his torso as he broke the surface uncaring that his muscles weren’t as successful as the pull of his captors.

The hand in his hair held, his interrogator was crouched on the opposite side of the wooden container.

Frigid lines of water streamed down his face and neck and he hacked out the coughs he’d withheld.

“Are you loyal to him...”

The hand in his hair twisted hard enough to strain the roots and in his irrational thoughts Aramis panicked over the possibility of a chunk being torn free. The thought was lost under the fight to gather enough air before blocking his intake once he was forced back under. He was blinking against the man’s face and the sunlight before he’d comprehended he was above the water.

“...to his family…”

He might’ve guessed when the man released his grip in his hair he’d made some sign to the others to force him back under.

“...or to yourself…”

His questioner might have asked him that more than once, the world was graying in his vision. Aramis cared less about the appearance of the world than he did about stealing more air from his surroundings for as long as he was able. For a moment the role he played and his personal feelings aligned and once more he wrapped his own beliefs with words that could speak that meshed with his mission.

“I will...be loyal...to that young man…” Aramis shivered against the droplets sliding along his neck, drawing prickled flesh along his spine, “...until my last breath.”

The hands of the men holding him tightened into his biceps, one of them pushed a forearm against the back of his neck.

“Even if that’s now?”

Aramis gave no reply. He stared up at the man, then past him, and began to sort his thoughts. If his death were not to occur asleep in satisfaction in bed after a long and bountiful life than he’d always hoped he’d be assured a quick end, in battle, among beloved friends. A slow, dragged out one in full awareness of what was happening was very low in his preferences.

Unfortunately it was made clear life did not care for his preferences when his head was forced below the water once more.

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“You’ve a loyal man.”

Were d’Artagnan capable of stabbing the man with his gaze he’d have been pierced through the heart before he’d finished speaking. Knowing the impossibility of that he turned back to the task of settling Aramis’ lurching and coughing back.

The man signed to the other men standing over them, their weapons pointed at him and Aramis, and they began to exit. He backed up once they’d moved into the narrow hallway and began to pull the door shut.

“Our benefactor will speak with you.”

Aramis’ wet cough was his only warning before the other man lurched out of his grip to evacuate the excess water he’d swallowed.

“There we – ” Aramis’ voice cut off with gasping breaths and he turned further from d’Artagnan to shake with the involuntary contractions.

“Just hold on.”

D’Artagnan leaned over him without crowding too far into his space to monitor the unnaturalness of the movements. He cupped a hand on Aramis’ left shoulder as his right was digging into the ground when he curled in on himself. His coughing was so great that d’Artagnan had to keep his touch light in order to shift and follow with the force of it. The blue shirt was saturated with water and even the soft touch caused water to seep from the fabric.

Once the jumps of his torso from his hacking subsided d’Artagnan’s hand began to feel the vibration of shivering take its place. He eased Aramis to rest on his unburned side, having seen him favor placing Porthos or Athos onto their side when injured. He wanted to check as much of him as he could without disturbing his body further.

“They have…” Aramis’ chest rose and fell and he choked again from having overcompensated on how much air he’d breathed back in “...a benefactor...”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened and he bent further over to see Aramis’ were closed, but his lips were turned upward. Even though he wouldn't see it d’Artagnan rolled his own and added more pressure to the hand on Aramis’ shoulder. He set his other hand onto Aramis’ wet head and let his thumb rub over his forehead to check for lumps as much as to assure him it was a friend’s arms on him now.

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Chapter Text

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No. 15: “I don’t need you to help me I can handle things myself.”

Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

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“I’m fine...I’ll get up in a minute...”

“Or,” d’Artagnan elongated his ‘r’ and glanced up before gesturing, “we have a bed.”

“Oh, yes…‘Francesco’ warranted better accoutrements...”

“Right, a stool, a pillow, and a bed, befitting of any nobleman,” d’Artagnan bragged with a false air of importance.

“You have a bucket,” Aramis’ the visible eye opened “I didn’t have a bucket.”

“Two,” d’Artagnan corrected, “there was another near the bed.”

“Well.”

“And a pitcher of water.”

“Oh, d’Artagnan, let’s not speak of water.”

D’Artagnan patted through his hair before sliding the hand along his upper back.

“Come on, let’s get you up.”

“I’d rather stay here, thank you.”

“Because you don’t want to move or because it’s better for your injuries?”

Aramis closed his eye again and d’Artagnan tilted his head to try and see his entire face. Through deliberateness or discomfort his friend thwarted the attempt by turning his face further down.

“Aramis.”

“Yes, yes...in a moment…”

“You’ve already had several,” d’Artagnan did his best to imitate Athos, as well as Aramis, in concern and firmness combined but ultimately sounded more like an impatient version of himself. In recompense he tried to recreate Porthos’ bargaining. “C’mon you’ll feel better on the bed.”

“Or, I could rest here.”

“The bed is more comfortable,” protested d’Artagnan.

Of course he’d spent little time on it and slept on the ground against the wall to watch over Aramis, but even the thinnest of mattresses would be better for him than the floor. Surely. He firmed his resolve imagining that Aramis would never tolerate one of them on the ground when better accommodations were available.

“Aramis?”

“Mm?”

“If it were me you’d insist I take the bed.”

“Well, you are injured,” stated Aramis. His brows shifted and he cleared his throat. “How is your leg?”

“Aramis.”

“You’ve not rested it.”

“Aramis.”

“I ought to have a look.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, you’re confusing us; you’re the one that with the concussion.”

“I don’t – yes, but I’m not confused. I’ve been feeling better. But you? Your legs, your arm, your chest, your head should all be checked. Maybe it was struck on the trough?”

“Nearly drowned is not the same as striking one’s head…” Aramis theorized. “Then again, it would be curious – I suppose the mind could be similarly – ”

“Aramis!” D’Artagnan’s interruption was forceful but he tried to be measured with his volume.

“Must we do this?” Aramis raised his head to consider him, opening his eyes and attempting to appear authoritative. He stared at d’Artagnan but otherwise kept his body very still. “I’m fine here.”

D’Artagnan’s observance of him put that in question. They all had a tendency to shrug off scrapes and bruises, sprains on occasion – there were many injuries one could push through in spite of for a mission – but Aramis had all of the general ones in addition to numerous wounds he’d insist the others did not delay treatment on. Even his muddled mind recalled Aramis’ consternation at having to postpone the treatment of his leg to bring him to the inn.

“Would you allow me to lay on the floor instead of the bed?”

“I’ll get the mattress wet…” Aramis reasoned.

“We’ll change your shirt.”

“...and, it’ll take hours to dry…”

“We’ve nothing except time,” d’Artagnan couldn’t have stopped the huff of air that slid through his teeth even if he’d cared to do so.

Aramis could be argumentative at the best of times, but his unexpected stubbornness when it was so painfully obvious he needed assistance left d’Artagnan’s reasonableness fraying. He did have a counter for every excuse, and he’d noted their captors had left him the means to refute Aramis’ most recent protests. “When they took me they took my clothes, and since I was wearing the additional shirt…”

“You’ve a spare…? How lovely…”

“Aramis.”

D’Artagnan poked a single finger into his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“We need to move you.”

Aramis pushed up on one arm and looked to the bed, a frown forming and deepening immediately. Instead of rising further he turned and settled himself on his back, half-supported by d’Artagnan’s bent good leg.

“Moved,” he declared and his eyes narrowed at d’Artagnan with the pleasure of his solution.

“It’s a beginning.”

He set the hand he’d had on the curve of Aramis’ shoulder flat to the front of it, tapping his fingers a moment and resting his hand as he considered the distance.

“I could carry you, but you’ll only tell me it’ll strain my leg.”

“It would.” Aramis tipped his head further back to glare at him.

D’Artagnan waved his free hand in invitation and gestured to the bed. Waiting. He raised a brow. For a cause such as helping a friend he could draw from a well of patience.

“Why not allow me to suffer here?” Aramis smiled at him, some color coming back into his features.

“My leg will ache if we stay like this?”

Aramis lifted his left hand overhead turning it over in front of both of them. His twisted little finger encircled by dark bruising stuck out and was pointed at d’Artagnan from the angle it was held.

“All right, go fix the mattress then.”

He pulled himself to a seated position while keeping his legs stretched out in front of him. D’Artagnan looked back over his shoulder before he removed the stool to check if Aramis needed assistance. His friend had his back to him and was lifting and pushing himself toward the bed without lifting his legs. Aramis paused, hunching his shoulders forward while he shook out his hands and d’Artagnan unfolded the mattress without looking at the task to make certain Aramis didn’t require his help.

“I can feel you watching,” Aramis spoke without turning, “I’m fine.”

D’Artagnan shrugged, not believing him for a moment, but smoothed the sheet down over the mattress and grabbed the extra shirt for Aramis to use. He lay it beside the thin pillow and waited for Aramis’ back to be braced by the bed-frame before he bent to get his hands under Aramis’ right arm. For his part Aramis

“Wait, wait,” Aramis’ breaths were shortened to pants ground between gritted teeth.

“Do you want me to lift your legs?”

D’Artagnan could lift both while Aramis pushed himself up onto the bed; but, considering how exhausted the other man was, it wasn’t likely Aramis could manage to raise his upper half. Neither man voiced that speculation and Aramis shook his head.

“Wait, I’ll,” Aramis took a deep breath in, letting the exhale take longer than usual, “I can push with my ankles…”

As he looked at the stiffened legs d’Artagnan doubted that effort would come without pain, but he was committed to getting Aramis laying down on the bed. He needed to look at the burn wound, and possibly bandage the leg – of course, he also needed Aramis conscious to guide him through that.

He picked up the shirt and crouched in front of Aramis.

“It’s not blue,” he stretched the fine-woven cloth out, “but it’s dry. Embroidered too…”

Aramis sniffed with amusement, bending slightly, wordlessly for aid removing his current tatters from his skin. When they reached the darkened patch on his side it proved there was some benefit to him being doused and dunked.

“Tear it.”

“What?”

“It’s loose enough to lift,” Aramis pinched a section of the damp fabric, “but it would be best if I were to remove the part over the burn. So...tear around it?”

D’Artagnan did as requested and moved to lift off other sections in order to ignore the stifled yelps and hisses Aramis made clearing off the fabric on the wound. He snagged the upper section of the sheet to give Aramis to sop up the worst parts of dampness from his hair and upper chest. Aramis flung the bunched section over his shoulder and regarded him.

“The floor required less work.”

“Greater chance of infection.”

Aramis’ stare might’ve been intimidating to a stranger, or him when Aramis was defending Porthos, but d’Artagnan was otherwise unruffled. Especially with Aramis soaked through and carrying numerous injuries. Rather than debate, he indicated the bed behind Aramis with his chin.

“When you’re ready.”

It took a few minutes for Aramis to give a sign that they could make another attempt, and he braced his left hand again on the wooden-frame to push as d’Artagnan shouldered his weight from the other side. Aramis kept his jaw tight against the sounds of agony from using his tightened legs to drive into the ground for extra leverage.

“It is…” he panted, finally laying on his back, “...softer…”

D’Artagnan laughed along with him, feeling as if they were bordering on hysterical, and motioned for him to turn and lay with his head on the pillow.

“Keep them level,” Aramis cautioned as d’Artagnan cupped around his ankles.

He bit his lip and lifted along with d’Artagnan to get his legs up and extended along the mattress. Once they’d accomplished this, d’Artagnan didn’t release Aramis’ calves until he tossed his head back and closed his eyes. They both paused.

“Thoughts on escaping?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, glancing at the door on reflex rather than any consideration given to a plan. He wasn’t leaving without Aramis.

“You can’t move,” d’Artagnan pointed out in good humor, “although someone tossed in your boots.”

“Did they?” Aramis’ interest was taken with the information and he lifted his head in an attempt to view them.

“You can’t walk,” d’Artagnan reminded him, “we need to splint your toes before you even consider – ”

“Check them.” Aramis waved his right hand at the lump as he settled his head back onto the pillow. “Check.”

“Aramis – ”

The man in question angled his chin higher.

“I didn’t hit my head, I’m most likely not confused,” Aramis shrugged and flicked his eyes in the direction of his hand, “and...it’s possible the yarrow I picked for you is still in one of them.”

“What?”

“Go, go, go,” Aramis fluttered his fingers in an optimistic demand.

D’Artagnan had to be amused that even boots that were part of a disguise of Aramis’ had a similar flair to his own. They were narrower, and higher, and had a wide fold, but crumpled to the floor they were a lump of leather. When he reached them he was surprised that the stems Aramis had selected weren’t badly bruised and bent. Their captors must not have noticed, or cared, that the random cuttings were in them; d’Artagnan wasn’t going to complain.

“I’d say you were lucky, but…”

“I did discover they’ve a benefactor.”

“And that’s worth all this?” asked d’Artagnan.

He waved the fern-like stems at Aramis, casting it over his prone body in reference to his many wounds.

“I’ve impressed them?” Aramis tried, reaching for the stems and remaining lain down.

“By surviving? Were they trying to prove you’re a witch by dunking you? Or not one? Or?”

“It seems they were testing my loyalty...to you.”

Aramis pointed at him with his leafy scepter.

“Why would…”

“If they intend you for some plot, it may be that I’d have a part to play,” Aramis dropped the cluster to hold between both hands, “and they needed proof I’d not betray you.”

D’Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed.

“They’ve underestimated ‘us’ then…”

Aramis nodded, looking about the room before pointing to the small bowl on the stool. When d’Artagnan looked down at him, but still rose to retrieve it, Aramis smirked.

“You were the one who wanted me off the floor...had you remained my pillow this wouldn’t be happening...yet.”

D’Artagnan guessed at Aramis’ intention and took a small rock from the floor, rinsing it with the least amount of water he could manage. He brought that over to Aramis as well.

“If you would…”

D’Artagnan retook his seat at Aramis’ hip and began to grind the leaves Aramis plucked off to pass him. He cast a doubtful glance at the bloody burn revealed to the air.

“It’s not the ideal poultice for such a wound, but without a way to heat the water let’s hope it’ll prevent this worsening.”

“How much do I add?”

He tilted the small bowl for Aramis’ inspection.

“To here,” Aramis moved the indicating finger to gesture at the discarded sheet, “and tear a clean strip from those. Better to apply it directly and wrap it. Set this aside, I want to portion some to use for your leg then you can make more to put on my arm.”

Before d’Artagnan could argue with Aramis’ prioritizing the other man closed his eyes and sunk his head further into the pillow. He traced a finger around the edge of his pincer damaged skin by feel and sensation while he continued to steal his rest.

“You could’ve let me sleep there…”

“Never,” d’Artagnan insisted, ripping strips from the dry part of the sheet, “don’t forget I’m just as loyal.”

“That you are,” Aramis nodded with his eyes closed. He adjusted his shoulders, and lifted his assessing fingers from the open burn wound. “Now, tear long strips for bandaging my ribs, your leg, and my arm. Measure out smaller pieces, about this long and wide for my hand and my foot, you’ll make two more portions of the poultice…”

D’Artagnan smiled as he continued to tear the sheet as Aramis confidently made an inventory of their needs. So long as they were together they could see this through.

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Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 10: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

Stranded | “You said you’d never leave.”

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D’Artagnan swallowed against the thick sense of guilt that welled inside him as he looked down at Aramis’ pale face. Causing a hurt to alleviate a worse pain and prevent problems was a natural part of caring for someone but it did little to make him feel more comfortable about being the cause. He much preferred the fetching, carrying, and generally assisting tasks of bedside care.

“I could break the stool?”

Aramis frowned, still paler in the face than he should be and d’Artagnan suspected as least some of the dampness on his temples wasn’t left over from his impromptu bathing.

“We might need that later,” Aramis’ eyes closed and then blinked rapidly, he took several breaths before looking to his foot and then d’Artagnan “...anything splintered would be as likely to cut me as act as a splint. Try to fold that tighter, but – ” he cut himself off and barked a curse. “Sorry.”

D’Artagnan’s hands had frozen, the cloth pulled midway from between Aramis’ toes.

“Slide it quickly, try not to…” Aramis waved a hand in dismissal.

D’Artagnan guessed there was no simple way to communicate not to jostle any of the tiny bones he couldn’t feel himself. He didn’t want to hold any of the dark-smudged toes in order to move the square cloth he’d been folding between them; too thin and it did little to keep the digits from rubbing and too thick and it would push the little bones out of alignment. They’d nothing but cloth to use between the broken toes and before he could wrap the longer strip he needed to get the correct width.

“Last time?” D’Artagnan held the multi-folded cloth up for approval.

“Let’s hope.”

Aramis had propped himself on his elbows to better see his toes in the fading light, the longest of the pair had needed a bit of manipulating. D’Artagnan had been grateful Aramis wrapped his fingers himself – after long minutes instructing d’Artagnan to reset the bones – and he’d promised himself he could manage Aramis’ toes. He eyed the round ends as though they’d crack under his own ministrations and tapped the fabric between them hoping not to set off the bones to scraping on each other.

The groan Aramis gave was one of relief rather than pain and he let his head sink below his shoulders. With one part done, the wrapping might be easier to begin because it was on the outside but it still required some shifting of the toes for him to wind the fabric around.

“It’s going to hurt...”

“You need to wrap them.”

Aramis didn’t look back and kept his ankle rigid as he waited for d’Artagnan to anchor the broken toes to his largest one. D’Artangnan thought about teasing him over the stench of them – even though they didn’t actually smell, d’Artagnan had rinsed the one foot before splinting it afterall – but the words he thought of made his tongue move awkwardly against his teeth. He looped the fraying edges, bringing the ends to knot.

“Is that...?”

“A little tighter...width of a hair,” Aramis cautioned, biting his lip before he raised his head and nodded in d’Artagnan’s direction. “It’ll be fine, tighten it…”

D’Artagnan was not reassured by Aramis’ wink. He obeyed and bit his tongue, waiting, hoping Aramis wouldn’t feel the pressure of it. Again, he took no confidence from his friend’s pallor.

“There.” He rocked the foot from side-to-side, but made no motions with his bound toes. “Now if required? I can walk.”

“Limp, more like.”

“If we escape,” Aramis glanced at the small, high window, before looking to the thick, scratched and bolted door. “I will crawl if we need.”

“On those?” D’Artagnan sat on the end of the bed, leaning against the wall, his relief at concluding the splinting sending the looseness of fatigue through him. Teasing came a bit easier once he wasn’t actively in the process of inflicting – even accidental – pain on his friend. “You’d be lucky to make it to the door without falling over.”

“I once made it several miles in sleet and wind, down several hills, through an ice-laden stream and across an entire wheat field,” Aramis assured him serenely, “all with broken toes and a bruised hip.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but laugh, impressed whether it was a creative embellishment of a memory or had actually happened. Aramis, and Porthos, were both prone to exaggeration of their recounting, but there was usually more truth in the balance.

“For love or from battle?”

“For Athos,” declared Aramis. Aramis placed his right hand, absent broken fingers over his heart. “He’s my witness,” he raised the hand he’d placed on his chest to poke the air for emphasis, “and he’d a twisted ankle of his own at the time. Of course...ice does wonders for swelling, which helped our endeavor.”

“And you’re both healed to tell the tale.”

Aramis nodded, resting his hand back on the bed.

“And we will as well…” Aramis squinted up at him, “...although we may have to furnish a few more compelling details for your part…”

“Story isn’t over yet,” d’Artagnan raised a brow at him, “plenty of time for a daring escape.”

“A thoughtful plan, or,” Aramis lengthened and lowered his voice, “an improvised one, but let’s keep the risks matched to our limitations, yes?”

“At least it’s not sleeting? You sure we can’t do anything for the swelling?”

“No. And I’ll not hear another debate over the yarrow,” Aramis punctuated the statement with a long stare before he straightened his arms to lay back. He resettled, smoothing one hand over the cloth around his midsection. “The remainder will be a reserve for your calf and my ribs.”

Considering their captors had only brought bread and one bowl of a dark broth soup at midday he couldn’t argue with Aramis wishing to ration the little means of preventing infection that they had. Aramis had made an estimate of their water needs for themselves and for their wounds. There’d be not another drop used on, or drunk by, either of them until after sunset. D’Artagnan hoped that proved the time that their captors brought them some form of dinner.

His own calf ached from having been disturbed, but he could admit Aramis’ tending had been helpful and necessary. The bargaining of whose wounds were of greater priority was less productive, but he’d ultimately sat opposite Aramis and set his leg – with painstakingly slow movement – on his friend’s thigh. Before he’d allowed d’Artagnan to set his toes Aramis insisted on examining the deep wound to his calf.

D’Artagnan was grateful Aramis had the supplies to treat it to his standards in their rented room, even if he’d little memory of the events himself, it clearly prevented him from far worse. When it was revealed, Aramis had waved him back after his initial inspection, and it became obvious that what tasks he’d managed to complete prior to their capture were critical to keeping him from having a festering wound. It didn’t appear to be nearly as ravaged as his mind had attempted to display to him since he’d woken; hazy memories had floated into his mind’s vision at unexpected moments.

“You think they’ll be back?”

He asked the question mainly to distract himself from conjuring images of a worsening of his leg, or imagining what could become of the wound to Aramis’ arm or his ribs. It also served to keep his thoughts from cracking the stool over their guards head, or which side he and Aramis could lean on the other to enable them both to walk.

“I am appreciating the respite,” Aramis smiled, thinly and with a bare upward tilt of his lips. “It’s possible they’ll come back with more food and water, but – at least we can hope – they seem to be finished with their questions as of now.”

“We’re stranded until the others find us?”

“Unless you see an opportunity to make your escape.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“If you’ve a chance – ”

“They need Francesco,” d’Artagnan knew they were both aware of this and even if he could manage to escape it was the reason he wouldn’t, “more than they need ‘Augustino.’”

“Hm, they’d likely follow you.”

“And kill you,” d’Artagnan guessed.

“That,” Aramis frowned at his rag wrapped fingers and threw his other back to fluff the narrow pillow, “is a possible complication.”

“Possible?”

“I could convince them I’d be indispensable in finding you.”

He wiggled his unbound toes, and d’Artagnan was so grateful that his humor remained good that he didn’t test fate by poking at them. Beyond the vow of their regiment, he wouldn’t abandon Aramis to these men; they’d make their escape together. Or, better, they’d fashion a way to reverse their circumstances and entrap these men.

Aramis raised his head slightly, pointing with his hand at the stool before running his fingers back through his hair.

“Set that closer,” he pressed further into his scalp, wincing, “no, towards the end, further, yes. There.”

D’Artagnan rearranged their additional piece of furniture with each direction Aramis gave. Remaining hunched in case it required another adjustment he angled his face to confirm Aramis was satisfied with the placement. He had to raise his torso quickly to avoid a heel to his chin.

“What’re you – Aramis!”

“Lean back,” Aramis continued his slow, grimacing, lift of his legs atop d’Artagnan’s thighs, “please.”

Realizing his intention d’Artagnan set his back along the wall and indulged the extra weight.

“There,” Aramis said, unnecessarily fluffing the edge of the pillow he’d folded to prop his head and shoulders to an angle where he could view d’Artagnan should he open his eyes.

“Comfortable?”

“Ideally, we’d be set upon stuffed cushions and enjoying choice morsels of venison and glazed ham; warm bread with – ”

“They might not even bring dinner,” d’Artagnan grumbled, his hunger pains beginning to make themselves known with the suggestions Aramis made.

“Let us say then, that I am as comfortable as we can make me, and,” he opened his eyes, mustache lifting, “I’ve the added benefit of keeping you from hobbling about in fits of boredom.”

D’Artagnan treated him to a light glare. He didn’t argue wanting to get up, not when he could feel the eagerness in himself to rise and pace, or try the door. Placing a hand over the end of Aramis’ shin, he let the weight of the other man’s legs settle onto him. It was grounding, and ingenious on Aramis’ part, as he’d be forced to consider his movements beforehand.

“You’re not bored? Waiting? No action to take?”

“Bit too much activity,” Aramis glanced meaningfully down at his knees, “but I take your point, although I’m not bored – yet. Now, set your leg on that stool.”

Inclined to challenge him for the sake of something to do if for no other reason d’Artagnan took a breath, but let it out with a shake of his head. He set his feet on the stool, mindful not to unsettle Aramis’ own legs lying across him.

“Satisfied?”

“Far from it, but at least we’re together…we’re to meet their benefactor...and...” Aramis winked at him before sinking further against the pillow, “...you did promise you’d never leave me...”

“What?”

“You said you’d never leave,” Aramis’ mouth turned down, an exaggerated disappointment stealing over his features. “Was it a promise of pity? To be fair I was not myself, I’m not even sure I was entirely awake and – ”

“How cold was that water?”

“Not when I was being dunked out there. Last night. You made quite the passionate declaration.”

D’Artagnan tipped his own head back, resting the fingers of his right hand on Aramis’ shin before rolling his head to look down at him.

“You must’ve been dreaming.”

Aramis drew in a breath, guarding immediately with a hand over the bandaging before he raised it rapidly against touching the mound of cloth-covered poultice that protected the harmed flesh.

“You’d wound me so when I bear all these hurts? Porthos would – ”

“Tell you to stop exaggerating and quit moving around.”

Aramis’ eyes glanced to the side as if evaluating the truth of that statement before he shrugged and offered no objection; he gave a counter in its place.

“Athos – ”

“Would tell you to rest,” d’Artagnan cut him off, rushing to finish before Aramis could fill the pause with a debate of his own, “and that even speaking would expend too much of your finite energy.”

“Alas neither of them are here, and I’ve only our own wisdom to rely on. Allow me to believe you said you’d never leave.” Aramis tapped the side of his unbandaged foot into his arm and glanced at the door. “We’ll have to rethink all our planning once we meet their master.”

“He’s only a distant cousin to Louis?” D’Artagnan couldn’t recall the lineage, Athos had explained the connection before they’d set out, but the young man was hardly a pivotal figure in Florence or France.

Aramis nodded.

“Why would anyone go to all this trouble for a minor relative?”

“Why indeed.” Aramis set a hand on either side of his hips, tapping odd patterns in opposite moves with each hand. “He may be leverage to persuade or threaten the king there are any number of motives and causes that we may guess.”

“You believe this person will be French?”

“I believe these men are, and they may be mercenaries or pawns. Willing or compelled for the cause, that doesn’t guarantee their leader is our countryman.”

“Did you recognize any of the landscape?”

Aramis indicated a negative with a shake of his head, and then poked in the fluff of dried strands at portion of scalp the motion irritated. D’Artagnan was certain there was no remaining glass, he’d checked. Feeling a sympathetic itch on his own scalp he arched against the uneven wall.

“I hate this part.”

“I’m inclined to agree – Porthos sometimes has cards,” Aramis raised his browsed in amused remembrance, “other times we invent our own games. Once we convinced – won, you might say – our own release.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t stop the laughter in the face of Aramis’ accomplished look.

“Athos is less amusing to be trapped with, although he’s devised a clever escape or two in his own time…”

“Happens often?”

“Not as often as you may believe, but I am counting every time we’ve been withheld from movement for more than a few moments. I’d say this venture still has potential. Although even Athos’ legs are – ” Aramis lifted his torso, but only enough to cast his eyes about the room and not disturb his burn wound. He tilted and groped for the dried pile of his torn apart shirt. “Tuck that...here?”

Rather than poke at the leg being indicated, d’Artagnan slid the bundle of fabric beneath the gesturing hand to cushion Aramis’ thighs and give him additional support. D’Artagnan didn’t doubt that Aramis would attempt to walk, or run; he expected he’d make good on the offer to crawl but there’d be no point if they’d no destination. They’d not uncovered much, they had no idea who was plotting or what they were plotting, or even how many men were stationed where they were being held.

“We don’t even know where we are.”

Aramis was unruffled by d’Artagnan’s claim. He folded his hands across his stomach, his left hand and broken finger atop his right, and closed his eyes.

“At least we’re stranded together?”

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Chapter Text

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No. 12: “I haven’t slept in days but who’s counting?”

Insomnia | “I’m up, I’m up.”

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D’Artagnan knew he was awake.

He was entirely certain.

He was awake, he’d not been able to sleep for hours, and he’d taken to observing his friend’s rest in lieu of chasing his own.

He’d attempted to keep track of his thoughts without being able to see the room and once Aramis had gone quiet.

Several times he’d blinked against sleep because he’d found that even with his eyes closed sleep eluded him. Since his last adjustment his left arm remained trapped under a lightly snoring Aramis. They’d settled down on their sides to share the bed, but after a disturbance that sent Aramis’ shoulder into his throat the other man rolled to his back. D’Artagnan had reached out in the dark to feel along his collarbone, the heated skin a tangible measure for him; except, every sensation in his concussed visions had felt real to his confused mind.

He had to be awake, he was more imaginative than this otherwise. There was no need to set a watch, and even if they had he’d never have woken Aramis. The man was exhausted, although Aramis wouldn’t declare it, his body’s trials had dragged him into an inevitable sleep.

D’Artagnan had initially lain awake and, with little light and no means of illuminating the space, he’d listened for their captors and then busied himself with thoughts of escape. He wouldn’t run on his own – regardless of what tales Aramis could weave – these men had no need of Francesco’s man, they needed the king’s cousin. Whatever their purpose, Aramis would be a liability without d’Artagnan’s presence.

If they did discover the leader’s identity they’d have to devise a means of stopping these men or warning the king. The amount of men holding them, those that he’d seen, numbered enough to ensure they’d each have a horse. He’d gladly ride with Aramis, but it would slow them significantly and while his calf ached the wound was on the outer side so it was likely he could maintain a seat. D’Artagnan knew Aramis’ resolve was true, but his multiple injuries might impede him remaining in the saddle on his own.

He tested his forearm’s freedom, but Aramis’ slumbering weight pinned his arm; there were no tingles or numbness to the limb but d’Artagnan was itching to turn. For a fleeting moment he glared toward the direction of the whistling breaths and questioned if the position was deliberate. Were Aramis awake d’Artagnan would accuse him of the act, but even Aramis’ considerable talent didn’t extend to awareness in his sleep. At least d’Artagnan didn’t believe that was the case.

In contrast to the chilled, still, fingers of his imaginings the warm weight of Aramis’ torso was settling to him. His body felt a pull to get up and pace. Having explored the dirt piled corners and shoved his nose to the point of scraping it beneath the sliver below the door he already had his proof these were useless undertakings. Other than it would make him feel as if he were contributing something.

He wouldn’t say he’d necessarily volunteer to be in Aramis’ place, but there was a definite restlessness to his limbs. It was indisputable that Aramis suffered more than he did but there was a particular torment to being the one to watch, to have no ability to interfere.

To have nothing impactful to attempt.

Maybe it was that very inaction that kept him from sleep. His body had gone through the tumultuous strain of stress, but he’d barely moved inside his confined space. He was then forbidden from moving, and now he was bodily prevented.

He smiled down in the dark, bending his elbow to manage a lean onto his trapped side. Aramis would appreciate the outcome even though it hadn’t been intentional. Anchored by his friend he relaxed back down to his half of the pillow, well, more like a quarter of the space if he didn’t want to inhale Aramis’ curls.

Their friends should have reached safety by now. Francesco would’ve been delivered to the king’s keeping or ensconced in a safe location determined by Treville and Richelieu. He wondered if there could be a motive for the cardinal to want to interfere with their guest, he hated the king’s mother, but as far as he was aware the distant relation held no threat to the cardinal’s position.

Letting his mouth fall open on a yawn, blinking, but feeling no more tired than he had been for the last few hours.

The drag and clatter of wood pulled his attention.

“Aramis…?”

“Ask th’md’me...P’ths...”

“Aramis.”

“N’t’Ath’s?”

“Aramis!”

In order to avoid the burn, he used his trapped arm as a marker for where Aramis’ nearest shoulder was in order to shake it.

A forceful inhale and exhalation blew loud in the quiet of their confinement, and only d’Artagnan was aware of the scraping occurring next-door. Aramis’ hand groped and struck across his arm to land atop his hand, the waft of the motion breezing over d’Artagnan’s face in the dark and stilling the gentle pushing motion he made.

“I’m up, I’m up...”

“Do you hear that?”

He kept his voice pitched low as he angled toward where he guessed Aramis’ ear to be. Close enough to sense the motion of a nod he glanced back to where, as he’d been rousing Aramis, he’d heard the chiming of stone grinding against stone. Unable to make out the shape of the wall he angled up as far as he could under Aramis’ unintended hold. At the same moment Aramis realized the uneven lump under him was not a rumpled mattress and instead his friend; he lifted his shoulders to allow free movement.

“They’re moving something – supplies, or furniture – back in there.”

“As I’m now in here they may be replacing whatever they’d removed.”

Aramis had already explained to him that he believed there was another building, or home, somewhere on the property they were being held. There were only two rooms, with a narrow hall opposite their doors. Aramis hadn’t seen if there was another side, but the hallway contained no other openings save the exit doorway.

“If it’s a storehouse…” D’Artagnan trailed off, at a loss as to what supplies might be kept in the space. It would be unwise, but not unheard of, for conspirators to convene on their own lands. If someone from the upper classes of society were gathering allies it would provide a concealed location. A high value prisoner couldn’t be taken into a city, or anywhere heavily trafficked, where any number of people could recount their comings and leavings. Cities offered large numbers that one might disappear within, but there were many more witnesses available who might remember a strange style of boot, or color of cloak. Although he would need to be concealed it was a monumental risk to bring ‘Francesco’ to an estate, even if it were to an outlying or less used structure that was further afield on a large property. 

“Unless they’re planning to pretend they rescued you?”

“Double-cross the mercenaries and claim to have saved him? Me?”

Aramis remained silent for a few breaths, listening to the muffled directions and back-and-forth confirmations of the men sorting their supplies.

“They believe they have their prize, but they must know the king would be sending men to search.”

“We can’t be on their ‘leader’s’ property then.”

“It would be foolish,” Aramis’ hair brushed his cheek as he titled his own head in thought, “but it would also provide protection.”

“Depending on how high a position the man holds he could stall a search.”

“Attempt to persuade with the honor of station? Athos won’t allow it, not with us in the balance.”

D’Artagnan expected as much. They were afforded a great measure of authority under the king’s name, but they were still bound to afford every bit of respect to the king’s court and his favored nobles about the country. Of all of them Athos was best versed in which families were in favor and which men could be overruled in their demands.

“I’d be surprised,” continued Aramis, “if whomever organized this would risk...we’re no more than a half-day from the inn...”

“And we chose our initial direction.”

“Not enough time to bring us far enough to cross into Spain. Which means we’re to the north or south of there, or further into France,” Aramis took a deep pull of air and d’Artagnan’s eyes could see the barest outline of his head turning before he felt his breath on his cheek. “Or...we’re across the border.”

In Savoy.

He didn’t need to say it and d’Artagnan’s own chest tightened in the silence. There was little space between them and he could tell by the change in where Aramis’ breaths landed that he’d turned.

“It won’t stop them.”

“They may not have that choice,” Aramis said with a detached tone like those he used to describe dying in battle or the miseries of the heart sickened with unrequited love.

D’Artagnan felt his own heart swell so hard that he worried it would prevent him from speaking. He would've reached out if he wasn't worried a rash movement and the force of his excitement would risk a knock to Aramis’ jaw.

“It won’t stop them,” he insisted, and this time he did reach into the space between themselves, inadvertently poking into Aramis’ beard before turned his hand to rest on the heated skin of his neck, “they’d abandon their commissions before they’d abandon you.”

The tension in Aramis’ further shoulder dropped under his hand, the closer one acting to keep him propped on an incline. Aramis’ own hand reached out to prop his hand on d’Artagnan in order to lever himself back onto his side. Unable to see each other’s expression d’Artagnan gave a squeeze in kind to the one Aramis pressed along his ribs.

“Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

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Chapter Text

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No. 24: “I’ve got a head full of chemicals; mouth full of ridicule.”

“I thought they were with you.”

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“They will not burst into flames no matter how intense your stare.”

“I don’t want them to,” Porthos turned to pace to where Athos was leaned under a sconce between two floor-to-ceiling windows before stalking back to glare at the double-doors, “I want them to open.”

They’d been dismissed to the adjoining room while Treville continued to debate with Richelieu over what the ‘disturbance’ to their escort could mean. Before any further appeals to the king could be made they needed to reach some accord of what their request would entail. In this, Richelieu would be a necessary ally. Their charge remained theirs and owed to their excellent care they’d been stationed by his side since reaching Paris.

While the king interpreted the attack as an affront to him personally, his cousin was safe. Their captain and the cardinal would need to convince the king that sending his own soldiers to root out the culprits would be a greater benefit than his current wish for the cardinal’s men to do so.

“They can’t send the Red Guard,” growled Porthos, but he’d enough sense left to keep his voice low enough not to carry into the next chamber.

“They’re hardly scrupulous, but they won’t know where Aramis and d’Artaganan are.”

“We don’t know either,” Porthos crossed his arms, fingertips digging into his biceps to distract himself from releasing the full breadth of his frustration within the palace walls.

“Aramis will look after him.”

“Who’s going to look after him then? Anyone willing to attack a member of the king’s family isn’t going to have any hesitation to strike a king’s soldier.”

“They may still be at their accommodations,” Athos expected that most likely of their options.

Aramis wouldn’t move them unless he’d deemed d’Artagnan fit for travel or held a reasonable belief that they were in danger. He doubted the former and he held a growing concern over the latter – the longer time passed without word or their appearance the greater the likelihood that they’d encountered a hindrance. Athos’ promise was the assumed action should their duties not prevent their return; Aramis would make his decisions accordingly.

“Should’ve returned by now, if they were going to.”

“D’Artagnan couldn't ride with that leg,” guessed Athos, “he’ll expect us back but he won’t depend on that.”

He shifted, pushing his shoulder off the wall to move toward the glass. Aramis would measure their relative risk against the danger to d’Artagnan’s health and their safety on the road. Athos had assured they’d return in part to alleviate a need to move before they were prepared or it would be prudent to continue. There’s been enough blood slickening d’Artagnan’s boot that his mobility was questionable although Aramis had not worried over the integrity of the leg. Under the pressure to be underway he’d judged the injury stable, but it remained a possibility that it proved worse once revealed; clothing often obscured the full extent of wounds.

“He was in a bad way,” Porthos frowned at the door, “captain ought t’send us back for them.”

“He may.”

“’Cept Richelieu wants t’send his men. Puts ‘em in near as much danger as whoever attacked us and they won’t even know to watch for them.”

“If by chance they manage to crosss paths, I’m fairly certain d’Artagnan and Aramis both would be on guard from the moment they caught sight of them.”

“Still don’t like it, makes me nervous not out there with ‘em. Could’ve been more men followin’ ‘em,” he glanced at the doors again, scuffing the bottom of his boot and tipping the left on its heel in his restlessness. “We promised to go back.”

“We will,” Athos stood alongside him, facing out to see past Porthos’ reflected profile to the grounds below, “once we’re ordered there.”

“And if we’re not?”

“We can’t desert our post.”

“Y’can’t mean to leave them out there,” Porthos expression was easier to bear without having to meet his eyes directly. “We can’t desert them either…”

“We’ll be of no aid executed as traitors, regardless if we’re attempting to catch any,” Athos had promised, and they knew he meant it.

Like any plan, though, it would be amended the moment they encountered their opponent. Few battles were won with the original, painstakingly, prepared plan and their success lay in their dedication to each other; their paths may wind significantly off course but they inevitably were drawn to return to each other. For each of them their constant center had become the other three and could be depended upon with the same surety as the change of night to day.

“Treville will send us, or grant us the leave to make the trip, depending on our charge...and the king.”

The captain would maneuver their assignments once he’d the scope of how broad the plot could be assumed, or had the potential to spread. Athos’ hope was for Treville to rotate other musketeers to protect Francesco – he’d prefer the young man not to be guarded by Richelieu’s men, at least until they were certain the cardinal posed no threat to the young Medici – and send Porthos and him to continue investigating the attack. Conveniently such an investigation would require gathering information from the two friends they’d left behind.

Athos squinted into the dark, the candelabras and Porthos’ image casting glares on the panes and distorted his perception. He tracked a small group of riders in the distance, unable to discern their clothing.

“Shouldn’t take all this convincing – attack on the king’s relative is as good as the king himself. He ought t’want us trackin’ the threat – us, his own men, not the cardinal’s lot. We’re meant to protect him and we do a far better job of it.”

“Which is why we’ve been tasked to look after his cousin.”

“Not exactly much use on this side of the door, are we?”

Francesco had been called in to the conference with their captain and the cardinal. Richelieu’s men stood watch outside the other set of doors, on the palace interior side of the room, but Treville and Francesco would exit through the entrance Athos and Porthos guarded.

“What’re you looking at, don’t tell me after all this that they’re out there?”

“No, but those are musketeers.”

Porthos reflection swirled and his mirror image sharpened as he drew alongside Athos to stare at the new arrivals. Their hats obscured their faces, but their cloaks flared with their long strides as the two soldiers made their way through an entrance below.

“Who?” Porthos leaned to see.

“I’m not Aramis,” Athos met Porthos’ gaze in the glass, “I don’t recognize our individual brothers by their plumes.”

Porthos gave a closed mouth puff of laughter through his nose in spite of his glare at the disappearing figures.

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“Dupont.”

Athos nodded to the man at Porthos’ greeting.

“Lagarde is not with you?”

“He’s back at garrison,” Dupont man removed his hat, brushing his gloves to sort his hair into some order in anticipation of his eventual audience with Treville, “having a wound checked. He sent me with an initial report for the captain. Wanted to determine if Treville’d be finished here before his wound’s sorted. No sense meetin’ on the road.”

He shrugged, setting his hat on a side-chair and turning halfway about the small room.

“Aramis and d’Artagnan?” He glanced first to Athos and then to Porthos, stepping back to consider the tallest man, “I thought they were with you.”

Dupont had been assigned with Lagarde’s group, and they’d taken immediate pursuit of a cluster of their retreating attackers toward the border.

“Had to split up,” Porthos’ voice provided obvious insight into how he felt about having to do so, “cleaved a deep gash in d’Artagnan’s leg – whacked his head into the carriage.”

“Wanted the Medici dead then?”

“Or incapacitated,” Athos nodded. “We accompanied them partway to their intended lodging, south of Ambert,” Athos’ own voice carried a hint of distaste at having to leave them. “Aramis won’t have moved them on.”

“Unless our ruse didn’t work. Think anyone would've followed them?”

Porthos didn’t acknowledge the thought aloud, even if he’d questioned much the same himself, and instead he asked Dupont a question of his own. “You think you chased most of them off?”

“We’d none to question over their number. Killed two, the last of them got across the border – Lagarde didn’t want to risk giving chase.”

“You’ll need to relay that to Treville.”

“How long since?” Dupont raised his chin to the closed doors.

“Going near two hours now,” Porthos ducked to glance at the dripping candles, shifting his weight and tensing the leg he kicked as he paced a few steps in an effort not to dig a heel in the wood flooring.

“Brunet’s waiting on me, he’ll take word back to Lagarde,” having removed his gloves Dupont combed his fingers through his hair for some action to take, and watched the closed doors, “unless this carries on long enough for him to be stitched up.”

“He out of commission?”

“Ball grazed his forearm, not too deep a cut, but it gave him some trouble. He complained the whole ride back that my stitching was all wrong, made it ache worse,” Dupont rotated to lean his back on the side of the door, declinging to move to the chair he cast a glance at, “he was hoping Aramis was already returned.”

“Looks nice when he’s finished, but I don’t recall it hurting less,” Porthos complained, rubbing at the top of his own shoulder.

“That’s ‘cause I’ve never stitched you,” Dupont dropped his crossed arms, “I don’t know how he mages it, but that needle ain’t near as sharp when Aramis is the one stitching,” he straightened himself along with them when Treville’s voice raised within.

Athos relaxed his posture once the sharp tone continued without growing closer; his argument continued to be made in pointed bursts at the cardinal. Francesco’s more lyrical voice carried underneath in the pauses between.

“What’re they thinking?”

“Send the Red Guard, chase out any left,” Porthos moved back to the windows.

“Is Fortin returned?”

“They weren’t at the garrison when we arrived, might’ve doubled back. Or they’re takin’ the other carriage on to act as a distraction.”

Athos nodded thinking over the differing arguments they could make to excuse themselves from service to Francesco. He liked the young man, and they would be faithful to their duties, but he’d no desire to guard the king’s cousin when their friends may have need of their aid. So long as it were musketeers guarding him he would remain safe in Paris. He’d sparred with d’Artagnan along their journey and proved an adequate fencer; Athos hadn’t even had to remind d’Artagnan to rein in his enthusiasm. It wouldn’t have been necessary regardless as the young Florentine’s skill had forced d’Artagnan to exert himself throughout their bouts.

“No messages when you arrived?”

Athos had expected that Aramis might have sent word if they were not already traveling back to the city, but he considered it no great worry when Dupont shook his head. Given the timeline it was equally likely that they were resting, continuing reconnaissance of their own, or had found a measure of trouble. The reasonable part of Athos wished to assume they were comfortably ensconced in their lodgings, but countless hours of experience whispered to him that the scales were more than likely tilted toward an entanglement.

Porthos’ patrol of the room was bringing him within arm’s reach when the doors opening caused him to turn before he’d completed his way to Athos. Francesco exited first and it could be safely bet that he was the reason Treville’s pale knuckled grip took deliberate care when pulling the doors closed. The captain looked to Dupont who’d begun to offer his report as boots creaked the floorboards without care for minimizing disturbance.

“I expect you can both tell me your parts,” Treville pulled a chair free from the small table and gestured for anyone else inclined to do so to sit as he dropped into his own seat. “Lagarde?”

The newcomer’s wrapped arm was bent around a lump of cloth too large to be a missive, but it held a clear message when he unwrapped it to reveal an unmistakable weapon. He set the inlaid pistol on the cushion of rough cloth before the captain. Athos, like Porthos, had taken a step closer on recognition of the distinctive pattern and because Porthos took it up Lagarde handed the vine embossed pauldron to Athos after displaying it to their captain.

“Young man, named Henri,” Lagarde took a deep breath, smoothing his unburdened hands together and taking a fortifying posture against the barrage of questions he had to know would follow, “brought that no more than half an hour past. He claims they were taken...”

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Chapter Text

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No. 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.”

Cold Compress | Infection | “I don’t feel so good.”

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Snow was a curious phenomenon, wet like the rain and soft enough to disintegrate between fingers, but not before it burned. It always surprised Aramis how weather that could trick him into thinking his bones were as brittle as dried sticks could sear his skin.

If there’d been a frost overnight he hoped he’d remembered to close his window, but it certainly didn’t feel as if he had. Perhaps one of his well-meaning brothers would reach through to provide him the protection. Unless it was too early to be in the yard.

Maybe the captain would be drawn over by an overwhelming sense of fondness for a favored soldier to ensure he didn’t catch a dire illness from the chill?

He sniffed a dignified dismissal of the cold that did absolutely nothing to warm him and burrowed his face deeper into the pillow. Aramis would not sacrifice the heat he’d built beneath his thin covering to close the panes and expose himself to greater cold. Although he could almost hear the faint admonishment of Athos that a short-term loss would amount to a gain over time if he would only have the patience.

Aramis had patience, in abundance – when he wished. Presently he did not wish to suffer the cold.

A brisk walk or a ride, once up and about his duties, he would tolerate. Nobly escorting a lady to her premises, especially with the possibility of a fire and the invitation to increase that warmth, together, was an admitted benefit to the colder weather. Snow and ice could be a beautiful backdrop for contemplation as much as romance, and Aramis appreciated the purity of the hush that fell across open, empty fields while it fell and built.

However, given the choice, snow was not among his favorite weather; and often he found no sooner had he admired the landscape than he wished the white drifts melted and dispensed with.

To wake and realize the world had grown inescapably cold was the cruelest greeting; his body resisted movement and he was slower in speaking and stiffer in his gait. Rarely did he rise without incentive in the coldest weather, and his own valued persuasiveness served to convince himself that the wisest course was delaying exposure altogether. He’d not spoken to Athos and Porthos for over an hour after one gray dawn when Athos had decided to rip his bedclothes free before Aramis had the sense to batten them down and claw the fabric around himself. Large flakes were still bursting on the stairs when he’d finally acknowledged them while spooning near boiling broth down with his hands tucked in his gloves. And he’d only deigned to speak because Porthos had draped a hearth-side warmed cloak about him in recompense for his part in the destruction of Aramis’ morning.

Sliding his fingers to curl gathers of the sheet into his grip he breathed out a harsh gust into the pillow just to feel some heat on his cheeks and pressed further into the soft linens.

And…

He encountered a warm shoulder.

Immediately identifiable as male by the musculature.

He frowned, already slipping his legs closer to steal warmth from whomever shared his bed.

Too lean to be Porthos, his assessment was interrupted by a shiver that vibrated through to his toes. Thoughts of comparing the breadth of Athos and d’Artagnan’s shoulders dissipated in a burst of pain that flashed a blank white like those endless, covered fields across his vision. His toes. Broken. A body easily recognized the pointed burn of broken bones. So long as he kept his foot stiff, he could manage; the trembling and shaking brought on by the cold would not be solved by remaining still.

“S’there...another...blanket?”

Each word was chopped by the clattering of his teeth, an unexpected jump of his shoulders startling him as he tried to press his forehead into the unknown curve of shoulder.

“Aramis?”

It sounded like d’Artagnan. Although the concern softened the whisper and made the speaker’s voice near indescribable. Porthos’ voice was underpinned by a deepness that never disappeared entirely whether he was shouting a warning across the yard or whispering a scheme. This wasn’t Porthos. Athos’ pitch changed with his mood – the man was masterful at conveying much of his thinking with the economic use of tone over expenditure of words – and Aramis could recognize at least one tone reserved exclusively for addressing him.

He couldn't articulate how he felt about that particular one, but Athos also had a tone that was a balm to an aching man that was less frequently heard and Aramis expected there were few in number who’d ever witnessed it. Aramis had never told anyone, Porthos didn’t count in this matter as he held the same belief so it wasn’t really confessing in his case, of his conclusion that Athos was the most secretly tender man he’d ever met. Again, Porthos didn’t count as he was not secretly tender, he was obviously so and many more people knew that of Porthos; he made no attempt to hide this and any artifice he attempted to the contrary would never fool Aramis. Athos, though moody and prickly, and often entwined with his pains was to Aramis’ mind no less tender than their dear Porthos he merely suppressed his instincts. He’d a gentling to his tone whenever Aramis was genuinely – and not dramatically – feeling unwell, and his presence was a reassurance when he came without prompting or request to Aramis’ bedside.

“Aramis…”

His hand also felt different on Aramis’ brow. More firm. Less chilled.

“Your skin’s burning.”

Athos also swore less regularly.

“...I should’ve realized your neck was too warm before…”

Aramis’ body resumed shaking, but it seemed too forceful to only be the cold air. There was another hand, not on his forehead...well, he discovered there was no hand on his forehead some moments after he realized there had been one there. One of the hands was pressed to him, attempting to wake him.

“Aramis...are you awake? I…”

D’Artagnan. He was sure of it with the combination of annoyance and determination, the stubborn will to help a situation whether he knew how to accomplish this or not.

“Not because...I want…”

He’d much prefer the ignorance of sleep, but his body denied him the oblivion and forced him toward waking fully. His eyes ached, and he couldn’t be certain he’d opened them given how dark his surroundings proved. They weren’t in the garrison; they were on a mission – the inn? No.

As his thoughts struggled through the jumbled images of a dark, narrow hallway, his own hand tearing a fixture free and Porthos throwing a bundle of fabric at him. He blinked against visions of a splintering carriage door, trees blurring overhead, and the deep split of skin being manipulated by his own fingers. He gasped a breath in when the memory of near freezing water sent phantom droplets over his skin.

The water felt like the tips of icicles being poked against his temple.

He tried to push himself up to rid his skin of the sensation, but his imagination turned the droplets to follow the angle of his face. One slid to hang on his ear lobe before striking his neck and pooling on his collar.

“Easy...it’s not as cold as it should be, but the water’s been sitting out so at least it’s not tepid...it should help cool you...”

Aramis wanted to scream that he was freezing but all he managed was a wounded sound, nothing articulate. Porthos and Athos would debate the meaning if they were within earshot.

“...I can’t see well enough...and you said we should save that for morning...for more poultice, but…”

The heel of d’Artagnan’s hand pushed the cloth on his forehead with enough weight that it leaked more water to tickle back into his hairline.

“...you’re sweating…”

As he spoke Aramis’ awareness of d’Artagnan’s other hand told him the pads of the younger man’s fingers were stroking over his collarbone, one tip tapping into the hollow of his throat. His words countered the accusation Aramis’ mind provided that d’Artagnan had been wetting the skin from their water rations. If he were to be believed it meant he was perspiring, fevered.

“I don’t,” d’Artagnan’s hands rested on his skin, and Aramis sensed he was angled over him by their position and the direction of his breath, “I’m not sure if it’s your arm, or your ribs – could the water cause a fever?”

“Don’t,” Aramis swallowed, his mouth dry and over-warm while the water continued to slick down his hair like rain on a November afternoon, “...move…your leg…”

“Aramis, are you listening to me? I don’t know what’s caused this. Do I check your arm? Ribs?”

Aramis would always advise against that in the dark, well he would attempt it himself, on another, but with no light d’Artagnan could as easily disrupt the minimal healing that had occurred or tear the wounds further. His attempt at a moan became a clattering of teeth that filled his ears and muffled d’Artagnan’s next words.

“...here...and…”

He was fortunate his ribs were not ticklish and d’Artagnan’s slow slide of fingers along the edge of their makeshift bandaging didn’t cause an involuntary squirm. Unfortunately his body continued to shiver from within and the fingertips shoved under the fabric bindings without meaning to. His attempt to bite out a curse at the scratch of the scabbed and rigid skin succeeded in causing their retreat whether or not the word had been articulated.

“Sorry, sorry!” D’Artagnan’s fingers lifted and both the compress and his palm moved away.

The unencumbered hand found his shoulder and the wet cloth bunched in his other dropped random unpleasant coldness onto his chest.

“Here, move onto your back...”

It was wise council and it would put his seared ribs closest to the wall and further from d’Artagnan. The bed had already required a squeezing closeness for them to fit, and if he lay on his back d’Artagnan would be forced to the edge. He wanted to be on his side – he was freezing. Instinctively wanting to draw his knees up reminded him that they were in poor shape and while he objected to the loss of heat, his back would be the better position.

Porthos’ cloak or the fire-heated cloak from Porthos or Porthos would be ideal.

“He’s not here, but he will be. We need to hold on,” d’Artagnan set the soaked cloth aside and his clammy hand returned to cup over the cloth on his shoulder. “All you need to do is help me look after you…”

His body was already following d’Artagnan’s encouraging pressure before dizziness forced him to still.

“I don’t…” caught between turning back to his side and continuing to lay flat Aramis dropped his head down to the pillow “...feel so good...”

“I know. We don’t have much to help, and you’re the person I’d ask what else we can do…”

D’Artagnan’s hand smoothed a thicker bit of fabric over him, atop the thin blanket that had been in the room and remainder of the torn sheet they shared. The disguise, he recalled ‘Francesco’s’ doublet had been silk and he’d admired the fine work of velvet and metallic thread, worn by d’Artagnan had been brought along by their captors. In that moment Aramis would not have cared if the most garish fabric was placed over him so long as it was warm.

“I think the pincer wound is infected, the skin around the bandaging feels hot – more than the rest of your body.”

D’Artagnan’s voice dipped as he moved, tense and slow beside him, navigating the remaining mattress space in the dark.

“Infection?”

“Feels like it, your, well my shirt you’re wearing is soaked through, and your skin is...it’s definitely a fever,” d’Artagnan brushed his hand across his brow and into his damp hair, “you may be shivering but you’re like touching a hearthstone...”

“Cautery…”

“A last resort. Always.” D’Artagnan finished form him. “Never your preferred method, but they didn’t give you much of a choice.”

No. They hadn’t. Granted the goal had been inflicting pain, and he was leaning toward the conclusion that they wanted him alive. Burning the tissue to close the wound kept it from healing over and exposed him to a higher chance of infection. If he’d have to guess it would be the tearing of the heated pincer that did it, rather than the injury dealt to his arm or any of the murky water he’d swallowed. Given their lack of supplies he was grateful the burns cauterized the damage done to him as they might not have provided the means to stop the bleeding otherwise, but it was a terrible comfort when his body wished to rebel against his current circumstances.

“I could try to communicate – ” d’Artagnan stopped his thought when Aramis shook his head beneath his hand, “or you could tell them, come morning. Or I could yell for them now...there must be more we can do for you than another poultice.”

“Possible,” Aramis’ breath wheezed as his body locked with another shiver, “but not you. I’ll ask…”

“You’re sure you can wait until morning?”

He nodded, making a sound to follow the motion as d’Artagnan lifted his hand from his head. The smack of the cloth hitting the water and dribbling as d’Artagnan wrung the excess took no more than a minute and then the hands returned, the soft – cold – cloth swiped over his cheeks, before d’Artagnan dabbed it into the hollow of his throat. Aramis was about to object to the wafting breeze of air that chilled him when the weight of the folded cloth, colder for the replenished water, was set on his forehead.

Aramis debated tossing his head to dislodge the cloth, but he supposed it best not to interfere. It wasn’t intolerable, merely unpleasant, and he knew the temperature was closer to tepid than freezing, his own body was making it seem like d’Artagnan had placed a snow wetted glove on him.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

As much as he wanted to tease the younger man with a list of requirements, he felt too wretched to do more than breath out. The intermittent shake caused by his chills continued and he lifted the edge of the coverings. Mindful of his secured fingers he held the cloths up just enough to signal invitation as he pushed his other arm forward along the bed.

“What’re…”

Once Aramis’ fingers slid under d’Artagnan’s side and broke free to his back he tapped staccato beats to indicate his wish.

“What about your side?”

D’Artagnan obeyed the direction of the press of his fingers and settled on his side, laying his head next to Aramis’ and bracketing him with his front along Aramis’ side. In answer to his concern Aramis dropped the lifted fabric and pulled d’Artagnan’s hand along underneath to fix atop his hip. The anchoring point would serve as a reference so that d’Artagnan would know approximately where his ribcage was from there and which direction he could safely retract his arm. If Aramis allowed the movement at all. He was relying on their closeness to build up more heat, he may be fevered but he was too cold to care about anything more than how cold he felt. D’Artagnan turned inward, safe in the knowledge of his position, and sunk more weight – and blessed body heat – over Aramis with an acknowledging squeeze to his hip.

In turn Aramis’ body trembled without any regular pattern or sign of abating.

“Can you sleep like this?”

“I’ve...slept…”

“With Athos on the back of a cart under a canvas tarp in sheeting rain while it pitched and rocked along and with Porthos’ weight half on you in a leaking tent and between them both when you believed yourself poisoned by some ill-cooked meat and collapsed every time you stood on your own and – ”

A pinch to d’Artagnan’s forearm brought what might've turned into an extensive list to a halt. Rather than allow d’Artagnan to recount his knowledge of what the three of them had shared of their past adventures in slumbering he ordered him to settle to sleep. D’Artagnan’s fingers pushed into his hip before releasing their tension and patting once. Content as he could be given the varied parts of himself aching and burning he ignored the chattering of his teeth and issued one more request.

“Leg.”

He smiled to himself when d’Artagnan’s laugh ghosted along his neck; but he did position his calf, injured side up and with a care to not jar his knee, over Aramis’ shin.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 9: “Learning everything ain’t what it seems, that’s the thing about these days.”

Mistaken Identity | “You’re a liar.”

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Aramis would not say he was very particular when he was ill, but there were a few requirements he could name if his friends were in a mood to indulge him. The most important of these was companionship on request, with the stipulation that his company be willing to move away when asked, but never leave the room for a noticeable portion of time.

Porthos excelled at generating heat, and to his credit he abandoned the bed at the first sign that Aramis was overheating. Outside of the most humid days in summer, being too warm was a sure sign he was ill and any mission that required camping saw his back aligned with Porthos, or his bedroll placed between his friends ensuring he’d be comfortable regardless of which of them took a watch.

What d’Artagnan lacked in girth was compensated for by alertness to Aramis’ shifting discomfort and his swiftness in reaction. He wriggled closer and tilted away without complaint as soon as Aramis moved; notably without removing his leg from its perch on Aramis’ shin. Aramis would’ve been impressed if he hadn’t felt so wretched.

In the span of a breath he went from comforted by the proximity to his friend, to chattering his teeth and declaring his very bones ached. At one moment desiring d’Artagnan to sprawl in an approximation of a blanket and the next wishing him as far apart from his own body as the bed would allow. His youngest brother proved adaptable and when Aramis was capable of coherent speech he’d express his gratitude.

For the present his communication had been narrowed to moans and grunts.

No.

The voice he heard was not his.

For one, even when uttering sounds rather than actual words, he’d been informed – albeit predominately by women – that his voice carried a note of elegance.

He’d many witnesses who’d told him this.

With one ear sunk into the pillow the voice was muffled. The rough fabric molded to his cheekbone and he’d believe d’Artagnan if he were to be told it had adhered to his beard. Even his eyelashes caught in the fibers as he kept trying to push his lids upward to view the shadowy men clustered a few steps from the bed.

He could see the figures, shadows and blurry shapes slipping across his vision when he could split his eyes open.

“Is he dumb?”

“Heard ‘im talkin’ to his man there...”

“Who?” The unknown voice asked slowly, “are,” and enunciated each word, “you?”

First he tried in French before asking again in an approximation of Florentine when the question was met with silence, and what appeared to Aramis a shrug. The shadows moved sharply and made odd shapes each time he fought to widen the space between his lids.

“And the other? Have you collected nothing to identify them?”

Aramis wasn’t certain he’d not drifted to sleep again, or if he were imagining the conversation entirely. He’d not put it past his mind to conjure unpleasantness, but he tended to direct his dreams to more hopeful and enjoyable scenes.

“...they carried?”

“All they had’s at the house.”

Aramis thought it unlikely he would imagine d’Artagnan’s grunt of pain, although he knew well the sounds of the other by now. Especially those stifled bursts of air held back by stubbornness, and the firm set of a yet beardless jaw.

Given the weight of his own eyes in that moment – Lord, even his hair felt tethered to the pillow – he’d no real trust in anything he heard. Or suspected.

“He is not the cousin!”

“Impossible – ”

“We followed 'em – ”

“That” said a deep voice in an accent Aramis would not mistake even in the best of health, “is not him.”

Aramis considered himself a man of fairness – he held justice in near as high esteem as love – but he was a man, and as capable of flaws as any other. With that in mind he knew it was absurd, if not the sign of a feeble mind, to hold an entire group of people responsible for his ills. He didn’t hang the blame of what occurred on the whole of Savoy, any more than he could the average citizen of Paris for having been sent on that training to begin with.

His only responsibility had been to the men who’d died, men he’d served with long enough to consider them brothers and friends alike. Nothing he could have discovered would justify such a ruthless attack, especially given there’d been no opportunity for recompense. He’d not been satisfied with what he’d uncovered, but he’d made his peace with the knowledge.

If these men were Savoyards their involvement in this plot made them an enemy of France and it was that alone – encompassing their capture – that he’d retaliate for.

Once he could stand.

Motivation came in response to the thuds he recognized as hits to a person, d’Artagnan being the odd man out in the potential grouping and surely the target.

And that was something he could not take on his conscience.

He would not see d’Artagnan lost.

On an odd night when there was a dusting of snow on the hedges surrounding the palace and crunched on the cobbles under his boot, or when a spring dawn was accompanied by a biting chill of air that forced his beard deeper against his collar he’d sometimes be tricked by his mind. He’d never quite understood how one could be standing in one place in body, but be wholly consumed by the sound, feel – even the smells – of some other place. Gaze unfocused, and awareness blunted, he’d be transported without his consent to memory and the cacophony of men scrambling to defend each other. Of all the emotions that rose unbidden in those moments guilt was not among them.

Unlike the Red Guard, not a man among their regiment would abandon another. Even soldiers in the infantry might spook and shove another into peril in the scramble of battle. The Musketeers fought for themselves as much as each other and that was owed not to their motto, but to the men Treville chose. A man that would betray, or place himself above, those he served with was not a man who could be considered for their regiment. Those chosen were selected for skill as much as character and every one looked out for his brother as well as he did for himself. Had Aramis fallen there he’d have had the peace of knowing he’d done all possible to honor that commitment and that none would resent another for surviving.

It had been of little comfort initially, but he’d clung to that as tightly as Porthos’ shoulder the first time he’d stood in the regiment’s graveyard.

There were unique considerations if they were taken across the border. Alliances. Laws. Promises.

“Where!”

Another hit pulled him from his musings.

“Where are the others?”

More strikes followed and unless Aramis missed the sound d’Artagnan kept his silence. He guessed the younger man had been making a gesture or expression to goad the men. Aramis counted four, no, it was five men; including d’Artagnan and the Savoyard he’d not seen before. Unsure if he’d made any sound the motion – more accurately described as the awkward leveraging – the lifting of his upper body caught the newcomer’s attention.

“And him?”

The man’s doublet was more ornate, embroidered details on the deep green cuffs, and his weaponry adorned with decorative scroll-work and the pommel of his sword embossed. Aramis could have admired the man’s presentation if wasn’t preoccupied with plotting their downfall and his and d’Artagnan’s escape.

A feat made more difficult by the residual chills and relentless ache behind his eyes.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“You’re a liar!”

D’Artagnan ground his teeth so hard he feared he’d be swallowing pieces of them. He swallowed hard, throwing himself forward against the men’s hold; unable to speak he had to do something other than watch as their newest captor abused Aramis.

This man knew they weren’t the men they claimed to be. Well, at least that he wasn’t Francesco – Aramis had never officially claimed to be anyone. For the plot these men were involved with that might be true, but this newest man had sensed Aramis was more than a mere ‘guard’ to a man posing as Francesco.

“What are you doing here?”

“I assure you we did not come by our choice.”

“Where are the others?”

“There is only myself and my friend.”

“You are lying!”

“Are you sure?” Aramis asked, breathless and light in his query.

A thin sheen of sweat darkened Aramis’ shirt and the newest blood dripping from his hairline already stained its collar.

“As sure as I am,” the older man made a sign to the stocky one holding Aramis, “that he is not Francesco!”

If the man had expected Aramis to follow his accusatory finger pointing at d’Artagnan then he shouldn’t have had the stout man smack Aramis’ head down.

Aramis relaxed into the blow, or went dizzy with it – precise details were difficult to determine from d’Artagnan’s position. Whether their ploy was at an end or not, d’Artagnan remained faithful to the ruse – yelling was rarely specific to one accent or another. He flung himself forward with a cry of frustration the surprise of the noise and the motion granting him a stride’s length closer to the bed before he was hauled back. And struck across the back of his head for his troubles.

“Francesco? Of course he’s not Francesco.” Aramis raised his head at an angle to glance first at d’Artagnan and then up at the well-dressed interrogator. “Who is Francesco?”

D’Artagnan hadn’t expected that response and neither had the elder man if his brows raising toward his hairline and his choked off sound were not exaggerations for their benefit. His mind was still lagging behind where his memories were concerned, but he didn’t recall Aramis ever admitting d’Artagnan was Francesco. If his own mind was not misremembering he’d not referred to d’Artagnan directly, by any name, in the presence of their captors. As Aramis would say: to imply was not always to lie.

“I’d caution you, you’re in no position to attempt deceiving me.”

“Maybe if you’d enlighten us as to where we are,” Aramis’ cut lip released a fresh bead of blood which made a thin trail to his beard as he spoke casually to the red-faced man, “we might be able to see our way to a resolution to this misunderstanding?”

“Ain’t no misunderstandin’ about ‘em,” one of the men holding d’Artagnan bit out, “we followed ‘em to – ”

The leader didn’t spare the speaker a glance, holding up his hand in a sharp motion, palm straight as though to cut through the air.

“Misunderstanding?” He inquired of Aramis as if now asking him the hour.

D’Artagnan admired Aramis’ calm as the man behind him tugged his head further back, his other hand encircled the front of Aramis’ throat. He knew he wouldn’t be as even tempered; he’d be much too tempted to throw his head back, and incite his questioners.

Aramis remained still, the color in his cheeks hinting at the fever he fought. The fabric sticking to him could be attributed to the recent strikes he’d suffered as easily as the previous day and night’s treatment. The cause wouldn’t matter to their captors so long as he continued speaking; although, if he infuriated the leader any further d’Artagnan worried how much longer Aramis would be able to maintain his artifice.

Aramis held the finely dressed man’s gaze, ignoring the tension his neck was under.

D’Artagnan wasn’t sure what Aramis intended, but he observed a slight tremor in the hand Aramis had braced on the thin mattress. The tips of his fingers nearly blended with the cotton for their effort. He was pouring every reserve into appearing unwavering and keeping his voice steady.

“Yes, seems to me your men misunderstood their assignment; having interfered with our assignment, that is…” explained Aramis, raising the brow not currently seeping blood at the perturbed leader.

“You claim to work for him, then? This boy?”

D’Artagnan bristled at the reference and abandoned his attempts to maintain the bearing of a young Florentine nobleman. He kicked at one of the men holding him and lunged forward – he needed to take some of the burden of their attention. That Aramis was holding himself upright was partly owed to the stout man’s grip on his head. Much longer and d’Artagnan feared he’d be straining to breathe if the rasp to his voice was any indication to how tightly those thick fingers were pressing to his throat.

“In a manner of speaking,” Aramis continued his words measured, hinting at the the shallowness of his breath, “it would be more accurate to say he is associated with my employ.”

“Which took you to – ”

“My man there, and I, had business in Auzet.”

“You’re a liar!”

The man on d’Artagnan’s left called out, it had been the other who held him that interrupted previously. Another sharp wave of the leader’s hand silenced further comments. D’Artagnan tensed, gathering himself to attempt another burst of movement.

“Business! Riding that near to...” His glove wound into the ‘v’ of Aramis’ shirt so tightly it ripped, undoubtedly increasing the stress on Aramis’ neck. “You’re not Florentines! Who are you!”

“Two men,” the tightening of his eyes added to the growing evidence of the strain on him when the had in his hair yanked, “on a mission.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”

Captivity | “No one will find you.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“‘No one will find you’ hmm?” D’Artagnan watched the closed door, arms tingling from the phantom pressure of hands digging into his biceps. “He’s not happy...”

His mouth had half formed a wry tilt at the irritated leader’s parting words before his lips lost their tension at seeing Aramis on the bed. He’d held himself upright after the shove the stocky man gave him, but in the moments d’Artagnan had taken to track the men’s departure Aramis had all but wilted onto the mattress.

Skin beyond Aramis’ fingertips had now taken on a pallor closer to the bed linens and d’Artagnan halted his turn. He held his breath to watch Aramis’ own; to assure himself Aramis still drew breath. Perspiration and some blood continued to darken his clothing, but d’Artagnan only drew in air when he noted the next rise and fall of Aramis’ chest.

“Aramis?”

D’Artagnan half hopped and half lurched for the edge of the bed, hip smacking into the bed-frame in his haste.

Images from his night terror were filtering behind his eyes and he shook his head deliberately – if unwisely – in an effort to shock himself to the present. He’d been unsettled by the disturbance to his mind and the impression of Aramis pale and drooped, the vision more disturbing for being illuminated by the fire flickering and highlighting the lifelessness. Aramis’ similar appearance closeup, and now tangible, was enough to startle him into focusing on present concerns before losing himself to fearful remembering.

Imagined events, but the dream was beginning to feel more like a harbinger of their future than an odd dream from a confused mind.

“Mind – ”

“I know,” d’Artagnan assured in a rush, one hand dropping onto Aramis’ sternum and the other grabbing for the stool. He hadn’t meant to make a show of it, but his distracted motion dragged the wood legs noisily in the near silent space. “I’ve got it here.”

Aramis didn’t open his eyes, but his lips – near bloodless from how tight he’d compressed them – twitched at the left corner.

“Where is it the worst?”

Having settled his own leg d’Artagnan had begun to spread his fingers on Aramis’ chest and his very warm – near burning – skin.

“S’infected.”

Swallowing, and wincing in the aftermath, Aramis nudged his chin to indicate his side. The pincer wound.

Aramis lay near motionless other than the far too light tickles of air d’Artagnan felt on the top of his hand in intervals matching the shallow movement of his chest. The newest cuts to his lip and brow and temple had slowed their bleeding, flakes of deep maroon had begun to darken and dry on the torn bits of skin.

D’Artagnan had bitten his own cheek more than once at some of the poorly exaggerated acting of his friends to bait or persuade a mark, but this ruse had been so convincing d’Artagnan had been caught unaware. Sleeping next to the man he knew the fever was a growing concern and that infection was likely. Aramis had born the brunt of abuse since they’d been taken. He’d hope the time they’d been stealing to uncover the plot would also yield an opportunity for escape. The ease with which they could accomplish it was diminishing with every new wound, too many accumulating left d’Artagnan unsure that Aramis could overcome them long enough to see them freed.

The man’s charm was unrivaled and how he’d managed to keep faithful to his feint throughout the interrogation was impressive.

If d’Artagnan hadn’t witnessed him having a defiantly courteous discussion not a quarter of an hour ago he’d not believe it was the same man. He’d seen Aramis raise his sopping hat and bow to passing ladies after taking a tumble into the Seine chasing down a thief with Porthos. He’d been beside him when, nauseous and pale from some ill-prepared pheasant the prior evening, they’d stood watch and then escorted Their Majesties’ to an awaiting carriage as if he was fresh from a full night’s sleep rather than hunched over a bucket for near seven hours. Aramis could manage grace under some less than ideal conditions, but d’Artagnan had never before seen this extreme swing.

D’Artagnan would willingly boast of it to Porthos and Athos, once they were free. Overpowering their captors was doubtful and they needed to escape quickly for any chance to accomplish it at all. As much as he admired Aramis’ will to endure it unnerved him to see the decline of his friend so stark from one blink to the next.

“How did you even,” d’Artagnan risked a peek at their poorly crafted bandaging and frowned, he could smell the infection without lowering his head, “manage to speak?”

Aramis said nothing further, his chest rising and falling irregularly, but his heart beat a comforting rhythm under d’Artagnan’s palm.

He might have sensed d’Artagnan staring; without any sound Aramis cracked his right eye open, and the other flickered before matching the half-lidded state of its partner. He regarded d’Artagnan with an intensity d’Artagnan couldn’t decipher. It was no less passionate than the accusing stare he’d given him outside the Court of Miracles, but this searching gaze was not in defense of Porthos – there was a melancholy to it that d’Artagnan only recognized from seeing Athos wear a similar expression.

“Not...,” Aramis forced out before his eyes closed, “here...”

“What’s not here?” D’Artagnan lowered the edge of the torn fabric, they’d scant bits of leaves to scrounge a last bit of poultice from. He wasn’t certain it would even be advisable at this point. “What do you need?”

“Not again…” Aramis persisted, eyes squeezing inward, scrunching up as though he’d meant to open them, but had forgotten the direction to move them, “...not...here…”

“What isn’t?” D’Artagan twisted his torso, spine protesting when he left one hand on Aramis and rifled through their few resources to guess at what Aramis was after.

“You need…”

Aramis paused to work his throat, breathing out harshly against the dryness, and whatever damage had been inflicted by the thick fingered grasp. D’Artagnan would get up for the water in a moment. He wanted to know how much to portion for drinking and how much he should – and if he should – be setting aside for replacing bandaging.

“Aramis I don’t understand,” d’Artagnan took care to lift his fingers away from the wound and placed them near Aramis’ shoulder. He frowned at the slickness of his collarbone – too warm, before angling his head to meet Aramis’ gaze. “What do you need me to do?”

“Live.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

‘No one will find you, no one will find you...no one will come for them...for us...they don’t even know to look...’

God, how he’d wanted to sink to the ground. To stumble up and race after Marsac. To stop him. To join him?

No.

He didn’t know.

Nerveless his whole body had swayed forward before he’d forced himself to center, slouching back against a snow dusted tree trunk.

None of it had been comprehensible. He’d moved by memory, through will; determined to defend his brothers or die with them.

He’d not counted on surviving the encounter, he’d not thought that far ahead – there had only been one moment to the next. Until there was silence. There was no wind, the air burned his nose and he’d felt it push like shards of glass down his throat and into his lungs.

It had been so damnably quiet.

They’d been hunted in the dark, no expectation of any real danger or threat. Every rabbit knows to be aware of the wolves in the dark, prey is always alert for predator. Soldiers were not so defenseless, and they’d no reason to think such a large encampment of men would find themselves a target.

Theirs had been a hopeless battle from the first minute of the attack. An ambush that had only taken minutes. Mere minutes and it had been over.

It had seemed longer to him, three-quarters of an hour maybe even two; while other times Aramis had thought it had taken no time at all. His mind had always been uncertain of the exact timeline and to the current day he’d difficulty relaying the sequence of events precisely the same way each time he attempted to sort them into a sensible narrative. The strike to his head hadn’t robbed him of memories – although he’d prayed many nights following for the visions to be taken from him – but he’d see the images flash out of order, and he was never certain he recalled all that transpired.

He’d been sick. Disoriented. His vision had been disrupted and he’d not been sure he wasn’t being pulled to his death before he’d comprehended he’d been dragged clear. The blow to his skull had been severe enough to prevent him tending it – that had been Marsac. Before he’d staggered off alone he’d checked each man, and each time he’d signaled to Aramis there was nothing to be done. The only man attended to had been Aramis, but after such gentle ministering to his wound the patient had been discarded as numbly and certainly as the pauldron cast upon the frozen ground.

Aramis would not see d’Artagnan lost to Savoy.

Were they discovered it would not matter that they’d not crossed the border of their own choosing. The expedient solution would be to execute them as spies; they’d no proof to offer to the contrary and France could not and would not risk their most recent treaty over two musketeers. They hadn’t over twenty two.

He’d not let d’Artagnan fall here.

Maybe he was as tied to those men and that forest as Marsac; maybe he too should have lost hope, if not his life, that day. He’d felt sadness, a loneliness that left him bereft and deeply aware of his isolation in unguarded moments, but never a sense of guilt for having survived. All men were essentially alone, yet after so harrowing a reminder he’d been graced with the two most loyal friends a man could be blessed with.

And then in stormed d’Artagnan.

Brash, and unexpected, he’d turned out to be undeniable and so earnest he was impossible to dissuade from the regiment.

Aramis had liked him immediately.

Well, once they’d cleared up the whole affair concerning Athos.

D’Artagnan had his own motivations for doing so but he’d readily aided him and Porthos in their investigation. He’d rode alongside them and they’d worked together in pursuit of the truth – with only the most minor of inconveniences. Aramis had to concede that their young friend’s instinct toward charging into the danger was preferable – if not inopportune at times – to walking away.

Except he never completely blamed Marsac for the desertion. Not when he’d seen, and smelled, and heard, the same horror himself. Aramis was uniquely positioned to hold Marsac to account for his choice and he’d been furious, but there were other times he’d understood. He’d not agreed, and though during a particularly bitter evening he’d claimed to Athos he ought to have done the same they both knew he never would have deserted a wounded friend. Never.

Aramis could not accept losing anyone else to Savoy.

Which made his current wish for d’Artagnan to escape their misfortune so incompatible with reason.

D’Artagnan would never agree to leave Aramis behind.

Aramis had stalled, and misdirected, but they were losing credibility, as well as time. The longer they remained captives they could discover the identities of the men, but they were at greater risk of being revealed themselves. There would be a tipping point when, at least one of them, would need to make for France. He couldn't keep pace with the younger man, even with d’Artagnan’s injury, with a raging fever and a side-searing infection. Aramis could withstand pain, but his resilience was no substitute for a deficit in physical ability. He could feign his way through a conversation, but his fevered body would be a burden in trying to attempt any ploy other than a diversion.

He’d enough sense left to know d’Artagnan would never agree to that tactic.

D’Artagnan would never agree to leaving him behind, not even to seek aid.

D’Artagnan who readily assisted him to conceal Marsac’s arrival and who’d wanted to help him even at the risk of his potential commission. His loyal heart had encompassed protecting Aramis’ interests – simply because he’d asked it of him – before securing his own chance at becoming one of The Musketeers. Stubborn, and steadfast, if it had been d’Artagnan with him all those years ago he’d have gone frost-bitten before he’d have walked away.

D’Artagnan would not have left him alone there, as sure as he knew neither Athos nor Porthos would have.

He wanted more than anything for d’Artagnan to run, but leaving him – abandoning Aramis even at his own request – was the one action Aramis was certain d’Artagnan would not take.

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Chapter Text

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No. 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”

Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

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“No...no, that’ll never work...your accent,” Aramis swallowed and let his brows raise, but he kept his eyelids closed, “...is offensive.”

“Offensive?” D’Artagnan frowned, a bit offended himself. “I thought they weren’t Florentine.”

“I don’t...think so...but…that sound...is offensive to the ears…”

D’Artagnan would’ve given him a backhanded swat if he didn’t look so terrible, so unable to fend off even a joking assault.

“You can’t be their focus again,” declared d’Artagnan and he meant his declaration.

If he still wasn’t meant to speak he’d not quite determined the best method for distracting the men, but Aramis shouldn’t have to bear through another round of questioning. He wouldn’t. D’Artagnan was capable of withstanding their efforts, especially if it meant sparing Aramis.

“...it’s a game of the mind...we need them unsure…”

“The longer they can’t determine who we are the longer we have to plan an escape,” d’Artagnan nodded to himself as he spoke, Aramis still kept his eyes closed.

“...or…” Aramis frowned, wincing on an attempt to shift that set his side aflame, “...they no longer care...and kill us regardless…”

“Better to escape then,” d’Artagnan leaned away to take a measure of Aramis’ prone figure, “they’re bound to have horses, I can – ”

“I can distract them while – ” Aramis had pushed his eyes open to slits.

“If you even think I’m letting you play decoy while I run,” d’Artagnan made sure Aramis was focused on him as he spoke, but his warning wilted under Aramis’ softening expression.

He had an echo in his mind of another impassioned threat, well-meant but lacking enforcement: ‘if this gets me killed.’ Before he could reach for Aramis to lightly shake his shoulder an uneven press of fingers was laid over his wrist. Two fingers on that hand were held by ragged strips of blue fabric. D’Artagnan had held the thin digits with the lightest touch between two of his own fingers while he’d wrapped the strips of Aramis’ treasured shirt to secure them.

He swallowed and turned his hand to hook a few of his own fingers around the unbroken ones.

“They know I’m not Francesco, I’m of no use to them anymore than you are,” d’Artagnan guessed as he adjusted his ankle on the marred stool and shifted his seat to ease his lower back. “May as well be me that speaks.”

Aramis’ attempt to laugh was a cut off cough of air, his eyes fluttering open again to seek d’Artagnan’s.

“Not...with that accent…”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes even as Aramis’ crinkled at the edges.

“It’s not that terrible.”

“It’s absurd…” Aramis showed his teeth when he grinned, “...besides...they might not have seen us in the attack…”

“Didn’t they mention…” d’Artagnan trailed off, he’d not heard all that the men said to Aramis when they were separated. He didn’t know if these men been part of the attack anymore than he knew when they’d been followed. “They found us at the inn, do you think they weren’t following since the ambush?”

“...I’m not sure...dressed as we were...are…” Aramis’ eyes flicked down to regard the poor state of his clothing, “...they know you’re not their Medici target...but…”

“I’m still unknown,” d’Artgnan supposed Aramis still wanted to exploit that.

They could, but without the ability to speak, d’Artagnan couldn’t contribute much other than resistance. A few kicks and inarticulate sounds wouldn’t stop them from going after Aramis. His fever continued to rage and wane in a sign that – like the man himself – his body was fighting. The infection, and the other injuries scattered over his body were going to be a struggle to get them free.

“Come...have some hope,” Aramis held uphis toes, wiggling those that weren’t tinged purple and black, his humor good, “...we’re alive...”

“Can you even walk?”

Even with eyes that occasionally lost their focus, Aramis unsurprisingly managed to keep a watch on all of their injuries.

“In your boots…”

“What?”

“Your feet...are bigger...more room for bandaging...”

“Because I’m taller.

“A hair’s breadth...does not...a – ”

“Still taller.” D’Artagnan smirked – not yet bothering to insist it was more than a ‘hair’ – chest expanding as he converted it into a grin.

“Barely.”

“More than.”

“...a man’s height is...no measure of his talent…”

“Maybe not,” d’Artagnan winked, “but I’m still taller.”

“Than Athos, yes...”

“In stockinged feet Porthos isn’t even as – ”

“And in stockinged feet...he’d still have you…” Aramis’ flushed cheeks broadened as he teased, “...on your back...in a blink…”

“You don’t fare any better,” reminded d’Artagnan.

“No,” Aramis drew out the word, pausing after to take a breath and wet his throat, “...but, I do remain standing...longer...”

“Running isn’t a strategy.”

“Misdirection...is not ‘running’ – it’s a clever tactic…”

“Tactic.”

“...I repeat...I have – ”

“Held your own, I know, for a few more moments than me,” d’Artagnan unlinked their fingers to brush his own hair back before leaning on it, “I’ll remember to dodge and duck and slip around the support beam like a maypole next time.”

“...the beam requires you pivot low...and switch direction...he expects that one now...”

“Then I’ll have to try the unexpected,” d’Artagnan persisted.

“...yes...you will…” Aramis hadn’t closed his eyes, but he’d cast them overhead, looking about the room even though they’d confirmed there were no weak points.

“Aramis?”

“Let’s hope we get the chance.”

“We don’t need to hope. We will get out of this,” d’Artagnan shared the doubt that they’d manage it on their own in their present condition, but he refused to concede entirely.

He turned to get their small ration of water, busying himself with the small pitcher they’d been given and the single cup. They’d divided up the water they’d been given into a portion for wound care and another for drinking. Given the leader’s anger and insistence ‘no one will ever find you’ it was unlikely they’d be granted more.

“How much?”

“Enough,” d’Artagan shrugged and poured a few swallows into the cup, extending it to Aramis. “Here.”

Aramis’ hand had a noticeable tremor, but he was able to bring it to his mouth and sip. D’Artagnan counted it as a boon for not only Aramis’ health, but as an aid to himself. He brought the side of the pitcher to his own mouth, rolling his lip over his teeth and tilting the vessel. It would be enough to fool Aramis, and he swallowed without allowing any of it to touch his lips, letting the remaining water retreat back to the bottom.

Proud that his feint hadn’t been discovered he took his time organizing their few supplies while Aramis continued to drink. When he turned back he thought his friend might have needed assistance, but the cup was tilted enough that there would have been water spilling out if any had been left. Aramis wasn’t looking at the cup, or at him; he wasn’t certain Aramis was seeing anything in the room.

“Aramis?”

“The mind is a cruel jailer...at times...”

D’Artagnan readily recalled Aramis’ unfocused stare, the times he’d fallen prey to his own mind. He’d experienced similar himself, a driving rain catching him off guard and plunging him back into the dark, the feeling of his father’s skin growing cooler, and his limbs stiffer. Memory could take a man funny and a sound, a scent, a touch? Any small stimulant could shift a man from his present to his past without regard for his feelings or surroundings.

He wouldn’t let Aramis sink into false imaginings his mind conjured; he wasn’t alone. No matter their fate, d’Artagnan would be alongside him.

“You said yourself, we can’t be too far over the border. There wasn’t enough time.”

“Unless both our minds...have misremembered?”

Aramis was observing him. The two of them had been injured, stressed, disoriented. D’Artagnan pushed his shoulders down against a shudder at his remembered visions while asleep. After all that had transpired he did believe they weren’t far from France.

“We’d have had to lose a day, more, for us to be far across, and I don’t think we lost that much time between us.”

“...no, no I suppose not…”

“If we’re close then there’s a chance. We catch the guards off their guard and make for the border.”

“Well...when you put it so succinctly…” Aramis’ smile was genuine, as was the mirth in his eyes even with the doubt behind them.

“We mark our position, we cross into France, and we – ”

“Prove what?”

“Whatever they’d planned was thwarted. They didn’t take Francesco. We’re no good to the king by dying here.”

“...dying, no...but...we’ve very little to show – very little to be believed…”

“Enough that we’d spark an inquiry.”

“Or a war.”

“Savoy won’t go that far.”

“No?”

“Why risk it? It’s more than France this impacts.”

“You wouldn’t believe the Duke of Savoy...has abandoned his latest treaty?”

“He might, but wouldn’t Richelieu have had word from...?”

“If he’s even involved...ours was not the first massacre…”

“What?”

“Not the Musketeers, but Savoy...has acted against France before…”

“And will again, but we’ve done our duty. We protected Francesco and we’ve knowledge of the plot. Maybe that’s not proof but…” d’Artagnan was going to expand further, promise to snatch something off these men before absconding with Aramis.

He’d been stoking his imagined exploits when he caught a shadow of unhappiness take Aramis’ countenance for a moment. Aramis swiped the back of his hand over his forehead, testing for fever or attempting to still his mind.

“Absent proof few believe...”

“Aramis?”

“...of all the places...I might’ve…”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re not long for here. Whether we break out of this prison or Athos and Porthos – ”

“They won’t have proof either...no reason to risk…”

“I think there are two very good reasons. They’ll – ”

“Will they?” Aramis’ voice was flat, and for the first time since they’d met d’Artagnan wasn’t certain of the emotion behind it, “I’d asked for assistance… yes...but I don’t think I’d ask even this...of them…”

“Marsac…” d’Artagnan found himself swallowing against the name. He knew Aramis wasn’t wholly unsympathetic to the man, but d’Artagnan failed to find any generosity toward the man other than what Aramis had requested of him. “...was different. You...the captain…they…”

Aramis’ generosity extended to sending d’Artagnan a soft look even with an exhalation that signaled his unhappiness. D’Artagnan hadn’t reached an easy decision on their parts in those events and expected Aramis felt it more keenly than him. All had turned out well in the end, and it was one of the many

“They’ll be searching, you know they will.”

“Searching I believe...but I wouldn’t ask them to…”

“You’d never have to. They might not have chased every lead with you, but they’d never leave us to face an enemy alone. Captain Treville will have secured permission for them to search...they’ll find a way…”

“...very few ways to justify – ”

“They won’t have to,” d’Artagnan insisted. He’d have galloped into Spain, orders or no, if one of them had been taken. “They’ll find a way – we’ve always found a way before.”

“...that was only...going against the captain...this?” Aramis’ chest rose and fell, hitching for a moment while he winced at the discomfort of the pincer burn. He reached over d’Artagnan’s arm, palpating over the fabric before dismissing what he’d felt. “They’d be... acting against far more than the regiment...to cross into Savoy...”

“They will,” d’Artagnan said and curved his fingers in a loose grip of Aramis’ shoulder.

D’Artagnan was certain they’d come for them. He’d rode alongside Aramis and Porthos to save Athos and he’d known then there was little these men wouldn’t do for each other. He’d also spent time alongside Athos and Porthos when Aramis went hunting out information with Marsac. That it had led to them separating to act according to their own beliefs might have been unnecessary, but it hadn’t fractured their friendship.

They’d all sought answers through the best means they knew. D’Artagnan had felt divided himself, torn between his loyalty to all three of his friends, but his irritation had lain firmly at Marsac’s feet – never with Aramis. He’d wondered if their affection for the captain and their anger at Marsac had interfered with their instinct to follow each other into the narrow space between loyalty to their brother and a man they regarded as close to a father.

D’Artagnan was reminded for a brief moment of the shifting anger and disappointment, to questioning and understanding, in Aramis’ eyes when he’d confronted Athos on Porthos’ behalf. Never, in all of the twists they encountered at Athos’ estate, had d’Artagnan doubted Athos’ loyalty to his friends; sometimes a man’s judgment was clouded by his own, private, conflicts.

But not when a friend had no one else to rely on.

Not a friend captured.

Not them.

Not now.

“...you’re either confused...angry...or you’re – ”

“They’ll come.”

“It might…”

Aramis’ eyes were indulgent. He regarded d’Artagnan with no teasing, no trace of good-natured cajoling wrapped in his lilting tones. He was serious.

“...be better...”

“No. No, I’ve gone along with every ploy and suggestion you’ve had. And you’ve been right – it’s all made sense.” D’Artagnan placed his other hand on Aramis’ opposite shoulder. No weight, but enough pressure in his fingers to signal Aramis should listen. “But you’re wrong now. And I’m not as...as...stupid as you think I am.” He didn’t believe that, or that Aramis believe it, but he didn’t think ‘disloyal’ was the right word; he didn’t want Aramis feeling guilty, he wanted him to pay attention. Contrary to his well-known temper, d’Artagnan could occasionally take an injury to his pride. D’Artagnan tightened his hold, no anger in his voice but keeping it firm. “There’s no plan where I’m going to leave. Not unless you’re with me and we’re running together.”

Aramis swallowed and his mouth opened before his mind had caught up.

D’Artagnan was tempted to push his finger beneath Aramis’ jaw, but something in the other man’s unguarded features made d’Artagnan hold still.

Nodding with only an angle of his chin, Aramis closed his mouth and his lip quirked up on the right. He broke their gaze, eyes sliding to the wall before he closed them and shrugged with such a small motion d’Artagnan wouldn’t have marked it if he’d not had his hands on Aramis.

“...neither of us...will be running anywhere…”

Aramis turned, eyes remaining fixed to his and d’Artagnan still managed to catch the twitch of mustache. D’Artagnan laughed first, and Aramis followed before he made a waving motion and they both cut their laughter before he reignited his side.

“Very well...let us plot...this grand escape of yours...”

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Chapter Text

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No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

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“Hit them harder.”

Aramis clenched his abdominal muscles before the next punch landed, but it did little to spare him the flare of his existing injuries once the gloved fist impacted under his ribs. Between fever and exertion his borrowed shirt was sticking in patches, the newest spots of blood blotting across fabric already adhered to his torso from sweat.

He’d complained loudly of each unpleasant feeling he’d experienced, but there’d been no alteration to the methods of their interrogation.

He’d meant to attempt another twist to see if he could better hear what was happening to d’Aragnan behind him but his head dropped forward rather than rotating.

“Tell me who you are you.”

There was little logic to be found in straining his neck to raise his head; if they wished him to look at them they shouldn’t have blindfolded him, or hit him to the point that such simple motions would be difficult. Given their behavior he wasn’t inclined to consider their preferences. Or requests.

He would not be declaring himself until it suited him and d’Artagnan to do so.

The demand was irritating in its repetitiveness, and d’Artagnan’s stifled grunt had reached his ears before Aramis had realized it was being posed to the younger man.

Sweat had gathered in portions of the blindfold, but the dampening fabric had only diverted some of the rivulets. He still blinked out of habit, lashes catching on the loose weave in his efforts to clear his vision. Enough light filtered through the rough textile to track the flickering shadows, large blobs of in the shape of men, but none were able to be discerned into the individual ones he’d seen. Not without their voices.

“Speak!”

It was not the leader’s shape he could make out in front of him. He was off to the right, behind him, and if Aramis were to guess – because what else would keep his mind occupied and away from the pain of his body – he’d be to the side of where d’Artagnan had been secured.

His chest ached on every breath. The burn wound raged at him with a constant pinch at his ribs, escalating to a stab from the irregular punches and kicks that left his body swinging in the aftermath. They’d not given him enough slack for his feet when they’d set the ropes over the rafters before he’d been blindfolded. With his broken toes satisfaction could not be won by altering position; if he sunk his weight toward the floor his shoulders threatened to pull from their joints and if he pushed into the floor the tiny, splintered, bones in his feet alighted with fire in his nerves as they ground like a mortar and pestle under his skin.

“No, no pull him this way – forward.”

This one time he would concede d’Artagnan’s height was marginally greater than his. He’d been secured first and the tugging on his wrists that pulled his arms to stretch higher confirmed they’d been secured to the same beam. Blood slicked over his tongue when he resisted yanking down to relieve the pressure from the extension of his limbs. Knowing his relief would cost d’Artagnan he committed to withstanding for as long as his body would allow him and then forcing himself through will to hold on longer.

His battle had whittled down to heartbeats and breaths, even the most minute shifts in stance led to incremental increases in pressure that contributed to his overall aches. Had they attempted a bid for their liberation he might have been able to withstand their torments with more grace; as it was, withholding information in exchange for uncovering the men’s scheme was wearing thin.

Aramis’ main motivation now was their survival, and return to France.

“Amused?”

No. Aramis was not.

D’Artagnan, however, must have provided some resistance and Aramis could picture within his mind the image of his wide grin. That young face fixed into a cocky countenance came easily to Aramis’ vision even if his rebellious expression was imagined as partially obscured by a blindfold.

D’Artagnan’s grunt of stifled pain was not imaginary.

Several more strikes, and a clink of chain, distinguished themselves from the other irregular noises in the crowded room. He could hear the other men chuckling, muttering insults among each other – bellowing and huffing at their own asides – before calling them out to either or both of their captives.

Words meant little to Aramis unless they revealed some key evidence about these men’s nature; characteristics other than their lack of intellect and dull-witted humor.

“Hey. Nobody’s talkin’ to you.”

And that had been a reprieve.

Recognizing the voice of the stout and stocky man he tensed just when the fist slammed into his side, a blow the bottom of his ribs that pressed further down to angle into his softer tissue. The knuckles felt like a line of stones being dragged at an angle before ending on a punch to the softest part of his belly. Pivoting from the force of the blow rather than his own decisive movement in response he leaned a bit of weight into his seat. In an attempt to counter the swing of his body the hits wanted to force on him the shift in his balance send knives of pain through his toes.

With no limitation on his speech – other than not revealing who they were – he growled out a curse they might recognize as French before calling the man a louse in Latin. Which, as he’d blinked behind the dampening strip of fabric he debated the value in having done so when his ears began to ring after the man followed his words with a swing to the side of his head.

“Your man looks unwell,” the leader’s voice carried under the higher pitch of the noise filling Aramis’ ears.

“Could do,” Aramis called behind him, craning his neck back and tilting his head within the confine of his own arms bracketing his ears, “with a bit of a lie down.”

D’Artagnan’s wheezing laugh became a cough, but Aramis didn’t regret his comment; they were in this together. He’d see him leave here, regardless of the cost.

“From what I hear he’s been amused with himself since your arrival. And you?”

Aramis heard the clank of metal, the scrape of more than one piece drawing against each other. He was drenched, sweat

“Nothing to say?”

“You can end this.”

Birds of prey do not sing, but the coo of an owl could lull a guarded man to sleep.

The leader spoke with a gentled voice.

Sometimes the worst of men spoke in a gentle tones.

The ones whose eyes lit from within while a man writhed on the rack, there were some who would speak in quiet tones. These men were the cruelest, their masks were never convincing enough to trick him into believing they felt anything but delight at another man’s suffering.

Their soft spoken entreaties would break through the haze of pain in such a manner that the delirious victim might mistake it for comfort. For a genuine offer. A release from torment if only a the man would speak his secret; as though it were a minor bit of ground to yield to provide the knowledge the tormentor sought. They’d pause their torture and perhaps offer food, water, or rest, in a bid for the smallest of concessions. Except that minor exchange was deceptive and resulted in a greater torment – the torture of a soul. A man – any who claimed to be a good one in Aramis’ estimation – who betrayed his own would never know peace.

Aramis had encountered several men of this constitution over his lifetime from the most jaded blacksmith to the bitterest duke. Such a temperament knew no specific age or position in society. Some men’s inability to succeed twisted them and others he’d come to suspect were irredeemable: they sought chances to be cruel.

He’d not a full measure of this man and in his own fog of thoughts it was a challenge to discern the leader’s character. Blind in all senses to the speaker’s expression he swayed and stiffened, titling his head out of habit rather than any meaningful attempt to hear. Blocking sight generally had the benefit of increasing other senses; at least Aramis had noted that when he wasn’t compromised elsewhere on his person.

He jerked back to awareness of the room, oriented by d’Artagnan’s strange utterances. They were irregular and followed no audible thuds or strikes that would indicate the other men were abusing his body. However, there were numerous ways – and all manner of implements – that could be employed to inflict pain in relative silence.

Save for the intended’s own cries.

Unable to stand without the aid of his bindings his body had sagged forward in distraction. Hearing the forced air of a man suppressing his agony Aramis locked one knee, crusted over portions of skin burning with the motion, to push himself incrementally upward.

Height difference be damned.

It was minimal, by any estimation. He would alleviate any pain he could; he’d felt d’Artagnan adjust his own stance when the men were fixated on him. It was the clue he’d needed to ascertain they hung from a shared beam.

“Tell me,” the man paused to let d’Artagnan’s coughs clear his airway, “who you really are.”

D’Artagnan took a gasp of breath. Filling his lungs to speak Aramis had thought, and knowing he’d no ability to prevent it now. His own body-weight stole breath from him, ribs straining to accommodate his fluctuating posture.

Something was whispered. Hissed out.

“What? Speak!”

“He’s not...very interesting…” If Aramis’ lungs weren’t pressed against the trap of his ribs he’d have forced them to expand so he could laugh.

D’Artagnan choked on whatever he might have been trying to communicate, and then he caught himself before he finished his new thought. Aramis was impressed.

“Ar – Augustino...”

“Augustino?” The higher-pitch of his artificially gentled voice made obvious the leader’s excitement at the prospect of discovering their identities at the same time it hinted at his doubt. He moved with a lightness of foot that had his breath disturbing the drying sweat on Aramis’ cheek. “Is that your name?”

Aramis wanted to regret pulling the attention back to himself, but it was preferable than the visions haunting him behind the dark fabric covering his eyes. D’Artagnan’s protests behind him were constrained to the repetition of his false name. His tone conveyed his unhappiness in a rapid objection, but it managed to be less concise than their dear and melancholic friend. Athos had a sharp rebuke that could make the three syllables of either of their names crack through the air even at the level of a whisper.

Even though Porthos’ name was shorter Athos had less occasion to use it in irritation, and then it was usually an amused admonishment. He spared a brief, incredibly irrational, thought that in the past it had been reserved for himself and with the addition of d’Artagnan it skewed more to their youngest brother.

Aramis wanted to see them again. Their absence gnawed at him but d’Artagnan at his back strengthened his resolve, the thought of Athos straightened his spine, but it was Porthos who gave him the inspiration to speak.

“At the moment,” Aramis smirked, drawing on the many artificial plays he and Porthos had engaged in for distraction to keep the leader’s attention.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s what he called me,” Aramis’ limited breathing made the words waver but they were clear.

“And,” the leader’s false gentling to his words was underpinned by a fraying patience, “who is he?”

“Are you…” Aramis took a particular delight in stretching the limitation of patience without provoking violence; he’d years of practice between Treville and Athos, “...confused?”

He could sense the man lean back from him, the unnamable shift in the air of the man’s reigned in temper, before he felt the forced air of his harsh speech.

“No. Who is he?”

“Why...he’s the man...” he felt it was worth the tearing of the already fragile skin of his lips to smile, his own teeth pulling at the dry, thin, skin, “that called me...Augustino…”

Arguably it was worth the overstretch of his neck when his head was yanked back, the punch to his unprotected stomach, and the revival of his older injuries. The lost strands of hair that pulled loose when his head was released were a debatable price.

“I’ve no use for both of you.”

Aramis knew this to be true, it had been part of the motivation for the limitations he’d asked of d’Artagnan and all of his own rationing of speech to their captors questions. Their mutual rope had been fraying from the start of their capture and it was creaking now – he knew it could no longer hold them both and if one of them were to drop he meant for it to be him.

“I tend to deflect…” Aramis quipped, again thinking of the levity of taunting red guards with his friends, “...when I’m feeling threatened…”

They could, would, kill him and it could be in the next moments or they might draw it out to encourage d’Artagnan to divulge what he knew. There was no need for both of them and he’d demonstrated, with his body standing as evidence, that he would continue to resist.

Were he conducting their interrogation it would be his decision to gamble on selecting the younger man, if he didn’t know that man to be d’Artagnan. He’d give them nothing. Aramis knew it, d’Artagnan had only been tempted into speaking on Aramis’ behalf, absent him he’d give these men nothing. Aramis flattered himself that a part of that would be in vengeance, and perhaps a bit of grief at his own loss.

Perhaps, if their brothers managed to come and d’Artagnan held on long enough, Aramis would have time to share a few words with d’Artagnan to tell them. Maybe they’d manage to take his body home. The three of them had seen each other through battle and injury, through revelry and adventure, and d’Artagnan had only strengthened their number.

The rush of memories gave him pause. The recollections of Porthos sidling next to him in the dark to tell a terrible joke before they’d burst into a smuggler’s den or swear an oath before they crested a hill to initiate a surprise attack on a thief they hunted. Athos sitting down next to him to drink in silence while he transcribed a treasured verse or composed a poem of his own before the garrison’s hearth. Both men bracketing him when he’d torn his boot clean along the seam leaping from a fire engulfed carriage before sliding down a craggy hillside to tumble to the bottom of the ravine – they’d kept him steady and between them for the hour it had taken to ascend. He could hear Porthos’ chuckling over the phantom sound of rain and see the red tints in Athos’ beard and the shadows from the fire sliding over his remembered profile.

All the shadows flickering like ghosts in his mind were a balm to a swell of bitterness that was not regret, but a sense of loss so deep his legs wavered beneath him briefly. He was grateful for the covering on his eyes, he’d never let these men think his sorrow was owed to their actions.

His solace was ripped from them in a miniature explosion of pain that vibrated his ribs, searing the skin and ripped cloth over them. They’d heated another poker. He’d not heard it; he couldn’t see it.

The sound he made was as close to a keening noise as he believed d’Artagnan would ever have heard him utter. Guilt seeped into the low moans he let escape him, he needed to preserve his voice – there were a few words he guarded that he aimed to tell d’Artagnan before the end.

The clang of metal and scrape of the tools they carried in through the door were nearly covered by the bang and clattering that echoed in the narrow corridor outside their little prison.

“Stop!”

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Chapter Text

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No. 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.”

Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | “You’ll have to go through me.”

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On more than one occasion Aramis had deviated from a researched, detailed, and twice-explained plan of Athos’ devising. In fairness to all parties concerned Aramis generally spared a moment’s though to how much sense it made for him to disregard their agreement.

A good musketeer was adaptable.

However having taken the time to craft their method, explaining it to d’Artagnan, and enduring no small amount of agony for its sake, Aramis was not as inclined to agree with d’Artagnan’s rogue intervention.

He wondered if the passive acceptance his bonds forced him to was akin to what Athos felt when he chose to make additional alterations to an agreed upon plan.

If by some grace they survived to reunite with their brothers he intended to ask.

He couldn’t bring himself to regret the times he’d prompted such exasperation from the man, but he had some measure of empathy for Athos’ judgmental acceptance of his actions. As a courtesy, he would confess to Athos that he’d now some understanding of his suffering; a newfound appreciation for the stoic glower so often directed at himself. Were he not blindfolded, and at d’Artagnan’s back, he might have attempted his own approximation of one of Athos’ countenance of disapproval.

“French?” The leader made his query at the same time he stepped closer. “He speaks French? Only French? This is why you have been speaking?”

If he’d wanted an answer it was a curious movement then to place his arm across Aramis’ back. Although in his confused assessment – and disappointment with d’Artagnan’s actions at a level that would make Athos proud – it became clear this closeness was so the man could get the knife close to his ribs. He was not quick enough to stifle his shout when the blade dragged one stroke at a time over his outer ribs.

“You’ll have to go through me,” d’Artagnan’s voice was firm, a cold tone so unsuited to him giving strength to his words, “he’ll tell you nothing.”

“Oh, do you plan to tell me something? Before I am forced to carve a false name upon him?”

Aramis expected lettering to hurt the same as the shallow cuts leaking rivulets down his side; it was no matter to him what shape any of them took. Were he honest he would prefer his own corpse not to be mutilated, but if he were to be the catalyst for d’Artagnan to speak he anticipated far worse than shallow cuts to his torso.

Grinding his teeth against the tip of the blade making a line, no an outline, around the burn to his side he couldn’t bite back the high-pitch of the aborted yell. Had the leader decided this were to be the end for him he was making his intention for it to be a lengthy process. How many cuts could a man endure before succumbing to a loss of blood greater than a body could withstand?

“Leave him alone!”

Aramis felt a flush of pride at the younger man even if a small part of him wished to show the boy his best impersonation of Athos.

“Give me a reason,” the man’s drawl was as lazy as his knife movements, but no less insistent.

He switched hands, the glove at his back leaving a draft as it lifted and the man’s boots scraped the dirt and pebbles over the stone; Aramis sensed him slip between them. An emotion that was more anticipation than fear tingled along his spine before he choked on the seam of his shirt cutting into his neck. The ‘v’ of the collar pulled like a garrote catching on his Adam’s apple in an effort to strain bowing his neck. The ripping of the remaining tatters of his shirt pierced his ears before he registered the tension slackening around his throat.

Swaying more than standing from the rope and chain combined to suspend him his skin held little tension. Cool air licked at Aramis’ back – a reprieve from his continued infection and the building heat of so many men in close quarters – and he set his toes alight with an effort to straighten his body against the looming attack. Instinctively angling from the pain he knew would come his movements were blocked by thick fingers curling on his sternum to take up the shreds of fabric that remained hanging down his torso.

He’d about the chance of keeping a handful of snow frozen in hell in keeping back the scream when the blade cut along his spine. Knowing the mind made the smallest of cuts seem longer, larger, and that the nerves tricked a man into thinking an injury greater than it may be he pushed air out in harsh, staccato breaths to keep from letting any more noise escape him. Wrapping his unbroken fingers on the rope above him he slowed his breathing on every exhalation, he couldn’t panic for d’Artagnan’s sake more than his own. Doubly blind from the cloth and the man’s position he was assaulted with snippets of tales and exaggerations about Northmen who devised all manner of torment, such as opening up the backs of their enemies.

His love for his brothers was great, but he’d little hope of enduring such a heathen ordeal in silence.

Were it Porthos behind him they’d already be exchanging their own barbs and deflections. Athos would have devised their plan and Aramis had no doubt that trussed and hung from a rafter beam he’d be the one commanding this self-styled leader through his own interrogation. A frisson of wistfulness tugged at his mind for them despite his skin being slit with deliberate care to separating each layer from the last. On many occasions they’d thought to be their last there had been a comfort in knowing one of them would sacrifice for the other, or should all chance of escape or rescue prove fruitless they’d be in the best of company until their final breaths.

His goal now was providing d’Artagnan the best circumstances for survival; once more, he thought of how many times he’d impeded Athos’ well-meant intentions through his own interference.

“He doesn’t know anything!”

Aramis rolled eyes that felt as if it were sand and not fabric pushing against them at the thousand possible combinations of words d’Artagnan might have chosen. He was a clever young man, but his impatience dropped more hindrances in his own path than any other obstacles he seemed to find.

“Your ‘Augustino’ is either your most loyal man, or else he is your keeper and it’s you who follows his orders.”

A sniff of breath that carried a wryness worthy of Athos escaped Aramis in spite of himself and a line as thin as a thread opened on his lips with his smile. Imagine, d’Artagnan following his orders – what would Athos think of such a claim. If either his interrogator or d’Artagnan noticed his amusement it was ignored in favor of another cut to his spine and d’Artagnan’s damning the man’s ancestry. Once Aramis’ shock dissipated from the next slice, this one to the side of the bumpy ridge of his spine, he worked to slow his breathing rather than attempt to silence the boy. He’d demolished any plan toward keeping his silence, may as well let d’Artagnan rage at the villains on his behalf.

“Killing him gains you nothing,” d’Artagnan pulled at their bonds to straighten, inadvertently tugging on Armais’ weary muscles in his eagerness to engage the leader, “you want answers you’ll have to go through me.”

The compression of Aramis’ chest left him little air to spare, so he forewent sighing and angled his head, orienting it to where he’d last guessed the position of the leader.

“That would be inadvisable…you’d do better…” Aramis’ voice lifted as if he were angling his blade to counter, “...to go through me...”

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There were times d’Artagnan genuinely wondered if Aramis were overacting or he were as mad as some of the men of the red guard claimed. D’Artagnan knew he could turn ruthless from one blink to the next, in flagrant disregard for the bans on dueling, he would have a blade at a red guard’s throat for an insult to Porthos before the larger man could rise from his own seat.

He’d worked out from the start – even before Aramis had so much as told him – that Aramis would bear the weight of most of their torture. It hadn’t been fair, but it had proved necessary. To a point. That had been the plan.

The plan, however, was in as many tatters as Aramis’ shirt.

D’Artagnan appreciated what Aramis was attempting, but he was not going to stand idly aside while his friend attempted to sacrifice himself for him. Regardless of which of the three was stood behind him, d’Artagnan refused to let any of them lay down their life to ensure his own escape. That’s all it could be at this point. They’d uncovered nothing, certainly nothing that could account for the loss of one of them and all d’Artagnan would gain with his freedom would be the location of this building.

These men were unlikely to be using any property that could be traced back to the orchestrator of the attack. He’d be given nothing to deliver his captain or king save news of Aramis’ loss. It was an honorable ploy on Aramis’ part, but immeasurable stupid by d’Artagnan’s estimation.

His escape was neither imminent nor guaranteed; it was barely conceivable at this point. Aramis’ fevered brain might have rationalized absorbing the majority of the torture he’d preserve d’Artagnan’s health, but in drawing their focus all he was hastening was his own death. Keeping one man the target would have made sense had it been d’Artagnan from the beginning, but it had been Aramis so he’d gone along – it had made sense, at first. Now, with his leg and the blows he’d taken earlier d’Artagnan would have no easy task navigating Savoy’s terrain. Especially since he was resolved to take the veteran musketeer with him.

A flare of selfish wishing niggled at him. It would be no small task for Athos and Porthos to find them, but if there were any men he believed could meet the challenge it was their friends.

If he could prevent the men from murdering Aramis there was a chance, however much the path was narrowing, that they could escape. Of equal possibility – in its need for a miracle to happen – was their brothers locating them, and they needed to hold on. He needed Aramis alive, not throwing himself in front of a canon so d’Artagnan could run.

“He’d say you’re being a stubborn fool.”

“He’d have agreed with me…”

“No,” d’Artagnan realized how petulant it sounded before he’d thought of further words to debate his most eloquent friend.

The faint chuckle was worth the tiny sting to his pride.

“Caput supra cor.”

The words hurt more than any lengthy thesis Aramis might have concocted to prove his case. D’Artagnan blinked against the sting in his eyes and swallowed back the thickness building in his throat, threatening to spew forth. This would not be how it ended, he didn’t want this to be where Aramis died. Not when he’d no power to prevent it; not trussed up and unable to even see each other. Not with Aramis using Athos’ own words to sanction such an awful sacrifice.

His limbs trembled in indignation, rattling the chains and shifting the rope.

“That’s not fai – ” he stopped himself, wanting to kick like a donkey back at Aramis, “he’d never mean for you to...you’re – ”

“French.” Their captor had born their interruptions in hopes they’d let some clue slip, and d’Artagnan had guarded his words rather than his voice. “No Florentine speaks with such a rough tone to his speech – you sound like some peasant from Gascony.”

Aramis made no sound behind him, and d’Artagnan only closed his eyes behind his blindfold, ensuring he didn’t further give them away by displaying any expression on his face. He merely tilted his head, a cock of his chin to indicate he was listening to the man and nothing else.

“Why would two men from Gascony pass near Lyon? I’ve never known such rough brutes to speak so many dialects...another trick? Or why he’s kept you silent?”

D’Artagnan said nothing when he blinked against the low-light of the room, by the shadows on the wall he guessed the sun was near to setting. He locked his jaw in order to show no reaction to the bloody knife leveled at his eyes.

“Nothing to tell me?”

The leader brought the blade so close to d’Artagnan’s face that it blurred to a double image and d’Artagnan picked up a hint of metallic scent. Aramis’ blood. Blood that had been spilled for him as much as because of him and he couldn’t help himself from venting some of his fury.

“If it’s not one of us,” d’Artagnan pressed forward with care not to touch his skin to the edge, “Porthos will kill you for that.”

Assuming he was finally being granted answers the knife was pulled from d’Artagnan’s face, and the leader crossed his arms with the tip wagging at d’Artagnan like a schoolmaster’s finger. “Who is this Porthos?”

“One of the men who will hunt you.”

“Considerable temper when pushed,” Aramis’ voice floated up from behind.

D’Artagnan smirked at his tone, rallied by the man’s insatiable will to continue. “Strength of a leviathan.”

“Colossal strength,” Aramis mused.

“He’ll find you.”

“An avenging angel,” offered Aramis.

“Best to give him something worthy of vengeance,” the leader declared as impassively as stating the time of day.

D’Artagnan’s tensed lips went slack and he was spun without further statement. An unseen sign to the men had one of them at his back and bracketing his arms from turning his body around. Another man moved for the rope as d’Artagnan struggled, digging his heels into the ground and thrashing his torso before he stilled at seeing Aramis’ own.

His back was a nauseating tableau.

Reminding himself of the many times Aramis had said: ‘some parts of the body bleed more, they will appear to have frightful injuries but require few stitches.’ The rivulets looked like a bottle of Bourgogne had been broken over Aramis’ shoulder. Darkened with blood and sweat the shredded fabric clung to Aramis’ sides soaked through and sticking to the sliced skin. Should there come a time to treat his wounds it would require significantly more than a few stitches.

The leader motioned with his hand for two more men to take position to either side of Aramis’ sagging frame and stepped into the space between him and d’Artagnan.

Knowing if Aramis could see what he was about to do he would be met with pointed chastisement d’Artagnan was at least grateful for the blindfold, if not that Aramis was facing away from him. He tensed his calf muscle and dug his heel down in order to raise his uninjured leg to arc his foot at the leader.

Rather than anger at the blow to his knee, the man stepped to the side and turned fully toward him.

“Your only trick?”

With the blade raised once more to d’Artagnan’s face he reflected that encouraging them to trade targets might not be the wisest of plans, but it was their only viable one at present. He resisted glancing over the man’s shoulder at Aramis as well as centering his gaze on the knife, instead he trained his eyes level with the leader’s own.

“Futile. I will have the information,” he raised the knife to the side.

D’Artagnan would have had to turn his head or slide his eyes to the right if he wished to track it further, but he refused to look. He’d wanted this; the man’s attention was better fixated on him. Every moment spent interacting with d’Artagnan was one moment less of these men tormenting Aramis, and one more he could keep his friend alive.

He didn’t flinch when the flat of the blade met his beardless cheek. Not so much as a blink was made by him when the cold steel, wet and sticky from the most recent yield of Aramis’ blood, was swiped onto his cheek. Flipping the weapon over as he exchanged it from one hand to the other the man repeated the motion on d’Artagnan’s left cheek.

“Our plans necessitated remaining here, the centerpiece to the spokes on a wheel…” he turned to d’Artagnan, stroking the cleaned edges of the blade, “but you are not Francesco, and he is someone to you, someone you wish to live,” he pointed the knife once at d’Artagnan before moving to part the lingering strips stuck like wet seaweed clung to rocks that clung to Aramis’ shoulder blades, “and he refuses to speak.” Turning the weapon in his hand he dragged the tip in a steady line, relying on his men to keep Aramis from moving too far in his struggles. He lifted it to begin again from the top of the first cut, and making a new line before a sharp flick connected the two. “Will your Porthos recognize this name?”

D’Artagnan stared at the ‘A.’ It was not deep, yet, but no mere scratch to the skin either; a threat – a template that could be carved upon over and over down to muscle. He swallowed down the fear that a name – even a false one – carved on a body might be needed if there were plans to maul other portions beyond recognition.

“Two names,” the leader’s eyes were as flint, he took no pleasure in this and he was resolute. “Two names or one corpse, and we’ll begin again.”

There were men that took pleasure in their work, but all of this had been a slow march to the truth he wanted. D’Artagnan could see it in the man’s posture, the men who held Aramis were grinning, incorrectly seeing a lamb trussed for slaughter when they’d ensnared a wolf. A wounded one, but no less dangerous and one not absent a pack.

“Names?”

“No…”

“He wants names,” d’Artagnan called, sparing a moment to wonder which of them would pay this time, “and he shall have them.”

Lowering the weapon threatening the curve of the next letter the man stood side-on between his captives, waiting.

“A – ”

“D’– ” not lost enough to pain to forget himself, Aramis held back and converted his shouted order, “...tell him...nothing!”

“Athos.” D’Artagnan liked to think the force of his conviction caused the man to turn fully toward him.

“...and Porthos...” Aramis continued, guessing at d’Artagnan’s intention and breathing the name out as if speaking it could offer comfort.

In a way, the names could. They were a comfort, and they were a promise. Whatever fate Aramis and d’Artagnan found or could fashion for themselves, to freedom or failure, in the end their friends would avenge them.

“Those are your names.” It was a risk, if any of the men had managed to hear of them, but it mattered little now. He might’ve given them their own and he’d considered it; however, there was a sense of resistance to be had in withholding theirs. “The names you should memorize, and fear; the names of the men that will hunt you down in our own.”

A weaker man, more inclined to reckless anger, would have plunged the knife into one of them in retaliation. A cruel man, more inclined to twisted revenge and petty action, would be devising new torments and delighting in making one watch the other. This man, d’Artagnan could tell as if it were written in a thesis on the man’s own doublet, would draw out their end.

Not because he took pleasure, but because it was efficient.

As efficient as the motion he made behind him, eyes watching d’Artagnan’s face for a reaction, as they cut Aramis down. He couldn’t help the wince from pinching his features at the piteous noise Aramis was unable to prevent. The half-strangled sound was louder for the silence in the room and if d’Artagnan could have turned the knife with his glare the leader would be dead on the floor.

“Loyal.” He looked between them, speaking to d’Artagnan again. “How long do you wish him to live?”

D’Artagnan was concocting his retort when he registered the chaos in the hallway, boots stomping and the clatter or weapons drew the attention of every man in the room.

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“Your eye looks...strange.”

“Your face….is unappealing…”

“It’s your blood.”

“Which I’d prefer…” Aramis patted his crooked fingers along the side of d’Artagnan’s neck, taking slow inhales followed by shaky exhalations “...not to see...smeared on you…”

“Can you see out of it?” D’Artagnan ran the tip of a finger along the the curve of bone, palpating the socket, and watching Aramis’ blood marked eye try to follow. “It looks like you’re bleeding from within.”

“Happens...sometimes…” Aramis swallowed, adjusting his shoulders against the bend of d’Artagnan’s arm. “...Athos had it once...quite striking…”

“It looks creepy.”

Aramis’ eyes crinkled at their edges, he’d already assured d’Artagnan the bright red marks in the white of his left eye didn’t hurt but he still winced against the pain in the rest of his body caused by his breathy laugh.

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Chapter Text

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No. 21: “See the chains around my feet.”

Vows | Restraints

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“This is seemin’ more and more like they took ‘em over the border.”

“I am inclined to agree,” Athos frowned at the older man’s back from where he was digging through a splinter ridden box he’d pulled from behind a cask.

“Knew it was from the scuffle,” the elder man squinted at the coin pinched between age marked fingers, “we check the rooms after...every time...wouldn’t have missed this.”

Porthos extended his right hand for the coin, holding it out on the flat expanse of his glove for Athos to examine.

“This close to the border it’s not impossible for it to be a traveler, do you often accept these?”

“I’d like to refuse, but times are that any man’s coin is accepted.”

“They weren’t paying for lodging. They entered only for the fight?”

“Wasn’t much of one,” the man’s cloudy eyes blinked and he fixed Athos with a look that conveyed his displeasure, “your friends were well outnumbered from the start. Didn’t stop the mess of damages.”

“For which you’ll be compensated.” The milky eyes widened in satisfaction, but Athos’ focus was on the missing men and not broken objects. Wall sconces were replaceable, his brothers were not, “If your information proves reliable.”

“Henri rode all the way to Paris to inform you when we discovered they were musketeers, he – ”

“Least ‘e could do,” grumbled Porthos, clenching the coin in his fist before he turned it over and dumped the single disc onto the scraped wood counter.

“Of course,” the man placed his palm over it, sliding it off the scarred surface into his other waiting hand, before Porthos could change his mind, “I hope you find them.”

Athos nodded rather than voicing his thanks by way of acknowledgment. His adherence to the prescribed manners of his station was superseded by his worry and the slightest bit of unkindness.

“Let’s gather the men,” he placed a guiding hand on Porthos’ bicep in encouragement, turning him away from the hotelier and nodding at Fortin’s descent.

They joined him near the door, the dark wood of the room adding to the shadows from the overcast sky outside. Henri had led their remaining companions to the stable, and to show them where Aramis had gathered herbs he’d requested.

“All signs indicate they put up a hell of a fight,” Fortin repeated what they’d confirmed themselves when they’d gone upstairs, “but there’s nothing there to show us where they’ve been taken.”

“Then we keep searchin’ until we find something.”

“That may lead where we’re not permitted to follow.”

“Sayin’ y’wouldn’t storm a castle for ‘em?” Porthos crossed his arms, turned from Fortin to focus on Athos.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Athos confirmed. When he made the request of men from Treville he’d known there was a chance Savoy was behind the attack; the captain had known it too. He also knew what their captain didn’t say, and the space Athos had for latitude in between the words neither man said. “I prefer a more discrete approach given our number.”

“Fair enough,” Lagarde said, nodding at Porthos, “we follow to wherever the search leads. Fortin’s group is still out there and if ours split up we may catch them on the road.”

“Three groups, our number shouldn’t be too thin,” Athos expected that if any of the assailants were still in France they’d be left there to eliminate a rescue. “Whoever has taken them would have discovered they were not who they were assumed to be by now.”

“And if not,” pressed Porthos, “if they’ve taken them across?”

Glancing across the main room at the man arranging his locked box and some tankards, his failing eyes sliding to them in lingering concern, Athos lowered his voice; he’d not outright declare disobeying orders in front of a witness. He pushed through the door, tucking his chin to place his hat in place to block the brightness of the pale gray sky.

“Porthos and I will go to the east, you take Poulin and Denis north, the rest will head south,” Athos divided their ranks by skills, in no configuration would he be without Porthos, and directed each group where he anticipated the least obstruction. He and Porthos would explore closest to Savoy. “We’ll regroup in Voiron by midnight.”

“With or without Fortin?”

Athos nodded in response to Porthos’ question, with a tight movement of his chin. Lagarde led them from the inn to gather and inform the rest of their party.

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“Promise me…”

“That’s – ”

“Unfair,” Aramis interrupted, deliberately winking his left eye to reveal the unsettling color, “I know.”

Of all the injuries for him to joke about it made the most sense, d’Artagnan couldn’t imagine making a mockery of his mangled side or his twisted toes. Aramis had even gone as far as to make light of the ‘A’ drawn into his flesh, making a quip about the initial at least having some relevance. D’Artagnan had been too taken aback by the levity that he’d not been prepared for his comment that should it be deep enough to scar it would matter even less if he passed.

“I was going to say impossible.” He would keep his word, he’d tell Athos and Porthos everything Aramis had asked, but his stubborn heart refused to believe there was need for such a vow. “There’s still a chance.”

“That you can escape? Yes.” Aramis shifted, keeping weight on his hip in an effort not to drop it all into d’Artagnan. “That they’ll come? Certainly.”

Their closeness allowed d’Artagnan to detect the tension in Aramis’ muscles, interrupted here and there by tremors that could be from fever or from pain. Aramis had dismissed his earlier queries and focused instead on directing d’Artagnan with the familiar patience he reserved for any instruction of care. Whether guiding someone through the care of a weapon or a body he had an inexhaustible seriousness.

“That he intends to kill me? Undoubtedly.”

D’Artagnan frowned at the last. He was no untried boy, he knew the graveness of their plight, but he refused to let it stay his efforts. Were such a loss inevitable he’d accept the hated outcome, but before that final moment he meant to fight with every resource available.

“I can distract them. If they focus on trying to get me to speak you’ll have time to rest.”

“To what end…?”

Aramis’ eyes, save for the redness were as calm as a lake at morning. He’d reached an acceptance d’Artagnan wasn’t yet prepared for.

“My father told me to fight on all occasions.”

“We’ve him to thank…” Aramis let his cut lips stretch in a smile that revealed his teeth, “...for your stubbornness?”

“My belief in myself. My belief in all of us. None of your wounds are mortal. Not one.” D’Artagnan was no fool, they’d be hindered by them and Aramis would not move quickly, but he was not yet in a dire state. “The infection is a concern, but you’re coherent and you can stand. I will carry you if need be, but I won’t leave you.”

“Have I any say...in the matter?”

“Not if you’re going to suggest being a decoy. Or a distraction. Or rushing them at the door and locking them in with you...no!” d’Artagnan was the youngest and he enjoyed the leeway it brought him, on occasion; but seeing the truth, that Aramis had considered and would do that soured his stomach. He clenched his fists in the bed linen and behind Aramis’ back in order to avoid laying hands on him to shake the man himself. “No. I won’t allow it. I’ll push you out first and…”

“Peace. If you insist...I’ll go with you...as far as I can…”

“The entire way or not at all.” D’Artagnan argued, a flickering of frustration nagging at him, it was unlike Aramis to be so resigned. He could be as practical as Athos, but he generally attempted levity. It merely pushed d’Artagnan to argue with more resolve toward hope. “I mean it – I won’t leave you behind.”

“Clearly,” Aramis pushed on his elbows, attempting to take more of his own weight. “If you mean to attempt it,” Aramis pushed up, the heat of his skin felt plainly even through the newest bandaging, “then I’ll need boots.”

“You swear you’ll come?” D’Artagnan winced at his phrasing, catching it too late for Aramis to mistake the grimace.

Rather than pointing it out Aramis puffed out another laugh, thin but amused, his weakened frame shifting against d’Artagnan’s chest.

“You sound like a child at prayer.”

D’Artagnan’s temper flared before Aramis’ eyes gave away the game and he closed them, likely anticipating some fiery statement in return. At the acceptance, d’Artagnan’s anger subsided; he needed to focus Aramis on what they could control.

“I will tell them what you asked, should it come to that, but,” d’Artagnan smiled when Aramis’ eyes fluttered open, the mismatched one remained a shock of red, “you promise me you won’t fall behind – willingly, accidentally, or otherwise.”

“Bargaining?”

“Unless you want me to tell them you wouldn’t try,” here d’Artagnan took a risk; he weighed the words for mere moments and decided his aims outweighed any hurt, “Athos would be disappointed, and Porthos…do you really mean to leave me to pass him a handkerchief?”

Aramis’ brows rose, and whether he was shocked or impressed d’Artagnan didn’t care. He wanted Aramis’ attention; he needed him attempting to fight for himself the way he charged in for others.

“That’s – ”

“Unfair, I know,” d’Artagnan quoted Aramis’ own words back to him and winking in repeat of Aramis’ earlier gesture.

“It’s unnerving,” Aramis continued, “have you ever seen...when his eyes cloud? Terrible.” He shook his head in remembered unsettlement. “Athos? He may appear disappointed...several times an hour...loses its effect...almost natural on him…”

D’Artagnan chuckled in spite of himself. None of them disregarded Athos’ more severe glances when there were genuine stakes at risk, but when he glared at them after inciting a duel or rolled his eyes when he was inevitable pulled into their quarrels they were more amused than chastened.

“We always suspected...I maintain Porthos is a terrible judge...of character...but he’s a keen sense...of tells…” Aramis lifted his chin, using his elbows to take more weight, “...enough of the regiment has been selected...from noble families...we’d never asked him where he hailed from...of course…”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan had wondered at Athos never telling them, but he believed Aramis that it was suspected among the regiment; the man’s bearing, his demeanor, his speech, his movement with a blade – all spoke to his history.

“That...and he’s better at Latin than I...but don’t tell him; that...I shall take to my grave…”

A shiver tickled down his spine like a bead of sweat at how close the possibility was to being realized.

“I’ll keep my word,” d’Artagnan promised, curling his arm tighter over Aramis’ shoulders, “but it won’t be necessary.”

“Thank you.”

He gave a smile that required a tightness of his lips to prevent their trembling; he fervently hoped he’d never have to share the words with Athos and Porthos.

“Now…” Aramis glanced about them, “...if you won’t leave without me,” Aramis raised his hand to tap his thumb – avoiding aggravating the twisted fingers on his right hand, “and if I wish to see you free...I’ve not much choice…”

“No.”

“Or else you’ll drag me?”

Matted curls tickled at his cheek when he leaned toward d’Artagnan, Aramis had nodded off more than once after the men had left.

“By any means, Aramis,” d’Artagnan looked about them, locating the positions of their meager belongings. He could likely swap his boots onto Aramis without leaving the bed, but he was hesitant to let go of the other man, “now what else do you – ”

“Shh,” Aramis cocked his head back, turning to stare at the wall he’d previously been behind what felt like days ago. “They’re dragging something…”

“Again?”

“Whatever they’ve put in there in my place sounds heavy,” Aramis pushed against d’Artagnan, allowing him to take more of his weight.

“Well, it won’t matter. We’re leaving when they return.”

“You still believe…” Aramis grunted with the effort it took him to push to a seated posture, “...we should attack?”

Aramis shifted to sit next to d’Artagnan keeping his back, newly wrapped in torn sheets, from bracing on the wall.

“Unless you want to discuss it with them?”

“They’ve not enjoyed my negotiation thus far,” Aramis leaned to push weight into the heel of his palm and gave him a smile that twitched his mustache, “and did seem serious about the…”

Aramis moved his hand in a slicing motion; his hand unable to prevent a slight tremor as it moved through the air. They’d worked off the restraints, the ropes easy enough to unwind; d’Artagnan had handled the chains with the thin metal pick Aramis had sewn into his boot. He’d created the secret panel at d’Artagnan’s request, and d’Artangnan had kept himself from teasing Aramis over his own lock picking skills. It was never wise to mock a man engaged in doing you a favor; it hadn’t, however, prevented Porthos.

“We can use the chains.”

“They think us no threat...having left them…”

“Their mistake,” d’Artagnan was sure of it and he meant to turn their assumptions to his advantage. “They’re more concerned with their supplies next door and whoever they might be waiting for to arrive here. Now, since you’re shorter stature,” since he currently didn’t need Aramis to modify his boot, he saw no reason not to push the man, “requires an exchange of boots, I’ll use the rest of the sheet to shore up the bindings.”

“You may count yourself...fortunate...that our escape requires...I conserve energy…”

D’Artagnan risked a squeeze to Aramis’ shoulders before angling his uninjured leg over him to slip from the bed.

“If we survive I promise to give you a chance at satisfaction.”

“D’Artagnan, there is precious...little in this world...that would truly...see me on the opposite end of blade from you…”

“Good.” Ripping along the torn edge of the sheet they’d sacrificed for Aramis’ back, he cupped Aramis’ ankle to begin winding the shredded fabric. “Now let’s make sure you’re not struck through by one of theirs.”

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“I trust him,” Fortin said again of the scout he’d sent out, “he’d no reason to lie.”

“No reason save the coin y’paid him,” objected Porthos.

“It’s our best lead, I’d already been well beyond our orders in sending him. Had we more time I would have gone myself,” assured Fortin. “Athos, it’s the best information we have and I doubt they’ve much longer.”

Athos had known when they’d come across Fortin early than anticipated, and closer to the border, that d’Artagnan and Aramis were legally out of reach. The setting sun cast shadows and dark swaths across the men gathered in a copse of trees. He’d no right to ask any of them to even venture near the border and certainly not into the land of the duke that had stolen so many of their brothers’ lives.

No reason save the two men he’d exchange his life for in a heartbeat. If it were necessary he and Porthos would be the only two that would make the attempt.

“We’ll be beyond our orders,” he paused, glancing at those assembled, “any man who wishes – ”

“All for one,” began Fortin.

“...and one for all…” echoed the other musketeers.

“Athos,” Porthos looked from left to right, at each man in their company, “we’re crossing into Savoy.”

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Chapter Text

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No. 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”

Glass Shard | “Watch out!”

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“Use the torch.”

“Out the back.”

“This way.”

D’Artagnan’s ear ached from the rough patch of wood he’d pressed himself against to hear the scramble of men on the other side of the door. Night had fallen and their small prison was illuminated by sporadic flashes of lightning, a rush of rain would thrum against the high window pane which covered most sounds.

Between the rumbles of distant thunder, they’d speculated on their escape attempt and listened to the occasional passerby. No food had been provided, but they also hadn’t been returned to their restraints and harmed so d’Artagnan accepted the balance.

He’d limped to the door a few moments prior to the men’s shouts.

Throughout their capture he’d had fleeting thoughts, and a hope, that he was lost to his mind’s imaginings. He’d queried Aramis for confirmation of specific memories in his attempt to prove to himself what he experienced was real. Part of him wished he’d wake to find himself the fevered one and their entire captivity a nightmare that Aramis would wake him from again; that they shared a safe, comfortable bed in an inn rather than a tattered one in a makeshift prison.

Aramis speaking to him helped, even his teasing, as d’Artagnan’s vision of him still haunted the recesses of his mind. The shadowy profile of his friend’s bleeding body slumped before the fire in his dream was as easily recalled as the unpleasant display of his back in front of him. At least he’d been able to bandage him this time; he’d not felt as desperately unable to help as he had in his befuddled dreaming.

Being called after to not put weight on his cut leg, he’d limped to the barred doorway to their cell of a room. The footfalls outside their door were interspersed with dragging sounds, and the smashing of iron and steel. Whatever the men had been about earlier, they were taking no care to hide it or go about their actions carefully in the present moment.

He blinked against a flash that was bright enough to obscure the room and pushed his cheek harder into the uneven surface of the wood.

“Get back here!” Aramis could be authoritative when he wanted.

His yell could cut through the clamor of a fight as sharply as Athos’ own to warn of danger. A few weeks past he’d shot a man approaching d’Artagnan from behind while he’d been engaged with the other thief. In the midst of any skirmish he kept a watch on all of his friends, as they did for each other, and would call out direction as needed. D’Artagnan had moved without looking several times on such shouts, trusting the other man’s instinct to be the best course of action.

D’Artagnan would admit, if they survived, that he’d not yet come to the realization that Aramis had when the older man started dragging the bed frame to the back wall. He pivoted on his uninjured leg and paid little mind to the gash on his calf in order to lurch toward the bed and aid Aramis in dragging it upright. It wasn’t until the thin mattress blocked his view of the room and Aramis’ shoulder jammed him into the wall, using his own marred back to shove d’Artagnan’s against the stone, that he connected all the scraps of knowledge he had to come to an awful conclusion.

Shoved into the coarse stone he tried to move beside Aramis to brace the bed, but Aramis expended the additional effort of pressing his shoulder back to signal d’Artagnan to keep back.

“Grab…” Aramis hissed back at him, and it was unclear if it was from hasted, his fevered state, or aggravation of his back, “the edges.”

He would have preferred to reverse their positions, but he could see the rationale that the width of the bed would not cover two men stood side-by-side. There was no time, no means to gauge how long they had. Pressed against Aramis’ right shoulder, he leaned to grab the side of frame, and mindful not to shove too much weight onto Aramis he reached over him to pull at the top.

“Taller,” he pushed up through the balls of his feet to grip the frame and pull at the left side, “remember?”

Aramis angled his head to the side but their closeness, and d’Artagnan’s stretch to reach the top of the frame, prevented him from holding his gaze. His snort of a laugh and the hitch of his shoulder let d’Artagnan know he wasn’t yet annoyed with him.

“As close to the wall…” he reached to touch d’Artagnan’s forearm, squeezing his palm before he tugged the frame closer to them,“...as you can…”

“Think it’ll work?”

“Better than nothing.”

“Aramis?”

His mind continued to trip one thought into another and fogged his ability to think, at unpredictable moments, but he believed what he was experiencing was the present and no dream. He could not order time correctly, the words he heard were overlapping and he thought he heard the man whisper to him a solemn statement indicating the pleasure it had been to serve together along with something about being a musketeer and courage.

“They’re Musketeers!”

“Quickly!”

“Watch out!”

D’Artagnan expected the deep, familiar, voice he heard was not imagined.

The clink, clink, clink, of shattered glass above them broke through the muffled ringing in his ears. His mind caught up after the thrust of the explosion titled the bedframe, cracking it as they were shoved into the wall at their backs. He dropped a hand to encircle Aramis’ waist, allowing the mattress to slump over them as the weight of the walls and overhead beams slammed onto their meager protection.

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“There’s enough of us,” Porthos growled into his ear, “could ambush them…”

Athos kept his eyes trained on the window with the light flickering and casting odd shapes on the glass from within. The other windows visible held a steady flame; whatever lit them from inside was stable and indicated little movement by the occupants.

“Saw at least three go in, we’re more than their number, waitin’ only means more could arrive.”

“Even if there are only those three within, it will only take one man to harm Aramis or d’Artagnan before we’re able to reach where they’re being held,” Athos peered into the dark, forcing his eyes to hold their gaze on the building through the next flash of lightning. “My guess is the middle room.”

It was a small structure, and by no means inhabited by the larger estate they’d observed several acres to the east of where they’d come through the forest surrounding the outbuilding. The men they’d observed entering had done so through a door on the north end of the structure, an entrance set onto the side of the building. There was another door, shorter and narrower, that connected to the last – windowless – space that made up the south end of the building. He doubted they were held there given the height of the space. The narrowness that would lend it to use as a cell had the disadvantage of being too small a space for conducting any questioning.

“Then we surround it,” declared Porthos catching, “ambush the last room and work our way through. They ain’t gonna kill ‘em if it means their lives.”

“They may have them separated. We’d do better to enter from both doors simultaneously.”

“Desperate men,” Lagarde offered, “they may prefer dying by your hand than at the end of a rope.”

“Surround it and see what we can in the middle room?” Porthos offered, nodding his nose toward the high windows. “I can get y’up there. Once we figure who’s where, we give the sign and breach both doors.”

Athos looked to either side, taking stock of Lagarde and Fortin.

“Inform the men, Lagarde take the south entrance; Fortin bring your men to the north side.” Pushing up, he tapped Porthos’ arm. “We’ll check the window while you get in position – nobody moves until my signal.”

Satisfied with his declaration the other men slipped from the hill they were crouched near to regroup with the clustered men waiting on either side. He adjusted his hat to drain some of the gathered rain water.

The overgrowth surrounding the outbuilding would help them until the last few yards. A trough stretched like a coffin on the ground alongside the building. The storm flashes would obscure them, and the height of the windows that worked against them also prevented from those inside from detecting anyone’s approach.

Even with that knowledge they kept close to the trees and Porthos tugged his cloak to pull him back when a series of lighning flashes brightened their position. It allowed him to see Fortin’s men picking their way through the woods several yards to their left.

The storm managed to cover the rush of his blood even as the pounding of his heart made him succumb to the distraction of its feeling it would escape his chest. He was a man of reason, and his focus had always prevented him from spiraling into the distraction of the pull of nerves that could haunt a soldier. Forcing down a natural sense of worry was more difficult when the people you sought to rescue were closer to you than your own blood relations.

Ruthlessly pushing his memories away, he nodded to Porthos they would continue. He held his silence until they had their backs at the stone wall directly under the window of the middle room. The rain had begun falling in heavier bursts, obstructing the view of the woods, but he could see the shadows of the others moving into position.

He would have had to shout to be heard over the storm, but he and Porthos required no words. They would bring their brothers home from here regardless of the cost. Clapping a hand around Porthos’ pauldron he nodded to the other man who in turn crouched to make a stirrup of his hands for Athos’ boot. Pushing off his shoulder, Athos used the uneven stone to leverage himself to see into the room.

The empty room.

There was little inside the space, an overturned stool and a few buckets. Rope and chains were coiled a few feet from the wall that adjoined that room to the one where Athos had observed the flickering shadows that indicated multiple torches or lanterns. This room had only a small sconce, placed high on the wall, that cast light nearest to the door. He thought he discerned a bed stood to lean on the furthest wall, a pile of torn fabric – old sheets, perhaps – nearest the wooden frame.

He shook his head down at Porthos and leapt to the ground as he was lowered.

Turning he knew moved along the wall to align them under the window with the light. He heard Fortin call out over the lashing rain, but motioned his hand for Porthos to help him peer into the window.

“They’re Musketeers!”

The shout came in-between a thunderous clap over their heads and Athos jumped without bothering to inform Porthos.

“Get them back! Now!” Athos drew his sword, and moved to the north side of the outbuilding, trusting Porthos to head for the musketeers at the south.

The unmistakable sound of blades colliding pierced the air over the pelting rain.

“Get back!” He called to the men fighting those he expected to be Savoyards as he heard Porthos compete with the thunder.

“Watch out!”

There was never enough time in a battle to think, and only just enough time when one were the victor. His unencumbered arm waved the men and he pushed at Poulin’s narrow back determined to clear the younger man free of the blast. He was only a few years older than d’Artagnan.

The glass shard that managed to embed itself in his neck was a minimal sting compared to the stone that crashed into his lower back. The collapsing building appeared to float overhead; from his viewpoint the entire world was upside down. He couldn’t make out what Porthos was shouting, but it was unmistakably his shape rushing toward him backlit by the smoke and flames.

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Chapter Text

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No. 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

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“D’Artagnan...how many times...have I said to Porthos...or you...and even Athos that ‘a friend loves at all times...and a brother is born for adversity’...we are both. All of us.” The grip holding him, he assumed he was being held by the feel of the pressure, tightened. “You cannot...abandon me now d’Artagnan: don’t go where I can’t follow.”

He might have been dreaming, but Aramis sounded much too serious. When Aramis snuck into his dreams it was generally as part of a revelry, or an adventure.

“Well, where...I may follow?” Aramis’ voice faded, as if he’d turned away. D’Artagnan felt movement with the sound of his cough. “All those demands...that I push on...and you slumber on me now?”

Maybe he was dreaming, or his head had been struck again. Aramis ‘tsk’d’ from somewhere above him, but his arms tightened around him. Even in darkness he was certain that the pressure against his upper body was Aramis’ arms around him. Until one of them wasn’t; the warmth of the limb lifted and faded.

If he were dreaming would he control Aramis’ movements? He liked the hold, the grip served as a hug and, in his confusion, he felt untethered; the unfamiliarity was eased with the embrace.

He’d put an arm around Aramis, hadn’t he? Earlier? Before he’d been caught up in this darkness, in a slack and motionless state.

The bed had broken. The beams had broken. The window had broken.

The explosion!

He’d known too late that the men had been stockpiling powder in the next room; that they’d meant to destroy the building with them inside.

The arm returned, but not to his side. A hand found his forehead, and brushed through d’Artagnan’s hair encouraging it from dropping into his eyes. Once more, Aramis tsk’d.

“I would prefer...to debate your foolish claims…” Aramis coughed again, his voice drifting away before growing louder, as though he were speaking above d’Artagnan. “Rather than...watching...you...” Aramis blew out a breath and coughed, tugging d’Artagnan closer to him, “...we need to attempt...your lofty...escape plan…”

D’Artagnan wanted to tell him he was awake, he wished to argue back, and he’d happily debate Aramis over his shorter stature. Unfortunately his body would not respond. He was reminded of when he’d lain at the inn, trapped in a nightmare with Aramis’ mangled form; now he feared Aramis might be holding his.

“Preferably...very soon...”

His shoulders would not move. He could not feel his injured calf, or his leg for that matter; he couldn’t feel either leg. D’Artagnan forced his breathing – what he assumed was his actual movement of his lungs and not a dream – to even out, but he could not sense the action. The whole of his body felt numb, despite that he’d felt Aramis’ arms around him and that now his hand continued to rest on his forehead.

“The sheet is blocking some smoke...but I don’t know...” Aramis’ hand lifted from his head and made some movement, or gesture, by the feel of his shifting against d’Artagnan. “I don’t know...how long it will hold...how much stone lies between us...and any flames…”

The angle in which he thought he lay indicated he was against Aramis’ own torso, and he felt the stone of the wall at the base of his spine. They were still tucked into the corner then, with whatever was left of the bed frame separating them.

He wondered if Aramis were waiting for him to wake to move. As with the ambush on their carriage, he’d no sense of time passing. Just as with laying in bed at the inn, he was not clear on whether he was awake or creating an imaginary scene to inhabit while he recovered.

“D’Artagnan I – ” his voice was closer, but moved off quickly when he was set to coughing once more.

From what he could sense of himself there was no pressure anywhere on his body to indicate he was badly hurt. Aramis’ voice did not indicate any panic, but the man could be damnably calm when aiding a wounded friend.

D’Artagnan wanted to assure him he was well, but his wish to speak would not even will his lips to part.

Overhead he could hear the low tones of Aramis intoning a prayer. D’Artagnan should have been comforted. Aramis’ voice, especially when offered in prayer or song, had a soothing quality. There was little relief that d’Artagnan could take from the sound while he silently attempted to claw his own way to speech.

D’Artagnan swallowed against nausea and worked his throat to try and speak. Aramis had told him some men suffered worse with multiple injuries to the head; he’d seen them struck days or months apart and witnessed a worsening of their symptoms. He’d confessed that he experienced headaches and unexplained sensitivity to sunlight and brightness at times should his head suffer a blow. According to Aramis even if he were healing it worsened should another strike occur in the following days or weeks.

Crushed together, with Aramis’ hand on his head, d’Artagnan wondered if he’d been knocked by some falling debris in the collapse. He knew that he needed to strain to move, to fight. If Aramis was holding him, it was either because he couldn’t move them or there was a reason he wasn’t moving d’Artagnan. That thought spurred him to force a moan from his throat – it wasn’t words, but he hoped it would signal to Aramis that he was making an effort toward consciousness.

“Easy…move toward my hand...if you’re able…”

Aramis’ arm at his back pushed lightly, encouraging him forward guiding him in the direction of the palm he’d rested on his head.

“Come now, it’s rather important.”

D’Artagnan wanted to, if he could drag his own body up from outside of himself he would; however, he couldn’t move and he could not communicate to Aramis to move him. If Aramis could move him.

“There’s a beam...on your good leg...” Aramis told him, leaning them both forward – presumably to look at the limb, “...ideally, Porthos would throw it clear...but absent his aid...perhaps your ‘thews of iron’ could be of use?”

Aramis jostled him lightly, his voice close enough for the heat of his breath to waft over d’Artagnan’s hair.

“Hmm? Those…‘wrists of steel’…” Aramis’ staccato breathing signaled his private amusement, squeezing the arm he had around d’Artagnan a fraction tighter, “...did you ever...tell Athos that? If not...we must make it back...so you can...and I will – ”

Aramis’ voice was cut off by his own hacking breath and his own body shifted with the force of Aramis’ coughing.

“Sorry, smoke...I can’t see where the fire extends...we’re in a bit of trouble...”

Of all times he needed to get up, to help, he could not fathom why his body refused him. A flash of temper rolled through d’Artagnan, but it didn’t prompt his nerves and muscles to move his body. He knew he was attempting to move, but none of his limbs were responding to his demands.

“I’m hopeful...the blast weakened...or opened...the outer wall...let’s not wait too long to check, yes?”

However the room had come down upon them, Aramis’ words hinted that he couldn’t move without d’Artagnan. He’d not confessed any additional wounds to himself, although those he’d already sustained had to be stealing his remaining strength. It occurred to him that Aramis may very well not be able to lift the beam, free him, and keep the debris from collapsing what remained of the bed protecting them.

“D’Artagnan?” Uneven taps of crooked fingers made shaky patterns on his forehead.

“D’Artagnan!”

“That’s...” Aramis’ arm tensed along his torso and, still maintaining a hold on d’Artagnan, his body twisted, “...that sounds…”

“Aramis!”

D’Artagnan had heard it over the sound of debris falling and the scrape of stone was loud even against the continuous thunder in the background. Unless Aramis had decided to alter his voice and somehow make it sound as though it were coming from elsewhere. Were he in a state of injury forced confusion he accepted he might be adding his own wishes to the circumstances, but he could hear the hope in Aramis’ voice.

It had to be true.

“Aramis!”

“Do you hear…” Aramis’ body shifted, the volume of his voice altered as he turned back around. “My God, they came…”

Irrespective of whether he were caught in a dream, or merely trapped from waking fully and bearing silent witness to Aramis’ reactions, he wanted to hit him. He wanted to remind his friend, his brother, that of course they did, and of course they would have. Unable to crow over the accuracy of his earlier prediction he made do with nudging his head into Aramis’ hand.

Well, he tried to move his head.

The calls were faint, muffled more than Aramis’ words above him, but they were clearly their names. Of even greater solace was that they were unmistakably the voices of their friends.

“D’Artagnan!”

Along with others in their regiment, d’Artagnan was certain that was Lagarde shouting although the last syllable of his name was swallowed by the quick succession of thunderclap and another part of the building complaining.

“Will you answer...or shall I?”

Aramis waited only a moment, and the space of another coughing fit, to draw a breath that lifted d’Artagnan along with him.

“Here!”

Aramis’ voice was not as strong as d’Artagnan had expected, especially given their proximity.

“We’re here!”

“Aramis!”

“There!”

“He’s here, over this way!”

“Athos! Porthos?”

The shouts sounded like whispers under the rain and movement of the stone. Their friends were digging, and they’d reinforcements by the sound of it – they’d not come alone. Since the roof had come down the wind whipped and whooshed through the open spaces, but they were too far under to be touched by the water. Which also meant, for the moment, they were removed from the fire.

“The corner!” Aramis’ yells reverberated into his bones, their closeness meant every breath moved him and he felt the force of every shout. “There’s a bed!”

D’Artagnan supposed he was motionless as far as Aramis could tell, but he was straining beneath his skin; every moment he made an effort to move.

“I can’t hear!” Aramis shook him with a bit more force than he’d used previously. “We need to…” Whatever he’d intended to say he discarded and trailed off; favoring to act out his words as a scraping noise followed his motioning. Aramis’ arm returned and again attempted to provoke a reaction from him. “D’Artagnan…”

His voice drifted off and his movements stilled, he held d’Artagnan with no other sound than harsh pants. Expecting he was listening for any indication of where their friends were, d’Artagnan attempted to isolate the sounds of the men outside from Aramis, the crackle and thunk of the collapsed room, or the howling of the storm.

Rather than words he heard a clack, and the click of smaller rocks sliding along each other; the men’s voices they’d been straining to hear rose over the storm but so many overlapped there was no distinguishing words. He thought he heard a sharp command from Athos by the tone of it, but he couldn’t have begun to guess at the actual phrase.

“Hold on!”

Aramis’ voice was overloud, in comparison to the faint voices from outside, and was nearly lost to the horrific crunching of wood and colliding stone. His beard scraped d’Artagnan’s temple as he gathered him in to his chest before Aramis stopped speaking entirely.

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Chapter Text

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No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”

Storm | Buried Alive | “They’re not breathing!”

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As Porthos prodded him for incapacitating injuries, before he lifted him to a seated position, Athos had shouted out ‘the middle’ like a madman. His mind had taken a moment to catch up when Porthos’ hands slid to his lower back and abdomen, one to either side, and he’d forcefully turned the man’s head toward the ruined structure.

“A hand – ”

“Easy, I’m tryin’ to help you.”

“No,” Athos shook his head and shoved up to his full height, pushing at Porthos’ side to get him to move closer to the blown apart outbuilding. His mind’s eye showed him a rush of images, a steady picture of the curl of fingers over wood. Near bloodless from the tightness of their hold, he could see them take shape around that leaning frame in the shadowed corner. “D’Artagnan’s hand, I saw it!”

“Athos?” Fortin stood to their side, half an arm’s length away.

Athos could tell by his posture in his periphery that he held some doubt over the state of Athos’ mind, and likely what Porthos’ reaction might be. Aramis could be the most aggressive when one of the three – now four – of them were insulted, but if there were a physical threat, Porthos rarely hesitated to bodily intervene.

“The middle room,” he glanced at Fortin, but stared at Porthos and gripped his arm, stumbling only once as he reached to tug Porthos to follow him. “The bed, they must have known the blast was coming.”

“They were behind the bed?” Trusting him, Porthos was already moving to follow and calling to the other men.

“I missed it! They’re in the corner!”

“Not yer fault, c’mon.”

His limp may have been more pronounced than he felt it was for Porthos slung his own arm over his shoulder while Porthos’ came around his back.

“The southern wall, in the middle room,” Athos rattled off the pertinent details as they crossed, boots sticking to ground that squelched, “they must have known the blast was imminent.”

“Then that’s where we start,” Porthos eased Athos’ arm off his shoulder, angling him so he could get a hand on a pile of the broken stone.

Athos staggered two steps forward absent his support, but quickly righted himself to brace on the pile of debris that had sloped along the outer wall. He kept near the section Porthos was shoring up to allow him to scale that portion of wall to see the corner. If it held under Porthos, Athos would follow and they could see if there were places stable enough to take the weight of more than one man.

“We’ve secured them!” Lagarde ran up, leaning close to Athos and shouting so that Porthos would hear as well.

If they’d contained all the men that exited before the powder was set off, and all of the men within the structure save their own they had a small chance. Whoever else was involved in holding them would either come to fight them or run off. The worst of possibilities would be one of the men involved in the plot seeking reinforcements. If this had been Savoy’s plot there was little need to hide their actions, and every reason to eliminate the group of recently arrived musketeers. If the contingent of men were acting independently it could explain why they’d wish to eradicate the evidence of their deed from Savoy and France.

“Our best chance is here,” Athos swung the gloved hand not bearing his weight on the building’s remnants toward where he could make out the dividing wall between the middle room and the shorter southern room. The door-frame there was in tact, but the wooden door had been splintered by the rubble of stone pieces that forced their way out after the explosion. Even if he’d judged it safe to enter from there, the path was blocked. “The corner is in tact, they could be wedged there.”

“Then we dig ‘em out,” Porthos waved Poulin over and began eyeing the wall for an ideal section to clear.

“If reinforcements are coming,” Athos angled his head to meet Lagarde’s eyes, “there won’t be time to retrieve them and get our prisoners across.”

“Are you planning on leaving them here?” Lagarde’s countenance held no judgment, and he didn’t speculate on whether they were retrieving bodies or rescuing their friends.

“We’re not leavin’ ‘em.”

Athos hoped the latter, but knew the former was possible even as Porthos began shouting again and pausing for Aramis and D’Artagnan to respond.

The wind had picked up. Athos could see the bending trees, and the dispersing smoke; even if his hearing was obscured by a persistent, piercing ring. The gusts and lashing rain combined might not quell the fire but of what he could see it had abated. One small mercy in an overwhelming cascade of problems.

Peering into the rain he could make out the shapes of those guarding the jailers, and those coming to aid Porthos and Poulin’s efforts. To every last man they’d remained.

He and Porthos would not leave, regardless of what they uncovered beneath the rubble, but he’d a duty to France as well. A duty that would provide the loyal men who’d followed them a justification for crossing into Savoy.

“Select at least three of the men, yourself among them if you wish,” Athos spoke clearly, it was as important a task for preserving the regiment as their friend’s lives, he’d not begrudge any man who wished one task over the other, “and take the prisoners to Barraux.”

“The fort?”

Athos nodded. He saw Porthos’ head turn in his periphery, but he ignored the glance.

“We’ll follow,” promised Athos.

He hoped they could, as fervently as he hoped his brothers were not buried alive and dying as they spoke. Trusting Lagarde to see his decision carried out, he bent to free the cracked stone Poulin was lifting.

“Inform Lagarde you’re among those for Barraux.”

“I want to help,” he allowed Athos to take the stone, but his tense posture indicated he’d mount an adamant resistance to Athos’ request.

“You’ll do more escorting the prisoners,” Athos cast the wet stone onto the pile building beside them and nodded to where Lagarde was directing soldiers and prisoners to horses.

“But I – ”

“I promise you that Aramis,” Athos knew the younger man had been informed of at least parts of the history surrounding the massacre, “and d’Artagnan would wish you to go ahead to Barraux. We’ve enough men to see this done.”

Poulin’s eyes were highlighted by a lightning flash above them, their pale blue brighter for the burst of light, and giving him an appearance of one even younger than his years for their wideness.

“Go,” Athos’ order was soft, but Poulin’s resigned expression indicated he’d heard it above the rain.

The young man he’d pushed clear of danger, placed a hand on Athos’ neck; now free of the glass, but still wet from rain and the unbandaged wound.

“I will see you soon.”

Athos nodded, slipping from the hold and taking care not to put his full weight on the rocks when he struggled over the soaked ground. He stepped between a clump of thatch and the rood supports to wedge himself nearest where the uncovered corner of room was located. “The bed would have been here, that’s the corner!”

Porthos moved on his toes up the slope, picking his way closer to the top, and launching large stones to the ground as each impeded his way.

Athos expected that if their meager barrier held back the worst of the collapse Aramis and d’Artagnan would be tucked against the join of the outer wall and the last room. He stepped on a slab of wall, bending his knee to jam the toe of his boot into a crack of two stones angled together. Leveraging upward he tested each foothold before using them to raise himself to view the corner they’d uncovered. The debris included broken lintels and support beams, and he tried to recall his earlier view of the room to assign where pieces had been. Although the view had been dim, he was certain the bed was the main object on the far wall.

Porthos’ glove crossed into his periphery, brushing the loose pebbles and detritus to clear a grip before he tore a larger slab free. Denis worked at Athos’ right, careful to keep his footing over what would have been the separating wall between rooms.

They couldn’t wait long between shouts, the storm stole their words and covered most chances for a reply. Lifting stone and stray bits of roof and timber also hindered their ability to hear any calls coming from within the former structure. Porthos had climbed higher, standing atop where the building had collapsed. He directed the other men around him, ensuring none were too close or digging at parts that could destabilize where they had guessed their friends to be.

Working in tandem to excavate the section, Athos and Porthos were closest to the center point and passed most of what they pulled free to other men for discard. Unsurprised to see Lagarde at his other shoulder he paused his movements when the other man called out Aramis’ name and then d’Artagnan. Athos echoed the call, followed by thunder and then Porthos’ voice boomed again.

“Here!”

Hearing his wife’s voice when he’d thought her dead had caused a chill in his blood; Aramis’ faint call sent it rushing through his veins.

“There!” Athos signaled the men to silence, and every man stilled to listen for any further reply.

“That’s Aramis!” Porthos broke the silence, but Athos couldn’t fault him.

Athos didn’t doubt Porthos’ declaration, he too would stake his life it was the other man’s voice. He’d a passing thought of appreciation for Porthos’ restraint. At the confirmation Aramis was alive he remained still, waiting to hear if he’d speak again; to confirm if d’Artagnan was well, or let the young man call out himself.

“We’re here!”

“Aramis!”

He was as desperate as Porthos to provide confirmation to his trapped brothers that they were there. They would not abandon them no matter the cost.

“There,” Denis pointed to the right of Athos’ boot, “toward the wall.”

“He’s here,” Athos directed two more men to the lower roof that was still in tact over the last room, “over this way!”

“Athos! Porthos?”

“We’re here!” Athos sent an assuring glance at Porthos, crouching on some of the sturdy stone of the adjoining wall to better hear the faint calls to them. “Keep speaking!”

“Aramis?” Porthos crouched forward, waiting.

“The corner!”

“We’re over it!” Athos called back.

“There’s a bed!”

“Keep as tight to the wall as you can,” Athos motioned to Porthos to resume clearing in the opposite direction. “Is d’Artagnan there?”

It was as delicate as he could phrase it. He knew the younger man had been behind the bed from the hand he’d seen. There was a possibility only Aramis was speaking so as not to risk confusion or overlapping voices; however, it was equally possible that d’Artagnan did not call out because he could not.

“Aramis!” Porthos called out once another deafening clash of thunder had receded from dominating the air.

“Clear there!” Athos ordered Denis, motioning to the two men he’d sent to the sturdier sections of the next room to move closer. “Take these from here and dump them over the side, or into that room. Balance the weight.”

He didn’t want too many men on the walls, they could give out under the strain. There was no time to gauge how much of the structure had been compromised and it was better to risk a collapse into the smallest room than onto their buried friends.

No further response came or if it did they lost it to their battle with the weather or their own clearing of the stones. Athos’ saturated glove made maintaining a hold on the heavy, uneven chunks difficult. He resisted diving after the piece he dropped, grateful to watch it wedge into the loose mud below. The men moved under Porthos’ direction, balanced like goats picking their way across the Alps.

Confirmation that at least Aramis was conscious and below them they needed to take care. The more they uncovered, the deeper they excavated, the looser the pieces surrounding Aramis and d’Artagnan would become.

“There!” Porthos bellowed in competition with the howling wind.

Each man froze and looked to the gouged leg at the corner of what was clearly the end of the wood bed frame.

Lagarde moved closer to Athos, indicating he should venture nearer and he would take whatever Athos removed. Porthos in turn waved back Denis, stepping cautiously closer to the uncovered bed. The other men continued to work further from this new center point, watching out for weakened sections.

The next flash of lightning highlighted the bed; their main source of hope now that the replies had stopped. He tilted closer and crouched opposite Porthos, working to dig at the smaller rocks and dust that had packed together under the rain’s assault.

As they worked the wooden frame revealed showed them the mattress was bent under, likely protecting their friends from the dirt and smoke. He shoved his fingers deeper, levering out a section of stone that refused to released without being dug around. Shuffling his boot and opposite knee forward, Athos bent to scoop out a cluster of rocks.

His glove tore, water and muck running down the side of his hand, but he kept pulling and throwing. Each man paced their digging against the others, pausing to check none of them had loosened another’s portion. Their efforts were hindered by the slick surfaces of the stones and the packed dust and dirt that had muddied under the continued rain.

Uncaring of how much time was passing they dug, and Athos could not spare a thought to how many, if any, men were heading toward them. The only two that mattered were trapped beneath a collapsed building and it would take being shot to stop him. Even then he’d continue until he freed them or was bodily forced to move.

His glove had filled with rain water, chilling his fingers and causing a numbness to the tips. It slowed him, but it never stopped him. Several feet of the wall from the roof to below the high window had crumbled down in the blast and they’d removed at least an arm’s length since. He guessed they were between one third to halfway into the room’s original height by now; they should be close.

“Stop!”

“Wait!”

His excitement was tempered by the ominous clack he’d heard before the shouts buried the sound. The voices of Porthos and Lagarde were in turn overtaken by the crash of and clacking of stones and wood and unidentifiable debris sliding from the sides; a loose section at Athos’ ankle nearly sunk his leg into the hole they’d made.

Pushing back onto his hands he twisted to his knees, stretching to peer into the

“Damn,” Porthos shifted forward and motioned the others back.

“Light!” Athos voice shredded on the request, bracing himself on Porthos’ shoulder across the opening to prevent knocking their heads together.

Athos took the torch from Lagarde; only the two of them remained on the edge of the partially collapsed opening. It was slower work and the pooling rain made clearing the space an act akin to dredging a river. Athos took up each large chunk, eventually trusting the edge enough to surrender the torch for someone else to hold steady while he aided Porthos.

He nearly grabbed back the light when he believed his eyes were playing tricks on him. A flash of lightning above made the pit darken against the bit of fabric they uncovered that seemed to glow. Athos held back his breath, after forcing numb limbs to work so long, it seemed impossible they’d reached their target.

Lagarde or Denis, he’d lost track of which man was where once his gaze was focused on the stark color of the linen visible between the craggy stone, held the torch back out into the hole they’d cleared.

“Aramis!” He called, one glove gripping Porthos, and tilting his weight to counter the shift of the rocks beneath him. “D’Artagnan!”

Porthos’ positioning meant lifting the mattress would partially block his view and Athos wondered if it might be a blessing. He would rather Porthos read the future on his face rather than uncovering the state of their friends directly.

Athos reached for the edge, cold fingers curling to brace and lift the soft lump. He was off center and Denis, at his sign it was safe, knelt to push from the other edge; Porthos grabbed the end with both hands pulling it away and craning over the lump to look down.

At first Athos believed they would have to pluck out a sheet to uncover them, but quickly realized the sullied fabric was a shirt, stretched over Aramis’ back. Aramis, whose torso had shielded d’Artagnan. Athos tore off his ripped glove and reached for him, but his head was bent the other direction. Before Athos could slide around to be closer, Denis reached down.

“They’re not breathing!” The young man’s arm tore back and he stared wide-eyed at the two men slumped in the corner.

Athos shoved himself over to better see Aramis’ face, determined to reach them; Aramis had called to them earlier. The smoke couldn’t have reached them so quickly, and there had been cracks, air flowing.

“No!” Porthos glared at the man, not close enough to touch or shake either Aramis or d’Artagnan, he settled for the force of his own denial. “That’s – it’s not their grave!”

“So very...dramatic...Porthos…” Aramis’ bent head rose, dislodging some of the debris tangled in it and he angled his neck to find them above him. He cracked his right eye open, and then his left to reveal a deep red surrounding his iris which was as worrying as his humor, “...you’re not delivering...a perfect body...to the grave...”

Porthos choked out a sound that Athos had not ever witnessed from the other before on any field of battle or graves. Neither, he suspected, had Aramis heard such a wounded noise from Porthos by the softening of his gaze. Forcing both of his eyes open, Aramis’ flinch at his own discomfort from movement did little to curtail his smile.

“Stop that...and hurry up with your rescue...hmm?”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.”

Seeing Double | Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

After working to exhaustion, they were not done. They could have no rest until they reached the border, and after crossing they still had to make for the fort.

Fort Barraux.

The fort Aramis, and twenty dead musketeers, had been brought to rest before transport could be arranged back to Paris.

The fortification was the closest location he could direct the men to take their captives. Had he a choice he would prefer not to bring Aramis there, but it would serve them better than any other lodgings they could seek out. D’Artagnan and Aramis had already been taken from an inn, and it would be near impossible for any pursuers to gain entry to the fort, let alone attempt to recapture their friends.

Chances that any enemies would chase them across the border were slim, and their own prisoners would be secure. The fort’s resources would be at their disposal, most important among them would be medical supplies, and a host of soldiers to deter attack or aid in capture.

Moving as quickly as they could risk the horses in the storm Athos still took care to choose the most even terrain. Aramis’ arms tensed around him when their mount took an incline and they were forced to lean back. His own muscles were burning from keeping himself steady in his seat to provide Aramis the best chance at maintaining his own.

“No need,” Aramis mumbled, his heated cheek knocking against Athos’ ear, in response to Athos’ check of the ties.

They’d wrapped Aramis’ forearms, his wrists were too raw, together as a means to keep him from crashing to the ground before Athos could realize. Were he to pass out the hope was that he wouldn’t further damage himself, nor would he drag Athos from the horse if it happened. It would have been preferable to have him ride before Athos, but between his back and the burn on his torso he’d declared it would be least painful for him to ride behind. The natural movement of the horse and Athos would abrade him were he in front. Aramis was able to tense his thighs to keep astride, but the state of his hands and feet prevented anything further than securing his arms around Athos’ waist.

Several times, he’d had to lean to right the man, and twice – three times if one counted the attempt Aramis had aborted – he reached down to check the hold of the arms at his waist. The assurance of the binding, along with Athos’ insistence, invited Aramis to rest, but when the pressure on his abdomen subsided he worried the other man risked falling off rather than asleep. They’d a spare cloak to offer him, but there’d been no hat; the pelting rain ensured Athos couldn’t sacrifice his own regardless of his wishes.

“Don’t,” he tucked his chin toward his sodden cloak, angling his head to his shoulder to let his voice carry back, “you’d do better to rest.”

The arms around him angled in a move that he already recognized as aiding Aramis in lifting himself up. He’d made considerable effort not to allow Athos to take all of his weight. At first Athos believed it was owed to a desire to avoid pressure to his wounds, but from the irregular jerks felt through his own back he believed Aramis was fighting to keep alert.

“...disorienting...I know...there are not...two of you…”

“You’re seeing double?”

“...when...it’s not blurred...”

“Close your eyes, then.” Athos was content if Aramis wished to rest or remain alert, he’d already judged he’d e able to keep them both atop the horse regardless.

“I’ll fall...asleep…”

As if to accent his words his damp hair pushed along Athos’ ear, lifting away from his shoulder; but not entirely, as though Aramis couldn’t bear the full weight of straightening.

“I won’t allow you to fall off.”

“Mm…” The noise indicated neither agreement nor denial as Aramis nudged closer, cushioned by the cloak, and Athos wondered if the brim of his hat were shielding him or acting to drain and drip along the already beleaguered head. “...Porthos would...be upset…”

“He was content,” Athos assured him, straightening in the saddle to track Lagarde’s movement ahead, “in the end.”

Porthos had no less regard for d’Artagnan than he did for Aramis, but he’d lacked any skill in hiding his concern when it was decided Aramis would not ride with him. D’Artagnan breathed easily, if shallowly, but he’d not stirred once after they’d pulled him from the ruined building. Declaring he’d remain conscious, Aramis had told Porthos his strength would be required to safely see d’Artagnan back to France. Aramis had also teased him that Athos – the only acceptable option if Aramis were not to ride with Porthos – kept a smoother gait.

“For a man so talented at cards,” Athos dipped his head forward, letting the rain slide off onto his own gloves rather than tip it back to drip onto Aramis, “one would think he could maintain an impassive face for a few moments.”

“Never...where we’re concerned...sentimental, our Porthos…” Aramis hissed the ‘s’ sound as he shifted, “...he worries...”

Athos didn’t ask after the cause. Once he confirmed Aramis risked no further injury rather than attempting to ascertain which of his great assortment of them he’d managed to aggravate, he forced himself not to glance behind.

“He does.”

“You shouldn’t.” Aramis’ torso pressed closer, the fabric between them providing a measure of cushion, and Athos sensed his head moving. “There was...little more aid...could be rendered…”

Aramis had insisted he would not ride with anyone until he’d been satisfied d’Artagnan could be safely transported.

“...he’ll be all right…”

Athos didn’t bother to clarify which of their friends he referenced. They’d secured d’Artagnan to Porthos, affixing his own arms to his waist and then using a loaned belt to wrap entirely about him and Porthos. Lagarde led them toward the border, and Porthos had elected to follow behind Athos and Aramis, the rest of the men guarding their rear. Their pace was quick, but he’d prefer Aramis to relax at their slower pace in the event they’d need to gallop away from pursuit. Thus far, their rear scout gave no signal they were being followed.

The rain was lessening, and the lightning had ceased, but the rising wind had Athos sinking deeper into his seat and if not for their closeness Aramis’ murmuring would have proven inaudible.

“...told you…” Aramis’ words came with longer pauses and softer tones, but no less conviction, than when he’d insisted on looking over d’Artagnan after their removal from the debris. “...I won’t...allow…him – ”

“I know.”

Aramis’ thigh tensed under his hand, he’d meant the gesture as an assurance but they both swayed with the next slope. It brought them to a break in the clearing that Athos recognized that they’d passed through hours prior; he tensed in anticipation – they’d do better at a canter, crossing into France at a gallop if their injured could withstand the pace. That any of them would reach their destination came down to resilience uncommon among other soldiers, other men.

He adjusted his seat, pushing his abdomen out to check the security of the soft bindings that held Aramis around him.

“...your back…”

“Mine?” Athos would have rolled his eyes but settled for his tone to convey how unimpressed he was at Aramis’ concern.

He appreciated his care, but considering the gap in the severity of their assorted injuries he’d prefer to focus on Aramis than himself. Or, if Aramis wished to fixate his mind on a goal it would be keeping awake and on the horse.

“...you’re stiff...guarding…”

“I’m ensuring you don’t fall off. A feat made easier if you’re not attempting to rest against – ”

“Can’t rest.” Aramis’ insistence was accompanied by a shake of his head, hair brushing Athos’ neck before he settled his forehead back onto the folds of his cloak. “...you might...have need...of my skills…”

“I’d prefer you to rest.” They’d looked over Aramis, who brushed off most inquires. D’Artagnan and he had treated what they could; there’d been no sense in working off the boots they’d placed on Aramis’ feet, or undoing the rough bandaging at his back. They’d ensured he could withstand the journey, while Aramis made certain d’Artagnan was as well positioned as could be managed. “Whatever happens, you’ve done all you can. You kept him safe.”

Aramis tilted his head, a deep inhalation held for what Athos counted as a few seconds, before he breathed out and gave no reply.

Much of the terrain they’d left to cross had little cover and between the mountain ranges would be open plains and valleys. Athos was glad of the signs the storm was moving off, and the thinning clouds hinting at the sunrise that would soon crest the Alps. Thus far they’d remained off the roads, but he intended they’d make use of them once across the border.

“I never thought...I’d return…”

Well aware that Aramis could begin composing a philosophical thesis after watching the sparks burst from adjusting a campfire as readily as he’d muse over the likelihood of exploding a rotted cabbage depending on how high Porthos threw it, Athos decided not to pursue whether he meant crossing back to France or having been brought into Savoy.

Following the gaps in the treeline to the edge of where their cover would diminish, he knew they couldn’t rely on the darkness to obscure where they were. With the storm blowing eastward, the sky was beginning to show the shades of the early morning hours.

Aramis knew they’d been taken into Savoy, but Athos doubted he’d an approximation of where they were. The flashes of lightning revealed the canopy of trees they moved beneath, but the thick branches and Aramis’ position might not have revealed the shape of the Alps and their positioning.

Even if offered in comfort, Athos would not appreciate a lie by omission any more than Aramis would.

“We’re making for Barraux.” As far as Athos was aware Aramis’ duties had never taken him back to the town, or the fortification. “The fort.”

Their proximity made it impossible for Aramis to disguise the tension that seized him before he sunk further weight against Athos. With no way to discern if the slackening in his muscles was due to exhaustion, acceptance, or plain defeat, Athos lay a hand over the wrapped forearms before adjusting the reins.

“...secure...at least…”

“The most appropriate,” Athos nodded, knowing Aramis would feel it even if his eyes were closed, “you’re exhausted, you’re both wounded, and we need somewhere – ”

“I know.”

Athos ducked his head to the right to drain the excess water from the brim, frowning at the fallen branch he directed their horse around. There was some comfort to be had moving over open fields, in that the flat ground would have more space and they could ride closer together. Their enemies would, if they were being pursued, most likely have used torches to avoid the obstructions that had slowed their own group. The greatest danger would be the nearer they got to the border. The unremarkable swath of land would transfer greater burden to any who chased them; they’d haveto catch them or be forced to risk entering France. It also presented an opportunity to the Savoyards. They knew the terrain better. If their positions were reversed Athos would have sent men ahead to pass around their quarry and set up an ambush where the men they hunted would feel safest; nearest their own country, and escape.

“...not alone...this time…”

“No,” Athos’ glove once again found Aramis’ forearm, squeezing and resting over an undamaged portion of his arm.

“...he’s very stubborn…”

If Aramis wished to remain awake, Athos would not discourage him. It wasn’t uncommon for Athos to remain silent while Aramis spoke on about a topic, or a theory he had; Athos was often content to be amused by his serious theses as much as the fanciful recounting of his – and their – adventures.

“...wouldn’t leave…”

The quality in Aramis’ voice reminded Athos of when he’d watch young infantry men on campaigns, ones he’d not expect to maintain a proper positions and then managed to hold their own against a seasoned soldiers. There was admiration, but a note of disbelief. As this case regarded d’Artagnan rather than young men they weren’t acquainted with, Athos did not care for the implication. Were Aramis conveying solely admiration, Athos would agree; that he might have doubted, questioned the faith between them, did not sit well with Athos.

“He’s a musketeer,” offered Athos, as simply as he could state it without exploring what might underpin Aramis’ tone, “he’d never abandon you.”

Aramis didn’t reply, and they rode on in silence for several minutes. Athos took a measure of comfort that Aramis hadn’t shifted. The wounded man remained braced against him, the only tension in his frame was employed to keep himself aligned with Athos as the horse’s movements plodded them forward. Both darkness and silence in Aramis’ company had a settling quality – save when he was plotting with Porthos – but Athos could not keep the unnerving tone of his earlier words from echoing. He’d been about to query as to the precise leaning of Aramis’ thoughts when the object of Athos’ focus spoke in a whisper that tickled his ear.

“...wind...or...the Isère?”

Spoken as idle as a question about the weather, it provided Athos a distraction and it would give Aramis some orientation. The thick forest they moved through would give way to open land soon, and he’d rather Aramis knew something of how close they were while they moved over an otherwise high-grassed, rain soaked field.

“The river.”

They’d tracked closer to the Isère Riverand between the gaps in the rush of wind the river’s movement could be made out under the tones of the rain. They were heading south, keeping the river to their left and once they’d crossed Lagarde would turn them west toward the fort.

“...perhaps...Balland…” Aramis tightened his hold, using his arms to pull himself closer in and nudging his face against Athos’ left ear to be heard over the face stinging gusts of wind, “...will...be there...”

“I’m not familiar with the name,” Athos knew command of the garrison had changed since then, but given it was Aramis the name could refer to a stable-hand as readily as a lieutenant.

“...surgeon...”

“I see.” Athos slowed their mount, turning to speak against the mop of wet curls and his own cloak. “I would expect he’ll remember you, should he be there.”

“…m’always…” Aramis huffed against him, the minimal burst sneaking between his scarf and hair to raise bumps on the strip of skin caught in the warm breath. He made a non-committal sound. “...memorable...”

“Aramis – ”

Lagarde signaled a halt and Athos tugged the reins to draw alongside him. The rain was lessening but he ducked his head down against the wind threatening his hat; he patted at his mount’s neck to keep the stomping side-step from taking them too far from the gathering men. Porthos moved into the gap they’d left and half-turned his own horse to check the progress of the others.

“He delirious with fever, or nuzzling yer neck ‘cause he missed you so much?”

Athos shook his head at the rumble into his ear, watching the men clustering at the tree line.

“What’s that?”

“He promises to treat you in kind,” Athos let the tension in his face allow for a twitch of his lip, he preferred the familiarity of the quip to any reflection on Aramis’ prior engagement with Savoy or their current predicament, “once we’re in France.”

Porthos chuckled and checked on his own charge, but d’Artagnan made neither movement or sound. His palm slid along the taut edges of the joined baldrics they’d connected to secure their youngest from jostling whenever they quickened their pace. They’d be increasing their speed now that they were close to their destination.

“...still…”

“What’s he on about?” Porthos eased his horse closer, facing Athos and close enough he could reach the younger man without fully extending his arm.

“A reminder to keep d’Artagnan’s head from moving as much as you’re able.” Athos shrugged the shoulder Aramis was not struggling to raise his head from, at Porthos’ expression. “He worries.”

“Considerin’ what he looks like,” Porthos smirked, but to one who knew him it was a thin mask to cover his unease, looking past Athos, “he oughta be concerned with himself.”

“...he…” Aramis’ voice raised behind Athos, the sound indicating he’d both raised his head and leaned to view Porthos.

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos looked down to d’Artagnan’s bindings, checking the buckles and shifting the younger man’s shoulder. Satisfied, he fixed his gaze back over Athos’ shoulder, glove twitching before he settled his hand on the reins. “It doesn’t matter what y’tell us – you look awful.”

“…m’wounded...and he...insults...me...”

Athos breathed out a sound that could be interpreted – at least by the two men closest to him– as amusement. He preferred the familiar ground of their amicable bickering. Glancing at Porthos he rotated enough to view Aramis, aided by the other’s changed posture to watch Porthos, angling his head back to raise a brow at him.

“He is right, you do look awful.”

Aramis frowned, but there was no anger in his countenance, and a quirk of his brow indicated his tired mind was preparing a rejoinder. Until his gaze moved past Athos, presumably to joke with Porthos, and caught sight of d’Artagnan. Athos followed his gaze, and sharpened his focus; they’d make France within the hour.

He motioned the waiting men closer, their respite was over.

“Lagarde will lead, until we cross,” Athos looked at the assembled men, and horses, considering their efforts throughout the night. “He’ll make for Fort Barraux. If Poulin and the others have reached the fort it’s possible reinforcements will meet Lagarde on the way there.”

He considered swapping horses, but he’d not broach the matter until they crossed. Horses that carried two men would tire before the others, and so long as they crossed unmolested they could navigate exchanging his and Porthos’ horses for those that had carried one man.

“Should we be fortunate, they’ll meet all of us before long.” In that scenario he’d expect supplies would be brought to them and that they could take a brief rest before continuing to Barraux. “Keep close until the border. Fortin and Allaire on either side.”

The two men named would ride next to him and Porthos in case there was an accident born from Aramis or d’Artagnan’s positioning. Their remaining men would protect the rear, and with the rising light they should see the comforting snow capped mountains that would lead them to the Grésivaudan valley, and the fort overlooking it.

He trusted Aramis’ will to keep in the saddle, but the evidence of their ordeal was inscribed on every limb of his body. Athos knew – even with Aramis’ sensitivity to the cold – the slight tremors that vibrated irregularly through the cloak were owed to a body pushed well beyond its need for rest. As surely as the arms secured about his waist affixed Aramis to him, their fates were tied.

“We’ll reach France before dawn.”

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Chapter Text

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No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay’.”

Borrowed Clothing | Bridal Carry | “Not much longer…”

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“Athos’ll look after him.”

“...I know…”

Porthos didn’t follow Aramis’ gaze, he kept one glove on the horse’s flank and the other was settled atop Aramis’ leg. His friend remained slouched on the saddle, crudely splinted fingers idly twisting the bindings that had held his arms around Athos, and he stared at the cluster of soldiers moving around d’Artagnan. Having eased the younger man off his own horse Porthos knew he was being well seen to, and Athos had – with some reluctance born from divided attention between their two wounded friends – turned Aramis over to his care.

Care that presently required getting Aramis out of the saddle.

He’d already declined Poulin’s offer to walk the horse closer to the barracks that housed the infirmary and instructed him to keep the tired mare steady. Her breaths were great enough that Porthos’ own hand moved when Aramis’ leg shifted from the expansion of her sides. He stroked the rise of her hip and squeezed with light pressure on Aramis’ thigh, mindful not to pull the skin too tight and cause a shift at his wounded knee.

“Physician’s prepared the room, best care possible.”

The prisoners’ arrival hours earlier had the fort prepared for their arrival; they’d been met with soldiers, fresh horses, and supplies on the road. Their journey from the border to the fort was made considerably easier by the additional men. Knowledge of a safe haven and the promise of aid had been enough to sustain them throughout those last hours.

“...I know…”

“Nothin’ left you need to do except get down from there,” Porthos patted his leg to encourage a dismount; d’Artagnan’s condition needed watching over, but Aramis’ injuries needed seeing to, “best way to help d’Artagnan is to look after yourself.”

“...I…” he blinked, letting his chin turn first, before his gaze left their friends to skim over Porthos’ face before turning to what Porthos remembered was the arsenal, “...that’s – ”

“Not fair,” Porthos shrugged, watching Aramis’ profile.

The sun cresting over the valley highlighted the dullness of his skin, and the bright red surrounding one dark eye. The off coloring of Aramis’ stare made tracking the movement of his eyes as troublesome for Porthos as it appeared for Aramis to be focusing with them. Aramis’ palm slid over the ridge of the pommel, and his torso was spared falling forward by the action, leaving him tilted over the saddle.

“Right,” Porthos moved his hand from the horse tapping a finger on Aramis’ hipbone, “off.”

“...hmm…”

The querying noise was accompanied by Aramis’ mismatched gaze drifting above him, looking past him. Porthos shook his head against whatever Poulin was attempting to signal to him in his periphery and kept his eyes fixed on Aramis. He’d not known the man long when he’d been assigned to a retrieval group from Paris; the gravity of the situation had necessitated Treville leading their somber mission. They’d ridden over the ditch and under the guardhouse of the very fortification they now inhabited and it occurred to Porthos the unanticipated return might be as unsettling to Aramis’ mind as the state of d’Artagnan’s health.

The loss of all of the men that had been sent on the exercise had ripped through the garrison and while Porthos was among the newer soldiers he’d been no less affected.

He could still recall the frisson of selfishness, a tinge of guilt tempering the feeling, when he’d been informed Aramis had survived. Aramis’ loss, he knew even then, would have extinguished something in him. It was the reason he’d felt as justified in his relief at Aramis’ survival as he had always felt justified in the extra bread or dried fruit he kept to himself at the Court. For the friends of his childhood looking out for himself left no room to worry over the concerns of others beyond knowing they didn’t starve; it was expected and accepted. For Aramis, however, he knew he’d always hand over whatever he had without a thought to himself.

They’d forged the first of the unbreakable links in their bond in the very fort they were now forced back to – a fort built by the Duke of Savoy. Aramis’ mind, his faith – in loyalty and in himself – had been tested here and Porthos wouldn’t see him lost on returning. If fate had carried the four of them here, he’d fight memories and look after injuries, by any means necessary – he’d guide his friends home.

“Aramis.”

He tapped the pads of his fingers in a random pattern, attempting to gain the other man’s attention through the haze of his exhaustion.

“...Por...thos…” Aramis pressed his lips into a line so firmly they went bloodless before he forced them open on a flinching exhalation, “...how…”

Asking for instruction was evidence enough for Porthos that he might have remained in the saddle more because he couldn’t move rather than not having the desire to get down. He was familiar with the stamina needed to survive for days with injury and absent sleep; snatching bits of rest while maintaining enough of your senses to prevent mistakes that could cost your life. It was a draining, grueling, course of action and Aramis and d’Artagnan were locked into that behavior far longer than him and Athos had been.

Porthos locked and then softened his own knees against a sway that threatened to push his forehead against Aramis’ leg for a moment’s rest. Their protection was now the business of the fort, but safeguarding Aramis – even if that meant from himself – fell to Porthos.

He relished dueling the guards with his Aramis, delighted in showing off to crowds around Paris with him, and thrilled at fighting beside him. They matched in their vices Porthos as brash as Aramis could be vain, but they measured themselves by the same ideals. Their aspirations to a code higher than their own personal failings, matched as if they were cut from the same whole cloth. It was simple to aim for similar goals, and any of their fellow musketeers would stand by each other - to follow the code of their regiment. These moments, however, the times they could offer unfailing - unflinching - aid that garnered no accolades and offered only the simple, unspoken, thanks of a brother to each other, were some of Porthos' proudest.

Their friendship was a treasure that needed no boasting, and he guarded it as fiercely as the king did his coffers.

“Can you get yer leg over her rump?” Porthos’ mouth quirked, twisting in the space where Aramis might’ve made a lilting rejoinder at words Porthos hadn’t weighed the full measure of before he spoke.

Rather than wield his wit like a rapier Aramis remained silent, distracted, and his opposite side shifted, but it wasn’t enough to alter his position.

“Here.” Porthos moved to place his shoulder at Aramis’ hip, guiding his foot into the stirrup Athos had slipped free from what seemed like hours ago. “Rest it there, toes through, push down, and slide your leg. Right arm around my neck and I’ll take your weight.”

“...can walk…” Aramis frowned, then pushed his mouth into a shape that might have been a smirk and might have been confusion.

His gaze drifted from the long buildings around them to the snow lined Chartreuse Mountains in the distance. Porthos wondered if Aramis were thinking of the past, the landscape, or the monastery ensconced on the mountain-side, protected by thick forest and neighbor to flower-filled, Alpine meadows. He’d prefer to slip into the memory of their pilgrimage to the monastery than reflect on the looming treatment Aramis faced at the fort.

Porthos could recall the slope of the roofs of the cells, and the overgrown gardens. Conversation had passed casually, if not easily, between them and Aramis had told him of the history of the Carthusians, the avalanche that took the original structure; his disordered mind had plucked anecdotes, and myths, and verses, to share with Porthos during his recovery. Entertained by the man’s breadth of knowledge, eventually Porthos was convinced he’d heal easier if he wasn’t mired in guilt and death. Ruminating on the horror of the attack didn’t need to be a private battle, and he had in turn persuaded Treville to grant them leave to ride out to the monks before returning to Paris.

The prior had taken such a liking to them; whether to Aramis’ wounded nature or his earnest charm Porthos hadn’t cared. Their visit had brought curiosity back to those dark eyes, and unbent a back curled forward with the weight of a guilt not meant for such burdened shoulders to heave behind his every step.

“You could, but I’m offerin’ – and it’s chilly, this way y’can stay wrapped up in Athos’ cloak.”

Aramis tucked his chin and his beard caught on the wool, admiring the fabric as if he’d forgotten it had been draped over his tattered clothing. Dawn, and the remnants of the storm, had brought with it winds blowing through the valley that disturbed the mane of his mare and produced a rush of noise that blended with the footfalls of the fort’s inhabitants rushing to aid their arrival.

When he’d unhitched himself from and Aramis and dismounted, Athos had waved off anyone save Poulin that had approached their horse.

“C’mon,” he pointed his fingers like a spade working them with gentle pressure to tuck under Aramis’ bruised knee, “sooner yer down, sooner we can have you seen to – could see about that liquer. Maybe they have some here...but I’d guess you’d prefer a visit,” Porthos lifted his leg by increments, pushing it the width of his own fingers away from the saddle, “Athos ever have that stuff, y’think? D’Artagnan – ”

“...if he wakes…”

“When he wakes,” certain that the edges of the sheet torn bandaging marked the end of the cuts to his back Porthos pressed his right hand firmer against Aramis’ lower spine, “when he wakes, we’ll bring ‘em there.”

Aramis nodded agreement to his declaration, but gave no indication of whether he was humoring Porthos or assuring himself.

“They’re takin’ him,” the shuffling behind Porthos increased, and he could hear Athos confirming what Aramis had told him of d’Artagnan’s leg and the blow to his head when the outbuilding collapsed, “may as well go along with them.”

“...you intend to...catch me?”

“That’s the plan,” Porthos hoped it would work, given how Aramis was slowly moving his eyes from his hand to his opposite side, and then bent to confirm his foot was in the stirrup he expected he might need to talk the man through dismounting.

The makeshift splints on Aramis’ hands prevented him from grasping the reins and his one palm was shaking with the effort of preventing his torso from crashing to the saddle. Weariness was clear in every line of his posture, but Porthos guessed confusion more than stubbornness kept his friend astride.

“Not often I offer to carry a man, y’ought to appreciate that – even if it’s only ‘cause I don’t trust you on broken toes.”

He slid his hand further up the base of Aramis’ spine, moving it along a finger’s width at a time to ensure he didn’t disturb the edge of the bandaging. Even if his aim was to get Aramis to treatment quicker he intended to cause no additional harm on their way there.

“Once your leg’s over, you fall back – I can take yer weight,” he winked at Aramis’ profile, worried that his friend hadn’t held his gaze for any significant length of time since he’d started their negotiation.

Choosing to remain optimistic, if for no other reason than it had worked the first time they’d been housed at Fort Barraux, Porthos kept prodding him. He kept up a steady, one-sided banter in an effort to lure Aramis’ focus.

“...you’re not…” Aramis peered down at him and the stark, blood red, of his one eye was a focal point in the otherwise slack features.

“Never going to be too tired to help you,” Porthos leaned forward, to meet his eyes, the motion catching and keeping Aramis’ gaze.

“...if you...drop me…”

“I’d take that a lot more seriously, if y’didn’t look like the next gust of wind would knock you out of that saddle.” He patted the small of Aramis’ back. “If you prefer I get Athos…”

“...no...no…” Aramis’ lips twitched, and his gaze moved off, but not to where the group and Athos stood, his eyes flicked around the rooftops as if following a bird, but none flew over that Porthos could see.

“Even if it weren’t for his back,” Porthos saw how stiff he’d held himself when he took measured steps over to d’Artagnan and the gathered soldiers from the fort, “he’s more likely to dump you on the ground.”

Aramis sighed out a breath, and placed his other hand on the pommel. He glanced at Porthos, before taking stock of the stirrup and where his other leg hung off the saddle on the opposite side. Brushing the heel of his hand in thanks on the patient mare’s neck he braced his left arm on the saddle.

Tipping to the left, he brought his right leg up to slide over, reaching back for Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos dug his heels down, anticipating any combination of limbs moving off kilter but he’d counter whatever uncoordinated motion Aramis made. For a brief moment Aramis stood on the one stirrup, his other leg swinging straight down, and he turned to the wrong side, the right, – Porthos was on his left – seeking where to aim.

At Porthos’ direction he fell back, in a move more chaotic than controlled, and Porthos caught him up as Poulin reached to untangle his ankle from the stirrup. The young man waved away Aramis’ thanks and once Porthos signed that his hold was steady, Poulin moved off to stable the horse.

Damp, cold, skin pushed past the collar of his doublet.

“I was only teasin’ about nuzzlin’ his neck.”

“…no matter…” Aramis tucked his head further under Porthos’ chin, bracing his forearm to pull the rest of himself further up his torso, “...quite comfortable…”

“Right then,” Porthos raised his chin to avoid catching any stray curls in his mouth, “you keep on with whatever helps.”

Blurry eyed, with dawn chill seeping into his leathers, he felt a rush of warmth – of assurance – akin to the relief that washed over him at unearthing Aramis and d’Artagnan hours earlier.

He nodded to Athos, walking past the cluster of soldiers on his left, and made a final sweep with his eyes over d’Artagnan’s prone form lain out on a litter. They were moving forward in a procession too reminiscent of one to a church nave to prevent Porthos’ thoughts from straying to funerals. Athos walked alongside, nearest d’Artagnan’s head, communicating their circumstances and needs to the fort’s general.

“...could carry…me to – ”

“If y’think I’m takin’ you anywhere but the infirmary I’m gonna question your senses. I’m carrying you straight to bed, dump y’right before the physician himself if I need to.”

“...more like...an accosted bride...across the...infirmary threshold...” complained Aramis, but his voice was lighter, baiting him to provide a distraction. “...a bad omen...for our friendship...”

“We’ve survived this far,” Porthos angled his head, glancing to make sure he wasn’t going to knock Aramis’ broken toes into a barrel or wall, “and worse circumstances.”

“...and here…” Aramis squinted – against the increasing brightness or pain in his head – and pushed the palm of his hand against the back of his head. “...I’d not expected...to return…”

“We may be here again, but it won’t be the same.” The first steps Porthos had taken were unsteady, he had levered Aramis to align the weight. For all his teasing Aramis knew he would fall underneath him before he would drop him. “Different this time. We’re together.” He hesitated on saying there was no massacre, that no one had died; he believed in making one’s own fate, but with their youngest in the balance there were few certainties. “We'll see you both set to right,” Porthos angled his torso, swinging Aramis parallel to avoid knocking his borrowed boots into a stack of crates as they passed, and continued to follow the small group moving ahead of them toward the barracks. “Not much longer...”

Intending to link that arm with the one he’d already bent around Porthos’ neck, the flat of his hand had to be passed before his own face. A smear of dark red, rusty and dark in color, was streaked across the unsteady skin in a glaring accusation of his own lack of self-preservation. Porthos might have missed the smudge if Aramis hadn’t stopped the motion and peered at his own wavering limb. He brought his hand near enough that he nearly tapped the stain with his nose before he held it as though he were examining a page of text he’d never read before.

“...oh…”

“Oh?” Porthos frowned, but with both hands dedicated to carrying Aramis he couldn’t spare one to check his friend. “That’s all? Didn’t anyone check?”

The last was a thought directed at Athos, but it was half-hearted. With a storm raging and the lack of light a bleeding wound would have been easy to miss in soaked hair, water cascading over the injury and diluting the blood.

“...I must have…missed…this...the rain…”

Given the weather, the hours without sleep, the rush to escape Savoy, and the thickness of Aramis’ own hair it was plausible that the dampness concealed and washed away any blood that would have alerted them. Porthos should have insisted on checking him over, but d’Artagnan’s resistance to waking had him busied securing their youngest into his own saddle.

“Because cuts and burns, and broken bones weren’t enough?” Porthos pushed the edge of the cloak onto Aramis’ seeking arm, helping him tuck it closer to stave off the rising gusts of wind. The wispy clouds overhead were clumping together, and could yet give way to more rain. “Probably why yer eyes aren’t tracking right.”

Aramis raised his head, tilting it back to consider Porthos with his uneven gaze, but still close enough that his breath tickled through his beard.

“...don’t know...while not...the most handsome...of men, I’m rather...pleased...with this view...”

At any other time Porthos might have smacked him, might have bit out a challenge in jest, but all he could offer in response was a quirk of his mouth to match Aramis’ expression.

Tightening his arms Porthos pulled him closer into his chest, increasing his heavy stride behind the procession of men delivering d’Artagnan to the infirmary. They had them back; Aramis held up in his arms, and d’Artagnan guided by Athos to safe quarters. Whatever followed they would face that fate together.

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Chapter Text

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No. 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.”

Troubled Past Resurfacing | “What happened to me?”

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It wasn’t the same room.

He’d not been kept long in the infirmary back then either.

Other than having equipment close at hand there had been no reason to remain in a space that saw men coming and going at every hour, needing all manner of aid from stitching up an arm sliced in training to monitoring a fevered man for infection.

Expecting his friends were adamant they’d be staying Balland must have conceded to them once Aramis had succumbed to sleep, again. He’d no memory of the hallway, other than his nose pressed into Porthos’ neck; recognizing he was safe in his friend’s arms, if not the fort itself, he’d slipped into a light sleep. Aramis recalled making some greeting – a sound of acknowledgment – but he’d no mind, or ability to concentrate, to contribute any advisement to the fort’s surgeon. He’d interjected when specific details were required from him, but otherwise listened to Athos and Porthos offer answers, or corrections, to Balland’s speculation.

Memories of Porthos might have coerced Balland’s decision to allow him and d’Artagnan a separate room. While Porthos proved uncommonly gentle for a man of his size and strength, when needed he would not hesitate to use that physicality to persuade a man to their cause. Balland had never been subjected to any intimidation, but he’d observed the protective nature of the man that Aramis had been gifted as a ‘shadow’ throughout his convalescence.

He’d been as comforting as Aramis’ own shadow, and remained as close to him once he’d arrived at the fort. It hadn’t been an assignment, Treville would know he’d never have tolerated a guard disguised as a friend. Of course, Aramis would not have put it past the captain to encourage Porthos to watch over him, and knowing Porthos he would have gone along with such a scheme. A loose suggestion that he took as seriously as any mission.

Regardless of how or why Porthos’ duties had allowed him to remain a stone’s throw from Aramis’ side on most days, he’d been grateful for it. Even when he hadn’t demonstrated that appreciation, and those few times when he’d lashed out at Porthos, somehow the lingering man unassumingly became his friend rather than a fellow soldier.

Faced with both Porthos and Athos, Balland would have been amenable to their requests.

Judging by the setting sun Aramis guessed, he hoped, he’d only lost most of one day. He’d disconnected memories of his brothers conversing, exchanging chairs for bed-sides, and vague responses he’d uttered but couldn’t repeat if he were asked. If he concentrated he could recall the pulling sensation of stitches being placed, the singe of the wound at his ribs being cleaned, and the warmth of Athos’ fingers when he aided in guiding him to the positions Balland required.

Aramis was not certain when that had occurred. He’d visions of both of his friends moving about his and d’Artagnan’s beds, but those impressions came to his mind out of sequence. He recalled opening his eyes to see Athos lighting a sconce as he’d drifted into another fog of sleep. Some time before or after the room was arranged and Balland had left – or perhaps he’d been there – Athos had offered food, and he knew they’d not eaten enough over their captivity. The knowledge that he’d a need of the meal didn’t make his body any more able to take the broth. Although he’d attempted to decline, he could see his splinted fingers raising to push it away, he remembered the proffered bowl remained at eye level. Eyes he’d closed because it ached to roll them. Then he’d acquiesced to a sip, and then another, at Athos’ prompting.

Persistent in all things, Athos never allowed him to forsake his health if he were unable to prevent Aramis from lapsing in his own care. As much as he would shake his head at the irony that one so neglectful of himself could be so adamant in looking after others Aramis appreciated the consideration.

After pushing himself to stare levelly back through torment, focusing on planning an escape through his pain, and carrying on with flippant remarks when he wanted to force their attention on him, it was a relief to allow others to direct the next moment. Athos and Porthos’ presence would allow him that respite.

A rest he needed still, even if he had slept for hours – possibly days – now that they were back in France; under the protection of the fort and, more importantly, their friends. After so many days alert, with the feeling that his blood pumped faster and his senses were heightened, the fatigue that followed could drain even his vast reserves of spirit.

All of his impressions faded to his present feeling: he ached.

Laying on his side, he watched the blurry shapes of Athos and Porthos. They sat opposite in the narrow space between his bed and one that he suspected held d’Artagnan. Smudges he recognized to be their hands were plucking and swapping, what took him a few blinks to realize were cards, across a small table. Porthos’ chair was closer to the end of his bed so it was Athos’ eyes moving to him, and their prolonged glance, that alerted Porthos.

“Awake this time?”

“This…” Aramis swallowed, his body had lost the heat of fever but he still felt as though he’d lapped the Île de la Cité several times, whilst carrying two sacks of grain. “...this time?”

“You have been drifting in and out of waking,” confirmed Athos, gathering and setting his cards down, he angled his shoulder to reach for a cup on the table Aramis hadn’t noticed by his own head, “you woke, some thirty minutes ago, but didn’t respond to us beyond an indecipherable mumble, before you fell back to sleep.”

Aramis’ elbow sunk into the surprisingly thick mattress, and he was pleased to observe his fingers had been splinted. Properly splinted, not the earnest attempts d’Artagnan fashioned from his shredded shirt; if he thought back he could recall the sharp grind of his bones when Ballard repositioned them. The heaviness settled over him, his blanket feeling as though it’d been soaked in water, as heavy as the roof and walls he could still recollect crushing over him and d’Artagnan.

“Slept most of the day.” Porthos nodded toward the window and the dwindling daylight. He lowered his tone and shifted forward as though speaking the words too loudly would prove trouble. “He hasn’t moved once,” he shrugged, glancing at the other bed before looking back to Aramis, seeking his opinion, trusting his assessment over any other, “but Ballard claims he’s not worried.”

“Leaving that to us,” Aramis dug his elbow further into the bedding to prop himself up enough to accept the cup from Athos, “is he?”

Unsure if they’d taken any time to sleep themselves, Aramis watched Porthos dig an elbow into his knee and drag a hand over his face on a yawn before cupping his hand under his chin. Athos’ own hand, through silent agreement – well, reluctant acceptance on his part – kept hold of the cup. He was grateful Athos allowed him to loosely place his partitioned fingers around the edge.

Having been so long a captive, and then to be confined to a bed, the instances to feel solid footing on the path of his fate was a reassurance. In the same manner in which a quip at a snide captor while in chains could bolster him, making any motion toward his own control over his treatment was an aid to recovery. Athos had proven thoughtful in knowing when to discourage Aramis’ efforts, and when to permit him to push. Again, Aramis was struck with the temperance of the man when he was less reliable concerning his own health.

“He’s been comin’ back every hour,” Porthos said, leaning forward to press his elbows to his knees, his shoulders rounding, “no change though. Breathing’s steady.”

“Perhaps,” even as Aramis said it his mouth pulled downward, and his eyes drifted to d’Artagnan’s still form on the palette next to him, “a few hours more?”

He gave a sign with his gathered fingers for Athos to take away the cup.

“Suppose. Not much else wrong with ‘im that Balland could find.”

“His leg?” Aramis angled to peer around Athos, to view the slender young man who’d yet to move in the other bed.

“The physician was pleased with its treatment,” Athos’ voice drifted further from him and he retook his seat between the beds. “It needed cleaning, but there were no signs of infection.”

He was pleased to hear it, believing d’Artagnan would have been well looked after by the physician and knowing he’d done the best possible for their youngest himself.

“How long?” Aramis felt as if his body had attempted to regain days of sleep, but he felt neither rested nor as exhausted as he’d been on their arrival.

“Nearing fifteen hours,” answered Porthos.

“That’s all?”

Porthos laughed closed mouth at the yawn that prevented Aramis from further words beyond his question.

“We’ll keep lookin’ after you if you’d prefer a few more.”

His mind was hazy, and thoughts were slower to come to the forefront after he managed to decipher them from the cluster of confusion that threatened to distract him. He felt unrested, although he believed he’d slept – he knew he had, and he’d some relief from the wounds inflicted on him that were the result of that respite. The ache of bound injuries indicated that all that could have been bandaged were seen to, and the warmth of the bed tempted him to sink back onto the warmed mattress.

“Not yet,” his elbow dug in, and he tensed his bicep to steady himself.

“Y’sound better, even if you don’t look it yet.”

Aramis turned his mouth, and tucked his chin in an attempt to evaluate for himself. His fever had subsided, he could tell that much from the way his body ached; one could not be the soldier – and informal student of healing – he was and not differentiate between the varied sharp and dull aches, and chills and burning sensations, and not have some inkling of overall health.

The unclear moments between sleeping and waking could trick a mind into believing one’s fate dire when in good health, or capable of walking when planting one foot to the floor would topple a man. He’d experience with both and the good fortune that one of the men presently at his bedside had been there to catch him when his assessment proved poor. He’d no false confidence that he was restored, but he was content to squeeze what pleasantries he could while he had the presence of mind to do so.

D’Artagnan’s c0ndition worried him more than his own state.

“I’m rather unconcerned with my looks at the moment.”

Athos’ sniff of air sounded loud in the space between his words and Porthos’ impending response. He turned his mismatched gaze on him in deliberate protest, already expecting that Porthos would counter.

“Good, ‘cause y’look terrible. I don’t think y’remember how awful an eye looks when it’s…”

Out of the corner of the very eye Porthos was referencing he could see him motioning towards his own face.

“Oh I remember,” Aramis smirked over at Athos, lifting his chin to soften his mouth into a grin, “Athos looked particularly gruesome with both eyes affected.”

“You claimed it was striking.”

“I wished to spare your feelings.”

“Have to admit, y’did look a bit,” Porthos paused at the combined force of Athos’ intense, and Aramis’ amused, gazes turning to him, “...strange.”

“Uncommon,” advised Aramis.

“Unnerving more like.”

“Unnatural?”

“Intimidated a few guards.”

Aramis’ couldn’t hold back the burst of laughter at the memory, which unfortunately gave him a minor fit of coughing. He waved off Athos’ peaceable offering of water.

“Didn’t…” he coughed again to clear his throat, “...didn’t even need to unsheathe your sword.”

“He was young,” Athos shrugged, setting the cup next to the assortment of cards with a frown on his face that might have been more to do with Aramis’ refusal of water than displeasure over the incident.

“He was frightened,” claimed Porthos.

“Well, you did look a bit...unearthly,” Aramis advised, raising his torso a bit higher, “the braziers highlighted the contrast. Added to your sinister appearance.”

“Sinister? I’d not claim that you – ”

“Of course not. While mine are alluring, I don’t possess eyes that may appear as otherworldly as yours, dear Athos.”

Porthos snickered, but quickly busied himself with sorting the cards on the rickety table set between them.

Athos gave no response other than to roll the aforementioned eyes at him.

“Surely you consulted a looking glass more than once whilst afflicted?”

“Other than when you two miscreants woke me by placing one on my chest?”

Porthos’ attempt to convert the noise pulled from his chest was unsuccessful as far as Aramis was concerned.

“Yes, well,” Aramis glanced at Porthos which proved his undoing and he gave over to a helpless fit of gasping laughter instead of offering justification of their early morning action in Athos’ room.

“I’ll admit that was startling,” claimed Athos.

“Sure looked ‘startled’ and yer lucky I caught the mirror when you knocked ‘im off the bed.”

“Aramis should not have been on my bed to begin with.”

“How else were we to prop the looking glass close enough to be the first item your eyes fell upon when you woke?”

“Pretty sure you were the only one fallin’ that morning.”

“He’s a point there – you might’ve shoved a bit less forcefully.” Aramis’ fingers twitched with the instinct to stroke the end of his beard, but he abandoned the effort when the bound fingers crossed his vision. “That’s not a reaction I’m used to from those who wake to find me beside them.”

“You can’t be claiming that’s the first time someone’s shoved you out of bed.”

“Not at all,” Aramis twisted, but remained on his side, testing the bandaging around his knees to judge if he could move his legs without too much pain, “I’m merely disused to the notion – few would protest my presence.”

Aramis smiled at him and waved his unevenly splinted fingers along the length of his body, covered by what he saw were a fair amount of blankets.

“Perhaps I recalled you’ve sometimes a taste for violence.”

“It’s selective.”

“I’ll try to remember that the next time you elbow me in your sleep.”

“Athos, I get cold.”

“Not all of us can slumber like a great bear beside you.”

“Hey,” Porthos protested, but his cheeks dimpled too deeply to signal any offense at the comparison.

“You are an excellent source of heat,” confirmed Aramis. It was, after all, one of his main reasons for staking a claim nearest Porthos when they made camp.

“Regardless of your appearance,” reasoned Athos, “if memory serves it should cause you no pain.”

“No,” assured Aramis. There were numerous pains and aches making making their complaints to him since he’d awoke, but the ache in his eyes was owed to tiredness rather than the odd coloring of the one. “But we shall see if I can entertain as well as you did with such a countenance.”

“Think your eye’ll heal well before yer ready to attempt any fighting.”

“Alas,” Aramis moved his hand in front of his face, turning it to view the gathered fingers, “you may be right. It will be far longer before I can wield a rapier.”

“Then again, Athos didn’t need to,” Porthos’ grin split his lips but he held back his laughter, “his appearance was enough.”

Never one to be impolite Aramis did him the favor of laughing on both of their behalves.

“My injury was not nearly as disruptive as you two recall.”

“More amusin’ than anything,” Porthos nodded, his cheeks threatening to display that amusement, “once we knew you’d be well.”

“Of course, and those who didn’t know he’d been injured merely thought he’d overindulged. Now let us hope that our young friend’s injury proves as easily resolved as your own did.” Looking over at the still unmoved figure, Aramis frowned. He’d intended to offer hope, but the continued reminder of d’Artagnan’s lack of response was of little comfort. It was not a hopeless cause, however; men often slept long after injury. By Porthos’ own accounting even Aramis had been asleep for most of the day. “All things are made better with...time and,” Aramis frowned again, glancing down at the weave of the mattress fibers as though it could turn to a similarly shaded piece of parchment and reveal the words he could not recall, “...wiseness. Something of light?”

“I expect you mean: ‘Time is the wisest of all things that are; for it brings everything to light’?”

“You,” Aramis smiled, winking his clear eye at his friend, “are as reliable as an old tome.”

“Glad you’re not as musty,” remarked Porthos before bending to collect the cards.

“You should leave that,” indicating the table, and the cards, with a nudge of his chin, Aramis lifted one shoulder, “if you’ve permission to stay?”

Porthos’ chair creaked with the shift of his weight, and he leaned on his forearms, stifling a yawn against the fanned cards in his hand.

“Think that’d matter?”

“Mostly not,” Aramis glanced up at Athos before smiling broadly at Porthos, “but you’ll be of more use to us if you’re not locked up for insubordination.”

He assumed his friends would have already petitioned to remain with him and d’Artagnan, but had permission not been secured he’d prefer to help them craft their argument to evade punishment, than risk them being arrested. They were already at the king’s mercy for crossing the border dependent on what they could claim to have uncovered of the Savoyards.

“Pretty certain I remember the layout of these cells.”

Athos arched a brow, but remained silent as he looked from one to the other.

“Porthos joined me, and our beloved captain, for a drink,” Aramis clarified, shoving up on his forearm.

His back stretched, the cuts on his shoulder and along his spine vying to gain his attention, and prevent further movement. Ignoring them, and Athos and Porthos’ casual study of him, he levered up and dug the heel of his right palm into the bedding to drag himself upright. His vision narrowed and he expected the shadows to his right were Athos and Porthos moving in response, but given the amount of darkness attempting to steal his sight he pushed further before his friends or his own body could halt his movement.

Supported on his palms, he used them to raise his hips and slide himself closer to the wall at the head of the bed, before he dropped into a seat determined not to move. Admittedly prevented from moving further if the shaking in his arms were evident of the remainder of his strength.

“Here, give ‘im this.”

Athos’ shadow loomed closer. If Porthos’ voice hadn’t confirmed his location Aramis could make out that it was Athos by the swath of skin a finger’s width from his nose when his friend leaned to set the bunched pillow behind him.

“Another?”

“One more should suffice,” Aramis tilted back in a slow, controlled, motion and he was grateful neither man acknowledged the tremble in his limbs. His exhaustion extended to his muscles and he didn’t need to voice that he was using the scant remainder of strength he had to arrange himself against the pillows Athos had piled behind him. “I believe…”

Nodding a signal that the last one Athos had placed would provide support he angled further back. The cuts were concentrated across his shoulders and spine, mainly kept to the upper part of his back, and that small bit of luck allowed him to bolster himself into a sitting position. From knee to mid-back he was fairly unscathed. That was, if one didn’t count the deep bruise on the outside of his left thigh from slamming into the hallway of the inn upon his capture. Or the scrape just above his hipbone on his right side, toward the back, that he’d noted when Porthos had tugged him free of the collapsed building.

“Sure y’ought to be sitting up already?”

“By your own admission I’ve been sleeping for hours,” he took a deep breath to steady himself, before relaxing his elbow onto the soft lump behind him, “I could do with the company.”

“You could also do with the rest,” advised Athos, “we will be here when you wake.”

“As it’s said: ‘There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship’ – yes?” Aramis knew he’d remembered that saying accurately, regardless of how much his head hurt. “I’d rather spend a few moments awake.”

Athos inclined his head and offered no correction. He also kept his silence on their reference to the cells, but Aramis could tell by the pinch of his eyes he was curious.

“Right,” Porthos dragged his chair closer to the end of the bed, “rather hear what you’ve got to say than some old quote,” he shrugged, tilting back in his chair.

“Fair enough, I am rather wise myself.” He adjusted the base of his spine against the collection of pillows, and slid his eyes toward Athos. Remembering he’d not clarified beyond their drink with Treville, he continued his explanation. “I’d wandered down there, to sleep...I think. Unfortunately it was the part of the fort that served for our brothers taking their infinite rest.”

“They’d laid them in the prison?”

“Too great a number for the chapel,” Aramis explained. He’d seen far larger after a battle, but the suddenness of the attack – and so close to such a holy day – had left his mind ruminating on the unfairness. The disbelief that it had happened at all, uneasy with him as that he had survived. “I hadn’t recalled. Some of them were kept there, the prison was colder than the barracks, if you can believe that. There were so many it proved the best place.”

“Captain had other concerns about you than ensuring you knew where they were placed.”

Aramis made some sound of acknowledgment, but the lump of blankets over his knees proved easier for his eyes to focus upon than the expression on Porthos’ face. There’d been many concerns, and so much confusion. His own ability to communicate had been muddled and for a man who prided himself on manipulating language it became an invisible prison. Trapped by his own mind he watched his surroundings as though through a gossamer veil; if that veil had been woven with steel threads. His disconnected state had kept him separate, wanting to interact with others, but left as if he were several minutes behind them in every interaction. Able to see and hear events around him, he found that words were muffled, and his sight unable to display complete pictures to his mind. To date Aramis had never been certain his memories of those days were complete.

“I watched them brought in,” he spoke more to Athos than Porthos, the larger man had been as persistent as his own shadow beside him, “over the bridge. Porthos remained with me; we stood atop the entrance gate for – ”

“Hours,” interjected Porthos, “more than half the day. He was eyeing the horizon well before any sign of them. He was more of a sentinel than the guards on duty, ‘cept for that he was fixated on watchin’ one direction. Sent one of the posted soldiers for food; by then they were so familiar with Aramis and me wanderin’ the fort there was no sense questioning.”

“I needed to see them.” The thumb and forefinger of his right hand were free, and he plucked at loose fibres while the silent parade of wagons moved through his memory. He’d argued, protesting more in gestures and bodily refusals than words, with the first man who’d come upon them in the woods. When he still harbored the notion that Marsac would return, his foggy mind believing he’d tossed the pauldron aside in his own confusion; that he had been leaving to seek aid. “I couldn’t leave them, when Marsac – ”

Porthos’ interrupting sound was part protest and part growl to Aramis’ ear and it drew his eyes to his friend’s darkened countenance.

“Porthos?”

“He left you.”

“He pulled me to – ” he paused, straightening against a streak of pain across the back of his shoulder. The bed linens were beginning to waver, the walls bowed inward and he knew it was not from the dwindling light. “He prevented my death.”

“Prevented? He nearly caused it! He abandoned you.”

“He saved me, Porthos.” He raised his hand in a gesture for calm, but the splinting made it appear more a marionette’s than a man’s. “You may not like who he became, but he was a good musketeer, a decent man.”

Athos muttered something he could not discern specific words from other than a few about ‘a musketeer’s duties.’ His opinion of Marsac’s defection was apparent by his tone. The softer utterance of words was lost under Porthos’ growled declaration.

“Decent men don’t leave their friends to die.”

“He – ”

“He left you there!” Porthos’ chair clattered back, striking the floor and nearly tripping him as he rounded the foot of the bed.

“Porthos – ”

Aramis was appreciative of Athos’ attempt to divert their debate, but Porthos didn’t allow him to speak.

“You’re going to defend what he did? You didn’t see Aramis,” Porthos argued, glancing at Aramis as if looking at old wounds overlaid on his present ones and back to their seated friend between the beds. “Fingers and toes scabbed and blistered so bad there was fear he’d lose ‘em. Marsac ran away, but he wouldn’t leave until the soldiers from the fort arrived. Even then…” Porthos was so irritated that Aramis expected his own memories were clashing and he ground out the points he felt were worse, or best to prove his point. “He shuffled around here like a wraith. I watched men keep an arm’s length from ‘im, as if he’d been cursed, some of the – ” Porthos shook his head trying to rid himself of the memory or deny it being as unpleasant as it had been, “they walked several paces away so as not to cross his path; thinkin’ he was already a ghost, lingering a few more hours before we’d have to put him with the rest.”

“I don’t recall – ”

“Y’wouldn’t,” admitted Porthos, sparing him a glance that landed around his hairline. Porthos often avoided his eyes when he didn’t want to be deterred from his anger. When he was cloaked in his own righteous argument he’d no wish for Aramis to persuade him astray. He stalked the width of the room, keeping his path along the end of the two beds. “Yer head was all – what’s that phrase? A ‘commotion of the mind’ you’ve said. I’d have to call your name four or five times to get yer attention; some evenings you looked at me as though we hadn’t spent the entire afternoon walking the fort’s perimeter. At breakfast, which we were havin’ half hour before the noon bell most days,” Porthos looked to Athos at that, as if explaining this to him would sway him to seeing his own reasoning. When he risked a glance at Aramis, his eyes betrayed him by their softening even when his voice remained forceful. “You barely ate and some days you never noticed the food until I lifted it under your nose. You wouldn’t remember where you were meaning to go when you left your room – Balland said that happens sometimes. You’ve said that.”

“I didn’t – ”

“I’m not blamin’ you.” The tension loosened from Porthos’ shoulders, his shirtsleeves sagging like lowered sails and he slowed his pacing. His boots scraped against the stone and he came to stand at the foot of Aramis’ bed, the frame providing enough distance for Porthos to keep his defenses held despite looking at Aramis’ face. “They thought you were haunting the place because you lurked about like you were. You’d wander off, we’d find you in the chapel or the arsenal with no explanation of how you’d got there, and what about the time – do you even remember? We found you sitting on the well. A few more minutes and you’d have tipped into it, asleep. Or wanderin’ the prison – you took a nap in a cell once. Think Treville considered lockin’ you in there just to keep track of you.”

The back of Aramis’ head throbbed, but he resisted lifting his palm to prod the wound.He blinked against the ghostly image along Porthos’ side, the splitting that would make him appear to be doubled before long.

“I remember that, at least,” he leaned forward, angling his head and letting one corner of his mouth twitch. “The cassoulet was particularly delicious, I think the cook had used every cut of meat and fowl on hand,” Aramis turned to Athos in an attempt for levity, “but it was an odd place to dine. Treville had Porthos bring our meals to the cell – away from prying eyes, I suppose,” he looked to Porthos for confirmation, but his friend’s face had tightened once more.

“He didn’t want to leave you alone.” Porthos maintained his position at the foot of the bed and he’d moved his hands to his waist. “Neither did I.”

Aramis recalled Porthos remaining outside the cells, despite his dismissal; he’d kept far enough not to overhear his conversation with Treville. A painstakingly drawn out arrangement of their captain prompting him and Aramis misunderstanding the words, or allowing his thoughts to meander from the questions entirely.

“He left.” Porthos’ arms broke free, splaying out in a frustrated motion, as if his irritation at the memories pushed some part of him move when he forced his body to remain standing at the end of the bed. “He chose to leave you.”

“You think I’ve never contemplated what happened to me? I’d like to believe I wouldn’t leave a friend, but it was – seeing them all, some barely untangled from their bedding...you weren’t there, you can’t know what you’d choose.”

“I’d never leave you,” insisted Porthos, stopping his agitated movements, and fixing Aramis with as serious a mien as he’d ever observed on him, “no matter what we’d been through, I’d never walk away and leave you alone. To die alone. Never.”

“He didn’t – ”

“It was freezing! You were injured. You’d no supplies. You were alone – with twenty dead musketeers – there’s no defense for that, there’s no – ”

“You’ve made your point.” The thin skin at the corner of Aramis’ left eye rippled, he sensed the twitching as if it were moving his entire cheek, but he doubted either of his friend’s could see the twitching. They couldn’t determine that his head was beginning to burn; thin line along his scalp that tingled, but he couldn’t prevent his own speech. “He’s dead, Porthos, and I’d no reason to think I wouldn’t be following him this time. I wanted d’Artagnan safe, that’s – ”

“It’s not the same! You would’ve defended d’Artagnan to the last, and you looked after each other. You held out until we came for you.”

“Aramis?” Athos’ soft interjection held the tone of a request, rather than a demand, it was as close to solicitous as Athos came.

He swallowed, but gave no reply. His vision hadn’t corrected to the point that their faces were consistently sharp, and he looked past them both in order to gather his thoughts. In order for them not to plainly read what he couldn’t bring himself to say; what he wasn’t even certain he believed.

That he had committed, for a moment in that cell, to being alone.

He’d an independence that no amount of soldiering had ever rid from him; he’d tempered himself in the name of service, and duty. The impulse toward reckless action – to follow his ideals before orders – had never been stamped out, and he’d never request his friends to compromise themselves for his desires. If no one followed, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t charge off alone to chase what he believed was right. He placed a toe on the edge of the line, crossing where he was told not to dare came instinctively rather than by pure obstinance, and he generally hopped safely back over that very line without consequence. Obedience had always been a struggle for him if he disagreed with the principle of the initial order; he needed to reconcile orders with his own morals or be compelled to disobey. Often he was able to skirt the rule, or find the narrow path between what would be permitted, pushing the boundaries and expecting them to catch up to his position.

“At times we must move separately in order to act together.”

“Do we?”

He’d asked the question before he’d allowed the full implication of Athos’ words to resonate with him. It wasn’t fair to question; he’d never asked them directly to follow him, but he’d expected their support. Now he picked at it like a splinter, and with a shake of his head, he used his splinted fingers to motion a dismissal. There was little need to pursue the matter, and not with his thoughts dragging and his eyes drifting about the darkened room. Athos had lit a candle, unnoticed while Porthos and he had been caught up in their dispute of the past.

“It was a caution, Aramis,” Athos’ voice was patient, suggesting he follow Athos’ logic rather than the path he was determined to walk alone, “preparation for what might have been, what was, uncovered.”

“I wanted the truth; I thought we all would have.”

“Some secrets are better left unknown.”

“Not when they fester, and it rots the good built over them.” The splinting ensured his fingers to hold their position when he wanted to curl them into fists. He wasn’t angry, not anymore, but being forced to remain in bed always left him itching to bolt from the confinement. “I needed to know; it brought peace.”

It had, in the end. He’d risked destruction to secure the truth, and he’d won a measure of freedom from the knowledge.

“We acted – ”

“As you needed.” Aramis looked to Athos first, and then Porthos, focusing on each of their faces for longer than needed in order to see them clearly before he spoke. “If it had been any other than myself to…”

When Porthos had been in danger, when his own friend betrayed him, Aramis had fired; there’d been no choice. Afterwards Aramis considered it an act of compassion to have taken the shot that killed his childhood friend. In the moment he’d only cared for saving Porthos. He’d held no malice for Charon, but Athos and Porthos, even d’Artagnan, had made clear their opinion of Marsac. Aramis would never have been able to reconcile the man’s death if one of them had shot him. Perhaps if it had been Treville? In the final moment it had been Aramis’ hand, and it had been his choice.

“He was adamant you’d come.”

Athos took a moment before Aramis saw the motion of him turn to glance at d’Artagnan in his periphery, Porthos realized the connection once Athos had turned back to him.

“He wouldn’t leave.”

“He’s stubborn,” Porthos crossed his own arms, a hint of mirth in his face and chagrin at such an accusation given his own posture.

“A shared quality among us? If disproportionately granted.”

“And which of us,” Aramis closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before blinking to view the room with a slightly clearer gaze, and addressed Athos, “after d’Artagnan of course, are you implying would carry the next highest portion of such temperament?”

When neither man answered he observed their shared, and what even his distorted vision recognized was a silent exchange, glance.

“Surely, not I?”

The toe of Porthos’ boot lifted the seat back of the discarded chair and he bent to grab it so it could be set alongside Aramis’ bed. Aramis followed the motion until Porthos began to move around to take a seat, and turned to see Athos busying himself with adjusting their small table.

“I should take offense.”

“But y’won’t,” said Porthos and set a hand on his shin, large and heavy even through the blankets, giving a light squeeze.

Attempting to nudge Porthos’ hand ignited pain to both knee and ankle causing Aramis to flinch rather than frown at his friend. Another unpleasant reminder that he would be confined to bed-rest, and the unlikelihood that he’d be able to persuade his friends to a change of lodgings.

“What I will take,” Aramis teeth scraped his lower lip with his tight smile, “is a distraction.” He nodded in quick succession and angled his head to indicate the cards they’d abandoned on the small table. “Shall we play primero or piquet?”

Gesturing with his hand, Aramis then placed the palms of both hands onto the mattress to make drag and lift of his hips toward the wall.

“How are you gonna hold the cards?” Porthos had begun to lean forward on Aramis’ request, but halted the motion and placed them on either knee to consider him. “And piquet’s meant for two players.”

“Precisely.”

Aramis paused his own movements, to settle the acheshe’d aggravated throughout his limbs with so minimal a change in position. The pincer wound, beneath new wrappings, had stretched over his ribs and he ignored the flare in favor of voicing his proposal.

“Athos shall act as my second,” Aramis turned to Athos with a persuasive glance that had a a proven rate of higher chance of satisfaction when he was wounded, “or I yours, if you prefer.” Turning back to Porthos he looked from his face to the cards and back again. “You’ve considerable talent at cards, given my...limitations, it should make no difference to you if Athos and I play as a team.”

“How’s that?”

The lightness of Porthos’ tone betrayed the attempt to pull his lips into frown, and Aramis knew he’d already won his bid to play. Rather than concede in words, Porthos reached for the decks and began shuffling one of them.

“Better check him for fever, he may be speakin’ easier, but his mind’s not altogether.”

“I suppose that’s why he requires assistance.”

“I merely need use of your hands, Athos,” thinking on it a moment, and observing the stack of cards between Porthos’ fingers, he added, “and potentially your eyes…”

“Blurry or blocked?”

“It clears and then wavers, a minor impairment, nothing to fuss over.”

“Your head?” Athos turned bodily toward him in his seat, fixing him with his stare and indicting he would wait until Aramis responded.

Grimacing, Aramis reached back to push the flat of his hand where the throbbing was centered on his scalp. Rubbing to push aside the hair he could feel the rough thread of what he guessed were three stitches. Pushing on them stung and he lifted his hand to bring forward and examine the skin for evidence he’d disturbed the suturing.

“Right. You’re holding the cards for ‘im.”

Aramis gave a breathy chuckle and used his other hand to pat the mattress beside him.

“Come, between the two of us – even with my impairments – we stand an excellent chance. Although Porthos taught me games I’d never encountered, and I’m not convinced he didn’t invent some of those rules.”

“Have I ever cheated you,” Porthos set down the first deck and picked up the second to shuffle, “without your knowledge I was tryin’?”

“True,” conceded Aramis, remembering his own offer to test his skill against Porthos’ own; proposing Porthos attempt to cheat for Aramis to improve his own defenses, “and one cannot become a skilled player without someone to practice on – but if my eyes aren’t able to detect a slipped card…”

“Not sure that one can detect much of anything,” Porthos tapped the edge of one card under his own left eye.

“It’s not hindered from that, any more than it is painful,” he turned to look up at Athos, “as we’ve established: you recall you had no pain. Despite how horrific you appeared?”

Having stood to join Aramis on the bed Athos braced his hands on his waist as if considering retaking his seat.

“Shouldn’t cast stones when y’haven’t seen what you look like. And stop touchin’ yer head; you’ve been knocked about enough.”

“I barely felt it...at least you won’t need to cut my hair this time.”

“Porthos cut your hair?”

“Well Balland did first,” Aramis frowned, remembering the longer strands being hacked at a slanting angle and then large sections beneath were sheared down to his scalp, “if we mean to be specific.”

“Looked a bit lopsided,” admitted Porthos. “Balland tried to spare ‘im by taking off only the strip around the cut, so the hair above could hide it, but between the bandaging, the stitches, the blood, and what kept sticking it all started looking matted. That’s when I offered to help him.”

“He claimed he’d experience as a barber.” Aramis gave Athos the same look he gave Porthos when explaining that Athos claimed his headache was the result of merely one drink.

“You’re never lettin’ that go, are you?” Porthos set both decks onto the table and tracked Athos taking his seat, on the bed. “Think he misheard me, I said I’d experience watchin’ barbers at their work.”

“Misheard?” Athos turned to him for confirmation.

“He’d a head wound.” Porthos shrugged, unrepentant. “Besides, he’s not exactly Samson...yer power’s not in your hair.”

“I’ve numerous witnesses who’d counter your claim,” he protested, using the tips of two splinted fingers to fluff the edge near his temple.

“Y’spend more time in front of a mirror than me and Athos combined.”

Looking from one friend to the other, he smoothed the blanket near his and Athos’ hips and settled more weight into the nest of pillows supporting him.

“It shows,” Aramis raised his chin, turning his head minutely from side to side to better display his locks. “If we’re to measure that in the attention we receive from the fairer sex.”

“I’m not sure we should play,” Porthos raised his hands, waving them as if backing off from a poorly planned scheme, and grinned at Aramis, “he’s soundin’ delirious again.”

“No fever,” Athos set a steady hand to his forehead, letting the weight of it press in reassurance on his skin before his palm brushed back the hair, smoothing his sleep mussed curls into order, “his ramblings are his own.”

Motioning to the cards, Athos sat back against his own share of the piled pillows.

“This one’s already sorted for piquet.”

Porthos selected the shorter deck, which was closest to him on the table, and set it on the bed next to Athos’ leg.

“Do you have a preference for which of us selects first?” asked Athos.

“Careful Athos, he may have planned this.”

“I’m saving my strategy for the game,” declared Porthos. He shook his head, reaching over Athos’ outstretched legs to tap on the side of Aramis’ calf.

“Ah, but the position of dealer is part of the game. You may have placed the higher card on top, and therefore offering us to select first would put you at an advantage,” teased Aramis, aware that it wouldn’t matter.

However, he couldn’t resist speculating on the order of the cards, knowing that Porthos possessed the quickness of fingers to place cards into his desired order without it appearing as though he did anything more than shuffle the deck. Given the fluctuation of his eyesight at present he expected he might have missed any such tricks.

“Alternatively, you may have expected that as we are playing as one,” he nudged his shoulder into Athos,’ content to leech warmth from his arm given their closeness on the narrow bed, “that it would only be courteous for us to offer you the first selection. If you knew that we would be so polite, then you might be relying on us to then accept your offer of first draw and then your card would be in position as it’s the one you expected to select. Should that be your premise then – ”

“Sure yer fit to play?” Porthos huffed out a gust of air, wiggling his hands over where the cards lay.

“I’m quite well, besides I have Athos.”

“As this entire game will be unconventional,” Athos reached for the stack, a diplomatic air – if not impatient stiffness – to the wave of his hand before he thrust it between them and fanned the deck, “select your cards.”

Porthos and Aramis stared at each other, squinting and tilting their heads alternately.

“Choose,” warned Athos, “or I will select for you both.”

The splint proved too cumbersome for so fine a task and Aramis indicated the one he wished to select, tapping the thin paper with the edge of his fingertip. Athos waited for Porthos to pull his card, from the other end of the splayed grouping, before he pushed Aramis’ selection free and turned it face up.

“Your deal, Porthos!”

“Quit crowin’ before you hurt yourself.”

Athos tucked both cards randomly back into the deck, Porthos’ jack sliding neatly into the pile after Aramis’ seven. He moved to hand the deck over to Porthos but paused when Aramis cleared his throat.

“Now I ought to take offense.”

“Don’t you trust Athos?”

“Porthos, if it settles the matter,” offered Athos, the cards held between both his hands. He looked between them both, rolling his eyes before he shuffled the cards without looking at them. “There.”

“Won’t make a difference, he’ll be asleep before long,” Porthos took up the deck, but craned his neck to the corner of the room instead of dealing. “You need another pillow?”

“No, thank you.” The thick stack behind Aramis was bolstering, but he preferred distributing some of his weight onto Athos once he’d settled back. “Although, speaking of pillows…”

He pressed up, intending to make an examination of the other bed.

“We’ve already set one under his knee,” Athos confirmed, collecting the cards as Porthos portioned them, and spoke before Aramis could draw breath to ask his next question, “and his ankle.”

Satisfied, Aramis angled his head to view their shared cards when Athos held them up for his inspection. He yawned broadly enough to crack his jaw – irritating bruising he’d not recalled – before he let his temple drop onto Athos’ shoulder. After so many hours spent tucked against d’Artagnan he appreciated the shared heat and the security of their closeness. His back burned, and the wound on his ribs ached, but the rush of alertness his body had endured was subsiding. He could play, or sleep, as he wished. Secure in the knowledge that he and d’Artagnan were safe among their friends he leaned more weight onto Athos. He hoped to remain awake long enough for d’Artagnan to return to them, but he was content that they’d all be there when he woke.

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No. 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.”

Touch Aversion | “Leave me alone.”

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“I’ll check the arsenal.” Athos held the door of the chapel until it shut, raising the candle lantern to highlight the darting eyes of his friend. “It’s no more your fault than mine.” He gripped Porthos’ shoulder before making a sign that they should part. “We’ll find him.”

Porthos gave a stiff nod before he turned for the prison to continue their search, and Athos watched his larger frame distort to a shadow in the pre-dawn darkness. His silhouette was irregular, a cloak thrown over his arm; he’d foregone wrapping it over his shoulders in his rush to search. Neither of them had bothered to put on their doublets and hats. Athos had grabbed his own cloak more for Aramis than himself. The chill in the air wouldn’t have bothered him, he was generating enough heat rushing through corridors and across the yard, but he wore the heavy fabric to build up warmth for Aramis.

He’d only been in his linens, and from what they took stock of the fool hadn’t bothered with anything else before absconding. His boots were slouched against the bed posts and his gloves remained tucked atop the doublet they’d secured for him.

Aramis would jest lightly, riding through a narrow copse of trees in November, or complain bitterly after blowing a puff of air into his gloves while patrolling the Louvre in January, but it was well-known among them that even if he were being stoic about the cold he felt it more deeply than either of his friends. Wearing as little clothing as he had been, unless he’d sought out the kitchen and its perpetual hearth, if he were wandering the hundreds of rooms he’d be cold.

That was if he’d ensconced himself within one of the fort’s structures.

Athos angled left to make for the arsenal, but the impression of Aramis moving between the buildings reminded him of the memories Porthos had shared with him while they’d passed the time with cards. Waiting for their friends to wake Porthos had expanded on the snatches of stories he’d heard from Aramis and Porthos over the years. These scattered recollections informed their current search; the hope was they’d find Aramis in one of the locations Porthos had found he’d retreated to years earlier.

He’d no inkling of how Aramis had managed to wander from the room, much less the barracks, without waking him or crossing Porthos’ path.

They’d finally taken their own turn at sleeping, and Balland had ceased calling on them not long before midnight. There were few men moving about in the earliest hours overnight. Aramis had, as Porthos predicted, passed into sleep on Athos’ shoulder, but it had taken several hours. He’d lapse into a light rest, his forehead like a hot stone pressed against Athos’ shirtsleeve, but the moment Athos attempted to exit the bed he’d blink awake and ask after which of them was the Elder, again. Discounting the drops into sleep, they’d still won about as many tricks and hands as Porthos.

With the candles shrunk by nearly a third Athos had eased him into a side-sleeping position, ensuring his pincer wound faced the ceiling, and managed to slip from the bed without Aramis stirring. They’d dispensed with playing after that and Porthos spent a few hours more idly tucking the cards about his clothing, with discreet motions of his hands, while Athos contented himself with the remainder of his last bottle. To distract themselves from a silent vigil of their youngest – who’d yet to stir – Porthos had shared a few more anecdotes, including their prior time at the nearby monastery.

Athos had not felt the mildest inkling of surprise on learning Aramis had charmed their way into an order of isolated monks. That the men there spent the majority of their days in silence and still permitted the two soldiers entry was more impressive.

Reflecting on what Porthos had shared he altered his destination, Aramis’ own muddled memories might have encouraged him to retrace his haunts from years ago. The crunch of ground under his rotating boot filled his ears and he turned to the northeast.

He paused at the flash of flame he marked on his left. Poulin’s face sharpened into his vision once the flickering torch was moved aside and the younger man ceased rocking forward on his boots, the over-bright flame wavering.

“Found him?” His face pinched with the error of asking something so obvious, and his stance shifted as he took in the absence of Aramis.

Athos’ face provided his response and he resisted a snort of impatience.

“I could wake the others…” Poulin offered.

“The watch won’t have allowed him to slip past,” Athos glanced behind the younger man, weighing the need to find Aramis quickly against alerting more men to his potential distress. “Check the large magazine, if you can’t locate him there then wake the others.” Should they take too long the men would be moving about regardless, and his stomach soured at the thought of one of the fort’s soldiers crossing Aramis unexpectedly. “Check the other barracks, move forward towards the chapel from there, and divide to search the grounds. Musketeers only. For now.”

If Aramis were confused, or in a poor state, Athos expected he’d prefer to be found by a brother rather than the soldiers. Ideally he’d be found by Porthos or Athos first, but given the chilled air and the expanse of the fort he’d prefer Aramis found than exposed to the elements.

“He can’t have gone far on those feet…” Poulin trailed off again at speaking before thinking through his actual words, and his wince displayed uncharacteristic lines at the reminder of the extent of Aramis’ injuries. His cheeks twitched and smoothed, and he drew down his thin shoulders to muster an expression of confidence that he pushed into his voice. “We’ll find him.”

Athos gave a sharp nod before completing his turn for the furthest bastion and the Savoy Front.

He appreciated the young man’s sincerity. He shared the same enthusiasm as d’Artagnan, though a little less skill, but was thankfully more inclined to following orders. Athos shared his resolve; without a doubt they’d locate Aramis, given enough time.

The more troubling prospect was the condition their missing musketeer would be in once found. He quelled any misgivings over what he’d find with the same words he’d assured Porthos with his fingers curled against his neck: he’ll not have left the fort.

Aramis was a stubborn man and if he meant to accomplish an escape he would, but there was little to escape here. Of course, that was dependent on if Aramis was thinking rationally. Despite their earlier banter, their snatches of conversation over cards, Aramis’ mind had skipped between ideas. He’d spoken of the suits one moment, and then he was needling them over whether they’d provided adequate support to d’Artagnan’s leg the next. His thoughts had drifted without continuity, and his attempts to speak of their captivity were largely out of order.

That lack of focus was compounded by his injuries and while Athos trusted that Aramis remained with the confines of the fort, Porthos’ anecdotes of their time here had him concerned. Either he was so confused he’d walked past them, or so unwell he’d not recognized they were there at all.

Unless they were the source of his consternation, as Aramis generally sought one or both of them when he was troubled. If it were one of them that was the reason of his unease, it was a simple enough task to seek the other for advice to right the balance or an ear to hear his grievances. Athos had a suspicion, that in those instances, it was Porthos who was sought out more than him. Rare were the occasions Aramis found himself at odds with Porthos that could not be sorted with the span of an hour.

It was when life disappointed Aramis that Athos found his own shadow replaced with the warm weight of his restless brother. The nudge of a shoulder gave way to him laying out his argument, offering varying tactics to accomplish his goals, and glancing sidelong to suss out Athos’ reaction. Unfortunately for Aramis, Athos had cultivated a neutral countenance by the time he’d shown the first signs of a beard. In most instances Aramis was satisfied with the comfort of stating his case rather than receiving any judgment. When Athos did provide a measure of counsel Aramis was as likely to dismiss it as he was to protest it, and only occasionally did he accept and adopt the advice.

Bringing the lantern to eye level, Athos squinted against a flicker of shadow on the northern wall of the barracks that might have been the shape of a man. He continued to angle for the bastion he intended to check.

The same stretch of grass where Porthos had refused – though he was protesting, disoriented, and wildly shooting – to leave Aramis.

Athos spared a thought to be grateful they hadn’t returned his treasured pistols to him.

Bitterly telling him to leave had not been enough. Quoting Psalms at Porthos in a desperate bid to drive him off had failed. Cruel accusations had given way to entreating obedience with biblical excerpts, as Porthos described it to Athos, and that had only bolstered his resolve to remain with the injured man. On that cloudless day Porthos described ‘...for I am lonely and afflicted…’ proved more a call to aid for Porthos than a means for Aramis – as he’d intended – to gain his own way.

Athos had fashioned himself a follower of the ancient wisdom: ‘life is largely a matter of expectation.’ And it was his belief that expectations were the source of most pain.

The expectation Athos had of marriage – of love – had brought him to the pinnacle of fulfillment, but had also dashed him to near breaking from that excessive height. A happiness that had lifted his spirit so high that the weight of his status had barely tethered him to earth; she’d loosened the tethers he’d placed on himself, the yoke of his duties. He’d been burned by the lightness he’d chased. Icarus had never touched the sun, he’d only been blinded by the brightness and the overwhelming expectation of a prize he could never claim.

After his own fall Athos had traded the expectations of his ancestry; the overseeing of others, the managing of an estate, the judiciary responsibilities, and all manner of responsibility to a reputation and a people, for the duties of a musketeer. There were expectations of a soldier, but they were more straightforward. There were rules and he could navigate meeting them, or falling short. In taking up a commission he’d never intended for anyone else to hold expectations for him beyond orders, nor for him to feel compelled to meet any. Other than his obligations to the regiment, he had not meant to fulfill any expectations other than that of adequate soldiering.

He’d not anticipated the two men who would provide themselves as friends of which he also could have expectations. There had been no way to refuse them, and he had tried. He’d been cold, speaking in clipped words and never responding with more words than needed. He’d rebuffed their invitations to games and sport, and he’d given curt refusals to their overtures to join them for dinner. He’d requested he be assigned to the company of others, and on one fateful evening he’d all but banished them from his side.

None of it had worked because they had the expectation that he would accept their friendship; they’d wanted his company even if they could never expect anything from him but his rebukes. They’d wished to be friends with him as he was. Against all reason they liked him in spite of his more unconventional characteristics rather than benefiting from duties related to a title that he was expected to perform.

Athos believed he and Aramis similar in that they disliked falling short of the expectations they set for themselves. However, where Athos did not wish to fall short of the expectations he had of himself regarding his service to others, Aramis could not bear to not live up to the image he fashioned of himself. Of them all he would be the one to act independently to satisfy the standard he’d set; to ensure he fulfilled the image of the man he displayed to others.

Porthos meanwhile wore his hurts like a wound dealt to him by the man who’d fell short of his expectations. He knew Aramis would run all over Paris chasing love, throwing himself at the Church as often as he conducted his secret affairs, but Porthos expected Aramis would be there when it mattered most. When Porthos needed him, Aramis would respond to his call; it was when Aramis abandoned – or seemed to neglect – him that Porthos’ disappointment turned him to callousness.

It was a flaw in an otherwise confident personality.

Porthos never feared disappointing anyone’s expectations because he displayed himself exactly as he was. Where Aramis and Athos would obscure facets of their personalities, Porthos showed all of himself and spared little thought for those who didn’t care for him. Showing himself for who he was, bragging aside, Porthos would rarely disappoint because he acted in precisely the manner one would have come to expect of him if one knew him.

While he would clearly acknowledge that Porthos had felt slighted in those circumstances, Aramis was the one most inclined to charge off on his own with some measure of unpredictability. He expected each of his friends to accept this, but simultaneously held the expectation that his friends would be there for him when needed or when he returned.

That was the expectation they had of each other: no man was alone. They would come for each other, always.

Traipsing about the fort was infinitely less ground to cover than sneaking into Savoy, but he’d as much concern for Aramis here as he did across the border.

Carefully picking his way through the higher grasses on the incline he pushed his hand onto the bark of an old tree rooted on the slope. Levering against the wide trunk he peered toward the furthest point of the bastion for a sign of Aramis. In his mind he could nearly see the bright sun imposing on the shape of his two friends, several years younger. Aramis’ arms quick with sharp gestures to Porthos’ open palms waiting for a chance to still him.

Athos’ own arm raised the lantern, banishing the impressions of pistols firing, splintering glass, and Aramis stalking against the sunlit landscape that Porthos’ story conjured. Instead he sought through the shadows for the shape, the outline, of his friend or a sign that he was somewhere close by.

He turned sideways from the tree to move up the small hill and investigate the long point of the bastion.

Although they both succumbed to reflecting on the sources of their greatest unhappiness they handled their misfortunes differently. Athos was prone to ruminating, and often found immured in his own misery whereas Aramis would cast his into a box created by his mind to be inspected later, at some ungodly hour. At which time he’d seek a woman, prayer, or Athos.

Athos wondered if the women fared better at being listened to than himself. He’d never turn his brother away, not were the matter serious, but he did occasionally grate at Aramis’ resistance to the very advice he sought.

Other times, such as may have happened this early morning, he’d go off on his own to sort whatever was causing him pain leaving Athos and Porthos to seek him. Whether he wished them to do so or not.

And so here he was, walking through the dark, casting circles on the lightly dewed grass and hoping to catch sight or a sign of Aramis in one of them.

The smudge of white illuminated by the flame he carried could have appeared an apparition to a more fanciful mind. Unmoving, except for a fluttering of muslin, Aramis’ hair blended with the skyline and his calves seemed to recede into the taller grasses near the bastion’s point.

The landscape was indistinguishable in the dark, save for the tallest peaks in the distance. Lowering the lantern so as not to fight with its glow he knew without seeing Aramis’ face that his eyes would be fixed on Savoy.

Before he could remark as to why Aramis was wandering about in the earliest morning hours in his linens, Aramis turned to view him in profile.

Half-lidded, Aramis’ eye squinted against the lantern and scraped over Athos. Through the light cast between them Athos could make out the corner of his mouth turning down before he spoke, low and accusing.

“You.”

Familiar enough with Aramis’ cutting remarks it was no feat of skill on his part to recognize the scorn, the disappointment, from the single word.

“Don’t.” Aramis’ arm waved, but whether to ward the glow of the lantern or dismiss him was indeterminable to Athos.

Aramis sought touch more than he fought it.

An unconscious bartering tactic he used, sometimes innocently, often unthinkingly, and occasionally deliberately, if he’d fallen from favor. When hurt it wasn’t uncommon that he would prefer to be approached than limp over. If he were leaning toward a melancholic temperament it could be a toss up between craving the assurance of closeness or waiting for another to approach out of a misplaced sense of unworthiness. Generally his pattern followed the former, his needs overriding any sense of propriety, but occasionally the latter rooted him to his seat.

Rarely were he so incensed that he was averse to touch, his hurt a physical representation of the chasm between him and the person who’d caused the necessity for any imposed distance.

Athos’ ankle shook with the effort to hold himself still; his body fighting the urge to approach.

He didn’t move closer, and Aramis shifted to view him. A slow, grinding of thinly bandaged feet into the grass to make the turn, that saw his shoulders raise and his chin lift. His eyes squinted against the lantern again, but they remained fixed in Athos’ direction in an unspoken demand for obedience.

His own silent gaze worked with far more regularity to give pause to his brother’s actions than any of theirs did to him.

Taking a chance on some movement he raised the lantern to better view Aramis’ assessing gaze. The younger man blinked, cocking his chin, and tilting his head in an effort to study him. The increased brightness should have highlighted Athos’ features for him, but he’d an inkling that Aramis wasn’t seeing him.

“You left,” he accused.

Aramis’ right hand flexed in its attempt to make a fist, but his fingers remained spread against the splints. Athos suspected he’d disturbed the healing injury on his side through the unplanned escape attempt. Given their proximity Athos could see the darkened patch of billowing shirt that was stuck to Aramis’ side, tacked there by the broken open wound.

“I’ve been – ”

Were this a conversation between men of equal health, he would’ve displayed his annoyance at the interruption. The priority was returning Aramis to his bed, and assessing what damage he’d managed to inflict on himself. Arguing over his reasoning or his behavior could wait until he was ensconced back in their room.

“What do you want?”

“I – ”

“Nevermind.” Aramis turned his back to him, trusting or not caring that his words would be followed. “Leave.”

“You know I won’t do that,” Athos’ own eyes pinched and he took advantage of Aramis’ position to take a step.

Cold and ruthless were not descriptions one would hear of the man when he was about Paris, unless of course from a member of the Red Guard. Along with the men who’d been on the opposite end of his blade, or his tongue. And if the man had been fool enough to insult Porthos? Aramis was quite vicious when properly motivated.

“Do I?”

The tension across Aramis’ shoulders was in conflict with the tremor of his left leg.

Broken toes weren’t the most serious of injuries, but given how many had been twisted it would make putting pressure on them a challenge in endurance. He and Porthos had not slept long, so it was imaginable that Aramis had been wandering about for at least an hour. Even that was plenty of time for the man to have caused himself significant harm.

“Come,” Athos risked another step closer, placing himself within arms reach were he to stretch his unencumbered hand out, “we can speak once you’re back inside.”

“Leave me alone.”

His voice was nearer to a growl than even the tense hiss he employed when pressing into one’s space usually driven by his own frustration.

He was furious.

Whatever had drawn him from his bed had left him enduring the pain of all his injuries to stand out in the dark, alone. Unless he were so insensate he was numb, leaving would have required him to deliberately cause himself harm. To escape the room, the memories of the last time he’d been at this fort, and possibly his own friends.

That last reason bothered him more than all others combined.

“Aramis.” Motivated by the desire to reassure the younger man, he stepped forward and placed a hand on a shoulder that might have been marble for how unyielding, and cold, it was. “I’m not leaving you.”

“No?” Aramis’ voice rose to a volume that would have brought the watch had they not been so far out on the bastion. He shoved free from Athos. Uncaring over how the explosive motion unbalanced him, or perhaps it went unnoticed given the force of his own anger. He cast Athos’ arm away from him. “No, you say? When you left! You – ”

He cut himself off, taking the moment to draw himself back to his full height. The strain of the motion making his limbs rigid from skin already stiffened from the chill.

Athos carried enough guilt for the choices duty forced him to make, and he’d not take on guilt for decisions made with the best knowledge he’d had. He strived to be logical, even more when Aramis was driven to an opposite direction by passion or his own reasoning. Inevitably there were times their paths differed, but the loyalty that underpinned their friendship had never been in question.

“Aramis – ”

“Athos?” He turned around again, his voice softened into an inquiring sound. “But, you weren’t...” Thin arms moved closer to his sides to protect against the cold he seemed to notice at the same instance he realized it was Athos and not another that he spoke with. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I...it’s, I thought...” he raised a hand to the side of his head, “you’ve similar...in the dark and...I mistook you…” Aramis trailed off, his posture moving from aggressive, to defensive, to a slouching guard of his own torso. “You should be resting.”

By the time Athos took note of the words Aramis was making a waving motion to encourage his departure. A waving motion in the direction of the magazine rather than the barracks that gave Athos more pause than the irony of Aramis instructing him to rest. He would only be more worried if Aramis were gesturing him toward the front of Savoy.

“The lantern?” Athos bent to the side to deposit the enclosed candle onto the grass at their side. Rising, he tried to use the soft light to better view Aramis’ eyes. “Or the…halo?”

Aramis gave a harsh exhalation, closed mouthed, and gazed where he approximated Athos to be based on his voice.

“It was rare at night.”

Aramis’ shrug relaxed his posture further and Athos stepped forward, holding his hand up for Aramis to mark the motion before he cupped it around Aramis’ upper arm.

“And why you mistook me.”

“The dark,” offered Aramis, angling his chin toward him but his eyes not meeting Athos’ own, “and similar coloring.”

“I hope you’re not claiming we share an appearance.”

Aramis snorted, slouching closer and leaning weight against Athos’ hand so that he could feel the muscles move through his shirtsleeve.

“Nor do you share his qualities,” Aramis affirmed.

“No.”

Athos respected that Aramis held the man in higher regard than he did, and that he rarely spoke ill of the dead. He’d no will to argue the man’s lack of character – Porthos had argued sufficiently on that account already – and it was a worn out conversation. Trusting the lightness of eye or hair was where the association ended, he’d no cause to heap more disagreement between them. Persuading Aramis back to their temporary quarters required him focused on their present needs rather than his previous experiences here.

“Not his worst ones,” admitted Aramis, his eyes moving to the buildings beyond Athos.

“Clearly.”

Athos expected that he was attempting to view the shapes of the structures beyond him. If Aramis was not engaging in an activity, or facing the person he conversed with, there were few immediate signs that he was experiencing the unpredictable affliction. The tells became more obvious the longer the interaction, or if one could observe him. Which was precisely why he’d lash out with the same instinct as a wounded animal when he was inclined to hide the deficiency.

“I was confused when I woke,” making a motion toward his eyes and blinking in succession, “and this...blots out most of the center. It’s like holding a candle before your nose and trying to see around the flame.” He brought his hand over to rest on Athos’ forearm and the pressure of the hold made Athos think it was for balance as much as assurance. “I thought...I suppose it doesn’t matter what I thought. I don’t know why I,” he glanced over but whether he couldn’t or wouldn’t seek Athos’ gaze was indeterminable, “I needed to get up...to leave.”

“Why rest when you can barely walk?”

Aramis huffed a laugh, a bitter sniff at the end of it before he closed his eyes for the length of several breaths. When he blinked them open his frown was the only sign of dissatisfaction and Athos assumed the floating light that obscured his vision remained.

“I managed to,” he swayed from the waist, knees locked, glancing toward the far point of the stone and beyond to smudges of trees and the mountains beyond, “here.”

“For what purpose?” He spoke the words gently, hoping to turn Aramis’ focus back to him, and toward returning inside.

“I don’t know,” he leaned closer, orienting to Athos and trusting he’d take a bit more of his weight, “I forgot where...when…” he tilted his head, leaning that too toward Athos, “I didn’t remember. Like a dream? You know where you are but not when,” he paused to recognize the universal experience, nudging his head again in Athos’ direction, “I, back then it made sense to walk, to search, to keep looking...”

“There’s no need, you only need to rest.”

“To wait,” he took a deep breath, “you know I lack the patience. Locked up for days,” he tipped his head back, and Athos wondered how many of the stars he could see around the bright circles blotting his vision, “...you did come...although, d’Artagnan may tell you I doubted.”

“We would not have left you there.” Athos spoke firmly, but kept his voice low.

“That I did not doubt, not entirely” he lowered his face, a wry smile was turned in his general direction, “but that I would see your arrival? I did doubt that.”

“You drew their ire.” Athos confirmed what he’d already suspected; assisting the doctor had shown him the visible evidence of what had occurred. He couldn’t fault Aramis for an action he would have made himself, but he could not celebrate the effort either having witnessed the toll taken on Aramis’ body to spare d’Artagnan.

“A viable plan.”

“A foolish one,” he admonished softly, groping one-handed at his neck to remove the cloak and drape it over the chilled skin he could feel through the thin linen around the arm he supported.

“A fruitless one,” Aramis stumbled closer, rounding his shoulders to assist with Athos’ intention, “if he does not wake.” He stiffened and tried to raise his head to focus on Athos’ face, although as close as they stood it would likely not matter even if Aramis’ eyes had not been impeded. “Has he? Did you come out here to tell me?”

“D’Artagnan has not yet woken.” Athos rolled his eyes with affection, despite the knowledge that Aramis was unlikely to mark the action. “I came seeking my wayward brother.” In an effort to banish the past as much as remind Aramis he’d survived, and healed, and so too would their youngest he attempted to conjure the memory Porthos had shared. “For he is ‘lonely and afflicted’...”

Aramis’ deep exhalation blew over Athos’ neck, before he rested his own forehead there. Neither of them commented on the faint tremble of the chilled skin adjusting to the warmth of the cloak.

“I’d forgotten telling you.”

“You didn’t,” he tightened his hands onto the wool, tugging lightly to keep it from gaping open behind Aramis’ neck. From what he’d observed it was only his side that had been compromised and he’d no wish to disturb the bandaging around his back. “Porthos told me when you began snoring into my shoulder.”

“It was less amusing back then. Did he tell you I ordered him away from me?”

“He was ordered there by Treville,” the tale Porthos had told him wasn’t too exaggerated for him to question, and given the larger man’s state he trusted there’d been little embellishment, “but he’d not have left you regardless.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever spoken so harshly to him,” Aramis’ forehead moved back and forth in a light shake of his head, “even in jest, since.”

“And even so, he didn’t abandon you.”

“I might’ve deserved it that time.”

Athos glanced down, noting in the lantern light how Aramis’ thumb attempted to pinch the excess fabric against the side of his hand.

“Your cruelty of phrase,” he lightly compressed his fingers against the cloak where he was bolstering Aramis’ upper arm, “is less effective on your friends.”

“So...you didn’t believe me when I called you a pompous and callous – ”

“Aramis.” Rather than expand on his thought he adjusted the wool to prevent the mild breeze from slipping between the gaps of fabric.

“At least with Porthos I believed my vision ruined and had no means of knowing if it would clear.”

“Thankfully it always has.”

“Barring a few...mishaps...fortunately, yes.”

Athos would not qualify all of the unfortunate occurrences – such as undoing a man’s stitches – as a ‘mishap,’ but his aim was not to guilt Aramis over what could theoretically not be controlled. Nor could it be predicted.

“Every time...” there was a quality to Aramis’ voice whether gentling a horse or quoting his favorite passages that had a melodic quality. It thinned, lowering in volume, with his hesitation; as if speaking the admission would prove it true. “Every time...I wonder if it’s the last.”

For all that its onset was unpredictable, there was little guarantee other than past occurrences that it would not be permanent. The frequency of them had grown rare over time, and the duration had varied, but there had always been an end to them.

“You believe it won’t resolve?”

Athos knew of the origin of the affliction, and that it had happened rarely thereafter. He’d not learned the specifics of the first incident until a few hours ago, but he was intimately aware that Aramis had no sign of when these spells would occur. Observing his friend appearing to be in perfect health atop his horse, brought to a halt, and declaring he could not see had been unnerving. Worse, having a wound dug into – and pulled open – because the light blocking his vision had also prevented him from realizing it was already stitched closed.

Mistaking his silence Aramis cleared his throat, tapping a finger to the bare skin revealed by his hand seeking purchase on Athos’ shoulder.

“You’ve gone some time without this happening.”

Aramis pressed his forehead deeper against his neck, turning to speak unmuffled. “I suppose I was overdue?”

“No doubt aided by your meandering.”

“I was confused, Athos. ‘Consider my affliction and my trouble, and forgive all my sins’ yes?”

“Did that work with Porthos?” Athos cupped a hand on Aramis’ scalp, tensing his own back to keep them both upright when Aramis sunk more weight onto him.

“He shared the tale,” Aramis’ splinted fingers didn’t have enough purchase to lever himself back up, so he resigned himself to using Athos to remain upright, “you tell me.”

Athos took some measure of comfort that Aramis’ forehead was warming, even if it were at the cost of his own skin. Given it felt as though a river rock had been pushed against his neck he wouldn’t begrudge Aramis leeching the warmth he’d built up searching for him.

“I think your ‘affliction and troubles’ would try the patience of God himself.” Athos made light strokes with the pads of his fingers to soften the accusation.

“And yet, clearly I’m favored.” Aramis raised his head, careful not to dislodge Athos’ hand, but unable to judge well enough to avoid bumping his temple on Athos’ chin. “We were found, after all.”

“Always.” They would always come for one another. He’d been resigned to die himself not too long ago, and yet his brothers – all three of them even if one hadn’t the title at the time – had seen him saved. “Even if we approach from various directions, our aim is the same.”

“I can accept that.” Aramis leaned closer again, as if he’d realized his body did n0t wish to support its own weight. “I accepted what happened, but I had to know.”

The press of his unbending fingers pushed deeper and pulled the thin fabric toward Athos’ shoulder. He remained still, making no comment on the declaration. At the time he’d warned Aramis against it, all the while knowing it entirely possible Treville had been given orders that were in conflict with his own conscience.

“I have wondered if I was meant to die there. Now I’ve escaped again. How often can a man cheat, do you think?”

“Porthos might be better to consult on that account.”

Aramis’ soft laughter vibrated along his collarbone and Athos ignored the twinge in his lower back to consider how he might encourage Aramis to move back toward the barracks. Aramis had managed to traverse bastion’s long angles to stand near the point. It was a distance back over to the flat ground around the barracks.

“It felt impossible. I couldn’t let him fall there. I’d no wish to, but if meant he wouldn’t…” He turned against Athos’ shoulder, his voice muffled from being directed to the open air. “When I realized where we’d been taken it was as though I’d been dragged back in repayment of that escape. Clawed back to where the scythe missed its stroke...”

Similar to hair prickling on the back of one’s neck, the memory seemed a reminder to Aramis that his position left his own neck exposed. Instinctively, as he lifted his head, Athos cupped his other hand to cover the skin and press along the edge cloak.

“I had the chance to kill him and only scarred him, it was chaos; there were too many and I couldn’t get close enough to kill him.”

“You would have died for that.”

“A worthy end.”

“For avenging them, yes,” with Aramis turned toward him Athos’ own gaze was oriented toward Savoy, and the sharp smudges of mountains and trees that nearly claimed his friend’s last breaths, “but the Duke’s death would not have been worth your own.”

“Says the man who’s crossed the border...against orders?”

“For you. For d’Artagnan. There’s no measure for the worth of your lives.”

Aramis didn’t respond, his lips moved, but he swallowed back any words he might have considered.

“Our orders were to locate our missing soldiers. In the dark, how were we to know where the border lay?”

Aramis’ chuckle tickled his cheek before he spoke. “Is that how you will justify our retrieval?”

“That, and our prisoners – found in the woods – are likely to be of more value than any unverifiable accusations of our crossing into Savoy.”

“The woods?”

“Weren’t you there?”

“I’m not sure where I was,” Aramis leaned his head closer to Athos, and winked, his fingers coming up to tap at his scalp, “commotion of the mind. I’m certain Balland will vouch for my confusion.”

“Who could argue?”

“Indeed.” His lips curled up before flattening with a pinch of his eyes, no doubt having twinged one or more of his injuries. “Porthos watching over d’Artagnan?”

“With you missing?”

“Fair point.” Aramis’ face turned to look beyond him, squinting and blinking to view the buildings behind Athos. “My apologies for making you both traipse about the fort...”

“Hardly the worst place we’ve searched for you.”

Aramis’ mouth turned up at the corner before he drifted forward and hooked his chin over Athos’ shoulder, again giving him more of his weight.”

“No, but not the most interesting either. I’ll endeavor to seek more exciting locales for you to explore.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“At least you weren’t bored.”

“I was sleeping,” Athos complained with a gentle nudge of his chin, “and you should be too. I was...concerned. As for Porthos, he’s mildly upset.”

“If that’s his lumbering shape there I leave it to you to calm him...my back can’t take those bear-like arms at present.”

“Porthos?” Athos adjusted his stance and called over his shoulder, watching the swing of light casting shadows before Porthos’ shape obscured the glow.

“If you wanted to reenact yer shooting,” the diffused light was replaced by the lantern Porthos carried being raised to eye level so he could study them, “out here for Athos y’might’ve waited until sunrise.”

“Who needs the sun?” Uncaring of Porthos’ scrutiny of their features, and mainly Aramis’ appearance he lightly addressed the worried man. The warmth of Aramis’ chin lifted from his shoulder, but he continued to let Athos brace him, “I’ve already a little one in my eye, and we all know I don’t need to see to make the shot.”

“Then why don’t you wait so we can see what y’hit?”

Watching the two of them Athos decided against pointing out that Aramis couldn’t hold a weapon currently, much less depress a finger against a trigger.

“Let’s,” Athos met Porthos’ eyes over Aramis’ shifting curls, blinking against the lantern the larger man held above them, “forego any shooting and return you to bed.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Aramis smiled in his direction before attempting to grin at Porthos.

“Freezin’ out here. Don’t know why yer mind decides the dead of night is the best time to wander.” Porthos gave a shudder, but didn’t put the cloak he carried over himself. “You hate the cold. Makes no sense.”

“I aim to be unpredictable.”

“Yeah, maybe try a little less, or wake one of us next time?” Porthos extended his arm to illuminate the direction back to the barracks. “C’mon, won’t do for d’Artagnan to wake alone.”

Despite the invitation Aramis didn’t move other than to tuck his chin inward and glance down, at his bandaged feet.

“Aramis?”

“Take this,” Porthos was already shoving the swinging lantern at him, shaking his head and moving his hands in front Aramis’ face, and then to his arms, to suggest to him his intention, “and you, are stayin’ where I put you down this time.” Porthos huffed out a large breath and bent his knees. “Keep this up and yer not going to be walkin’ anywhere for weeks.”

After hefting him up, Porthos held his own cloak out from under Aramis’ knees.

“Throw that over him?”

Athos arched a brow, but set Porthos’ lantern down beside his own that he’d placed on the ground earlier and reached for the larger cloak. Wincing and tucking closer to Porthos to avoid pressure on his back Aramis turned his head between them, eyes floating over each of their faces. Athos dropped the thick fabric as directed and tucked it until Porthos had a hold of the edges around Aramis.

“A man could get used to this…”

He hissed on the ‘s’ adjusting his own arm around Porthos’ neck while the other man kept still to avoid pressing blindly over the knife cuts concealed by the cloth. Porthos bent the arm he brought under Aramis’ knees, the one holding his own cloak, and kept his other low on Aramis’ back under the bandaging. He otherwise kept his body braced and allowed Aramis to angle into a comfortable hold.

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d stay put.”

Once settled Aramis leaned his head back, gazing toward what would be a blotted out face, to address him.

“I get restless.”

In the light being cast around them Athos could make out Aramis’ shrug and the sharp grimace at the stretch it caused to the skin of his back. The cold could take a man in the same manner as too much wine, numbing the senses and slowing reactions to sensation. Moving now, even if mostly through Porthos’ aid, would be awakening all the pains his stillness and the cold had kept at bay. He expected their cloaks would go unreturned for several hours yet.

“No, y’got lost.”

Athos bent to retrieve both lanterns, and followed after Porthos’ slow gait across the long field. He drew alongside them, matching Porthos’ stride and confident the other man could carry Aramis well beyond the distance back to their current lodgings should he need.

“Lucky for me then that you found me,” Aramis tucked his head onto Porthos’ shoulder.

“Of course we did,” Porthos ducked his own head closer, but spoke to them both, “we always will.”

Athos moved slightly ahead to light their way back.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 31: “I thought that I was getting better.”

“Take it easy.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“What’s the matter?” Porthos asked the question after the third time Aramis had adjusted Athos’ hat. He tapped the bench they were seated on and glanced toward the space between the first two barracks. It would cause him no difficulty to drag the bench around the corner into the full shade, but Aramis had already hobbled to the chapel and back. He’d disguised the weakness that caused his knee to bow away from him by dropping onto the bench outside the barracks. “Could move into the shade if y’want?”

“No need.”

Tipping his head back, to allow more sun onto his skin, he closed his eyes against the brightness. The loan of Athos’ hat had served to protect his vision during his slow trek to and from the fort’s chapel. Past experience with Aramis’ irregular symptoms had reminded Porthos that he was sometimes sensitive to the light. The late night bout with the affliction days prior had him and Athos more cautious about keeping Aramis from too much brightness, especially given how little light there was in their room.

Despite their commitment to limiting the exacerbation of his affliction Aramis had made it clear he would not accept being confined to recover in one room. He’d argued that he’d heal more quickly for having the chance to move, to stretch, to exercise. Walking was what they’d compromised on. They’d made the pilgrimage in the later morning for the fifth day in a row. Once he’d convinced them it was necessary – and Athos and Porthos admitted to themselves he’d attempt it alone eventually – they’d traded turns accompanying him.

“You let me know if you change yer mind,” advised Porthos as he nodded to a passing soldier.

The soldiers at the fort moving about their duties took little notice of them day to day, and that suited Porthos. He preferred their polite acknowledgment to the guarded looks that they had garnered from their predecessors years ago. Since they’d arrived he marked a few of the men’s faces as familiar, but he’d confess he hadn’t interacted with many during their last visit having been preoccupied with Aramis rather than the rotation of soldiers.

“If you keep scrutinizing them,” Aramis flinched, the words hissed over his tightened jaw, as he adjusted his left leg on the stool Porthos had carried out for him, “they’re going to avoid us altogether.”

“That be so bad?”

“Porthos…” Aramis’ head rolled over the stone wall they leaned against, angling slightly up, to regard him from below the brim of Athos’ hat.

“Y’may be wearin’ the hat,” he swung the cleaning rod he held to motion with his point, “but yer not near as serious.”

He flicked the dowel on the brim, before returning his hands to the cloth in his lap.

“Perhaps not when it comes to social graces,” Aramis straightened from the arch he’d made against the wall and bent over to examine Porthos’ work, “but I am where pistols – especially my friend’s – are concerned. That needs further cleaning, use another cloth.” He pushed the first two fingers that had been splinted together on his right hand to motion toward the weapon. “And this section of the plate needs to be wiped before the buildup interferes with the spring.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, if you look here – ” Aramis cut himself off from further instructions, glancing over and pressing his mouth into a firm line that trembled with a threat to turn up at one corner.

Porthos lifted a brow, but he couldn’t delay his smirk so it ruined any serious offense he might’ve tried to convey. Any irritation he had with his friend’s interruptions was consumed by the empathy he had for him. Days cooped up in bed, without any real means to walk about himself had to be making him want to crawl out of his own skin. As it was, he was proud of Aramis for taking to his confinement as well as he had been. Absent his initial disappearance.

“Right, you have it in hand.”

Aramis patted his forearm with the palm of his own hand before carefully raising his torso to reposition his shoulders against the wall. Porthos had brought out a pillow as well, and they’d tucked a rolled up cloak behind him while another covered his lap. If it gave his friend some happiness he’d have dragged an entire bed out into the sunshine. Athos had suggested taking one of them outside once Porthos had made a third trip back to the room for further supplies.

“Course I do.”

“Nothing for me to do but enjoy the weather.”

“And the company.”

That was the goal, the same one Porthos had for his friend years ago. To take it easy, to rest, and to recover. He’d not known then that they’d become as close as any blood relation to each other. There was concern for Aramis among all the members of the regiment that had been assigned to the fort, but most had awkward exchanges or were ignored and so they avoided a repeat beyond acknowledging Aramis and let their captain interact with him. Porthos, as was his preference in life, had no hesitation about approaching the wounded soldier. He’d sat next to him when he’d lose himself to a sightless stare in the distance, and he’d trail him when he wandered the lower fort or shuffled into the kitchens despite having no appetite. Treville had eventually made it an order to grant Porthos the time, the excuse to remain at Aramis’ side, which provided the reason he would not be assigned to other duties.

“Yes, that too.” Aramis had closed his eyes again, but he nudged his elbow against Porthos’ upper arm.

“What’d you ask for today?”

“Porthos,” Aramis’ admonishment was accompanied by a smile, “prayer is a private conversation.”

“One-sided, if you ask me, I prefer an immediate response.”

“Sometimes our answers come in unexpected forms.”

“Get your answer then?”

Aramis slouched further, mindful not to place too much weight against the stone, and blew out a huff of air before opening his eyes to slide them over. His lips parted but closed with a dip of his chin, and his eyes moved away to regard three soldiers unloading grain sacks from a cart several yards away from where they sat. Smoothing his fingers over the wrinkles of the cloak covering his lap against the increasing breeze, he ceased tracking the men and studied the odd clusters of splinting separating them. He gave no reply.

“He’ll wake up.”

Porthos declared it with the same casual statement of fact as proclaiming dawn would come but he’d far less confidence that d’Artagnan’s recovery would come to pass than the sun would rise and set.

“Let’s hope.”

“Not like you to doubt.”

In fairness it sometimes was, depending on the circumstances, but those times were generally Aramis’ own personal affairs not their health. He was mostly pragmatic, as gentle as possible, and as optimistic as his knowledge allowed when it came to injuries. Even when dealing with deep, bloody, rough edged wounds he tamped down panic – usually the patient’s own, as Porthos could personally testify – and went about providing aid.

When Athos had taken to bed for a week with an unknown illness, Aramis kept vigil even when Treville employed one of the court’s favored physicians. Physicians did not sit at the patient’s bedside after all, whereas Aramis would make the excuse that his pistol could be cleaned as well next to Athos’ bed or a poem written as easily sitting in Porthos’ room.

Aramis didn’t give a response, but after years of observing his friend Porthos knew exactly when a far off look on Aramis’ face was one of seeking idle distraction rather than willful inattention. He could tell, some of the skill learned at the very fort they were seated in, when Aramis was lost to the trap of his own mind, unseeing and unhearing those around him. He tilted his head as Porthos’ spoke but kept his observance of the fort’s activity, likely sorting his own reflections rather than contributing.

He’d been distracted, if a bit forgetful, as he recovered, but he’d not sunk into his own imaginings since the night they’d found him out on the bastion. Porthos kept a watch with Athos since, every night they kept a rotation to ensure one of them was awake while Aramis and d’Artagnan slept. They overlapped, and more than once Porthos was woken in the middle of the night by Athos and Aramis’ soft discussion rather than an escape attempt.

“See it happen before?”

Porthos expected the question to pass, but Aramis cleared his throat.

“The Blockade of La Rochelle,” he remarked, and picking at a thread Aramis lifted the shoulder closest to Porthos, “before the regiment’s founding.”

“Hmm?”

Aramis shrugged again, a movement that shifted him closer and his closest arm brushed Porthos’ as he lowered it. He continued to watch the men unloading the cart, before his attention was given to a hawk circling high above the well to the southwest.

“A young man in the infantry, struck by debris from canon fire,” he squinted, dropping his gaze back down, considering the well set on the other side of the fort.

They’d not made it that far on their yet on their daily walks, so after escorting him to the chapel when Aramis requested the opportunity to enjoy the fair weather Porthos had left Aramis on the bench outside the barracks. He’d retrieved the pitcher resting next to his foot at the well for them, but there was still the matter of lunch. He supposed his stomach could withstand a delay for a bit of hope for their own young friend’s recovery.

“A large chunk,” Aramis made a motion with his hands to demonstrate the piece that had collided with the soldier, “but he died.”

“How’s that a – ”

“Because he lived.”

“Aramis,” began Porthos, he said the name in a tone that would convey his doubt.

Being confined to a single room was maddening for anyone after a long enough time, and Aramis was not one who easily tolerated a lack of activity. Once he’d healed sufficiently to take advantage of his limited mobility Athos and he had accompanied him out of the room as much as was judged healthy. A mind could tire as readily as the injured body. Between the chapel and their resting on the bench it’d only been a few hours, but maybe it was past time they return to the room.

“No, no, he lived, Porthos.”

Aramis shifted his torso from the wall, sitting up with a slowness that made Porthos’ shoulders twitch with the want to support him. Over the years he’d struck a balance between assisting Aramis and restraining himself from the impulse if it would frustrate his friend. Helping when invited, and holding himself back from helping Aramis if he appeared determined, even when he needed it but clearly wouldn’t accept it. Unless he attempted to stand Porthos intended not to restrict his movement.

“He’d been covered in a shroud and placed among others for burial, but with the…” Aramis made a dismissive motion with his hand, “the chaos and before that he’d lain in the infirmary for over a week.”

“Then how’d he die?”

“I don’t know.” Angling to face Porthos he removed Athos’ hat to meet his eyes directly. “I’d only been in an out of the infirmary for myself and fellow soldiers with minor injuries. I was younger then...not as much invested in the healing arts. Most of my time was spent at Fort Louis rather than in La Rochelle. He was there, and he’d not woken. It came back to me later, rumors made it through the whole fort.”

“That he’d died after a week?”

“No, that he’d lived, that – ”

Porthos breathed out, hedging on how to guide Aramis back to a coherent memory.

“You misunderstand,” Aramis waved his hand, taking care not to motion too quickly with his splinted fingers, “understandably. It was confusing. Disconcerting, really.”

Before Porthos could interrupt Aramis placed the edge of his palm on Porthos’ shoulder, pressing without much weight to it in order to signal that Porthos listen.

“He’d ‘risen from the dead’ according to some. Others speculated something unnatural, while others assumed a serious mistake to have been made. In the end, the most I could discover, or piece together of the gossip, was that his breath had slowed so much it appeared to stop. He’d not responded and they’d presumed he’d never wake.”

Porthos nodded but kept silent.

“Fortunately, there’d not been time to bury him and he’d come to his senses while laid out. He untangled himself and made his way back to the infirmary.”

“Must’ve startled quite a few people.”

“Decidedly,” Aramis nodded. “I was not about to witness his revival or the ‘ghosts’s approach’ but word of his miraculous recovery spread before he’d settled back to resting.”

Porthos shuddered, making a grimace at the thought of being trapped in such a way.

“Creepy, that.”

“Certainly unnerving to wake surrounded by the dead.”

Aramis’ hand turned, unable to curl his fingers over the join of Porthos’ neck and shoulder he gave a pat of his palm.

Porthos had been imagining being sent to the grave early and waking trapped and suffocating. He couldn’t be sure what Aramis might be referring to, but he’d once woken near alone – may as well have been alone as far as Porthos was concerned – surrounded by his fallen brothers. The assumption that those memories were Aramis’ reference was good as any.

“Ain’t been a week yet,” offered Porthos, although it was close, the earliest hours of tomorrow would mark the seventh day since arrival.

“Nor has his breathing faltered,” assured Aramis. He nodded to himself, as much as Porthos, “and we won’t be leaving him.”

“No, we won’t.” Hoping to lighten the mood, Porthos gave the retreating wrist a squeeze before he bent to grab the pitcher and cups. “Not after all we went through gettin’ you back. Here, get that in you or Athos’ll use it as an excuse to hoard the wine at lunch.”

“And how would that be different from any other time?”

“He shares,” defended Porthos.

“He provides an extra bottle, you mean,” Aramis smiled and made an awkward clasp of the cup between the heels of his palms.

Porthos took a gulp from his own, sneaking a look over the rim to check if Aramis needed assistance. Winding a wrapping of bandages over his palm to hold a spoon for himself or using a plank of wood to slide from bed to chair had given him some independence of movement. He would ask for help, but there reached a point where the amount of instances he required aid frustrated him. Porthos tried to limit how often he offered, but he remained prepared to step in; years of knowing him meant Aramis was alert to that as well.

Once Aramis balanced the remainder or his cup on his lap he nodded to where the soldiers were directing the empty cart.

“I haven’t recognized any of them yet.”

“Been a few years, lot of ‘em could’ve been stationed elsewhere by now, plenty of battles to keep ‘em being rotated around.”

“Did you? I’ve not yet seen you glare at any of them.”

“Recognize any? A few. Glare at ‘em? Wouldn’t do that, unless they deserved it,” Porthos proclaimed, and he wouldn’t unless he came across any who’d been less than polite years ago. “Be more than a glare then.”

Aramis gave a closed mouth laugh at that. He angled his head back to expose his cheeks to the sun, absent Athos’ hat he basked in the warmth that couldn’t be negated by the soft breezes blowing down from the mountains.

“This mean we need to keep an eye that d’Artagnan doesn’t wander off in the middle of the night?”

Having spent enough time searching the buildings and the grounds between his two stays Porthos was familiar enough with the layout that he could navigate in the dark. That didn’t mean he wished to conduct late night searches for his errant, and confused, brothers.

“I believed us both to be included in your nightly watch?”

“Think I’ve trailed after you on enough aimless wanderings to warrant preventin’ you stumbling around on those feet.”

He said it with no genuine complaint to the words, he’d shadowed Aramis in his first recovery here and looked after him on every campaign and mission since. As did they all for each other. While the injured party would be unlikely to admit it during convalescence it was silently acknowledged between them all that they could each be relied upon to prevent worse befalling the injured due to his own stubbornness or self-neglect.

Aramis blinked against the sunlight, glancing over to Porthos before downing the last of his water. Porthos plucked the empty cup before it could roll off the cloak to the ground, using the motion as an excuse to retuck it under the leg Aramis had stretched onto the stool.

“I can recall chasing after you, and Athos, on numerous occasions. At least my forays in the dark are born of confusion rather than willful disregard of my learned friend’s sage advice to remain abed,” Aramis’ mouth turned up on the left edge in a smirk, “so as not to wreck the painstaking needlework of said considerate friend.”

Porthos couldn’t hold back his chuckle at that, a blinding fever and burning pain in his neatly stitched side had once led him to shoving Aramis into Athos when the former had attempted to prevent him rising from bed.

“Thought there was no need to keep a tally between friends,” he shrugged, feeling his cheek dimple as he looked over at Aramis’ sun lightened features. He remained paler than was normal for him, but each day returned some color to his skin and strength to him.

“Never.” Aramis’ smile was soft and a brightness lit his eyes before he winked the one closer to Porthos. “Unless...it’s in relation to a wager, or a contest of skill, and who amongst us doesn’t seek to know his measure at – ”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of competition,” agreed Porthos.

It was commonly known that more often than not that they shared most everything they had. A prize purse might be collected by one but whether in the form of drink, lodging, or possessions, it inevitably was dispensed among them all. Rewards were shared more easily, but they regularly found themselves readily taking on the others’ burdens.

“Regardless, the very least I can promise is there’ll be no chasing anyone anywhere for some time.”

Aramis’ face tensed with a grimace before he cast an unhappy glance at his propped up leg. He turned his ankle in cautious increments, shifting to raise his other leg onto the stool and smiling at the roughly made shoes protecting his feet.

“Let’s stick with chaperoned walks for now, keep all yer bandaging in place yeah?”

“Chaperones? I’m no delicate lady in need of protection.”

“No, they usually require protectin’ from you,” Porthos titled toward him briefly, before resettling into the position and bringing himself closer.

“Porthos, were anyone warned of the potential consequences of love we’d witness far fewer engagements,” he raised his left hand in a motion to scratch at his beard, before turning the splinted fingers and considering them before using the top of his wrist to rub his chin, “not myself of course,” Aramis amended.

“Of course,” Porthos wasn’t always privy to the intricacies, or even the identities of the ladies in question but he’d dealt with the aftermath often enough to know that in the end Aramis generally found his contentment outweighed any regret, “you always think it’s worth the heartache.”

“One cannot reap reward without undertaking the gamble, yes?”

“Rather play my games at the table,” Porthos nodded along with the wisdom of his proclamation, “m0re straightforward.”

“More dangerous if, shall we say, ‘unconventional’ methods are employed to win.”

“Creative playin’ strategy,” he shrugged, taking no offense at the truth, “no more dangerous than danglin’ from yer paramour’s balcony.”

“Fall into one rose bush and – ”

“I hit the rose bushes when you landed on me. Yer forgettin’ that important detail.”

“I was scraped by thorns,” defended Aramis, “although admittedly you did have quite a few…” a snickering breath couldn’t be covered by his wafting hand, “punctures, to your trousers.”

“You only got scraped because y’weren’t fully dressed. My leathers would’ve been fine if you hadn’t dropped right onto me.”

“I do appreciate that you caught me,” Aramis grinned over at him.

“Did y’really think we’d have left you hanging there?”

“Athos appeared ready to,” Aramis recalled with a breathy laugh.

“He was only threatening because he’d already warned you twice that week alone that yer affair would end badly.”

“It did sour. A prickly end? Thorny one might say.”

“Yeah, in my end.”

Their eyes met and Porthos couldn’t help but let out a fond laugh when Aramis lost control of his own laughter. Time and distance took any minor resentment he might’ve had from the memory. He’d never begrudge his friend his vices, and certainly not when Athos and Aramis had come to his defense when he’d been challenged by a cheating band of Red Guards, but it was him who suffered the greater consequences for Aramis’ trouble that time. Getting torn up in a fight with shrubs rather than men was a bit less adventurous of a story to share in the aftermath.

“I took great pains to see to your care.”

Porthos made an odd angle of his mouth and raised a brow.

“That barely gives me pause when Athos does it,” explained Aramis, “besides if you’ll remember I did fill in for your guard duty and your courier assignment that week. Since, you...” Aramis trailed off with his halting breath, “you...couldn’t...seat your horse…”

Porthos tensed and relaxed the muscles in question, shifting uncomfortably on the firm wooden bench with the remembered irritation. Casting a dark look at Aramis he softened his features when the other man wouldn’t quit his wheezing laughter. If remembering the ridiculous injury brought him this much amusement Porthos could suffer through a bit of phantom discomfort.

“Not the worst we’ve been through,” acknowledged Porthos, watching Aramis nod in agreement.

“Here we are again,” Aramis motioned with his hand to the Alps, glancing at the vast mountain range before turning back to Porthos with a sincere mien, “I promise not to threaten to shoot you this time,” pressing his hand to his heart, Aramis gave him a closed mouth grin.

“Well that’s certainly a relief.” Porthos slouched back, kicking his own legs out and eyeing Aramis’ resting on the stool. His knee, along with his feet, had him hobbled so there was less chance he’d stalk out onto the bastions again in his frustration. He’d no access to weapons currently either, not without Athos or Porthos knowledge their own were kept close and they ensured Aramis only left the room with one of both of them.

“That will be a difference. Although if you prefer I can devise some new entertainment,” Aramis mused, but thankfully didn’t elaborate. “Different injuries, different circumstances...but the same physician, same commander...”

“Think they knew?” Porthos doubted it, but all the same the fort’s leadership could have had forewarning.

He’d not made the connection when they were first here, and there’d been no need as the aftermath of the attack was so devastating he’d other matters to contemplate. Even after Marsac’s return Porthos hadn’t considered the role of anyone else involved beyond what they’d uncovered in Paris. Aramis was naturally one to be caught up with intrigue, the game and his charming nature along with his persuasive writing abilities gave him a diplomatic edge. Athos’ commanding air and calm demeanor coupled with a mind for tactics and the motives of men meant he was rarely surprised to find corruption where there should have been honorable action. Porthos preferred plain dealing, unless cards or dice were involved, but he was no simpleton. Expecting everyone to act honorably was a fool’s errand and he knew fairness would always be impossible, but wherever he could intervene Porthos tried to balance the scales.

“No, coming here was a logical solution for...the outcome of events. If Lesdiguières was still alive, perhaps he would’ve sought conflict with Savoy but he was as loyal to Louis as he was to Henry. It was horrible, but it was no grand conspiracy.”

“Only a deceitful plot.”

“Does Richelieu devise any other kind?”

“The Captain – ” Porthos began, thinking to explain some part of the unpleasantness being back here had stirred like all the silt rising under the water when a bare foot disturbed the natural course.

He might’ve anticipated Aramis interrupting, and sparing him having to tread ground they’d covered many times over the years. Porthos had supported the initial inquiry, their confrontation with their captain, but he was a man who preferred the good in his life to remain so. He’d been beside Aramis after the attack, he’d watched him fight to recover, to restore his own faith in himself and to have it shaken again had awoken something in Porthos that lashed out. That denied. That wished to shove all the ills and evils away, to lock them in a room and forbid all his friends entrance.

That wasn’t Aramis’ nature, it would never be; the man had to know. No matter the consequences Aramis dug for answers until he exhausted all paths to knowledge and if he wasn’t satisfied with the outcome he’d begin anew. He’d make the same choice as Pandora – unrepentant of all the troubles he brought to himself so long as there was an answer in the end. Aramis was content so long as there was hope, he could reconcile most any outcome.

“Is as fine a man as you, as we, believe,” Aramis lifted his thigh to adjust the cracked knee he’d supported with the stool, and laid his hand on Porthos’ own, “and as fallible as any one us of. It was an unenviable position and one I hope never to be placed in myself. He remains one of the best men I’ve known.”

“So are you,” he cleared his throat to prevent the slight sting to his eyes, and from the moment becoming too serious. Their surroundings coupled with the memories could easily push them to more morose thoughts and with d’Artagnan’s lingering ailment they needed a bit of levity so as not to sink into past and present despair. “And I’ve always been a good judge of men.”

“Porthos, my dear friend,” the flat of Aramis’ splinted hand tapped gently on Porthos’ leg, “you are, and – with only the number of exceptions that can be counted on one hand – remain a rather terrible assessor of character.”

“Well over a handful, I think: Treville, Athos, d’Artagnan,” Porthos began listing and then he smiled, pausing as Aramis nodded expectantly along with each named man.

Anyone except the aforementioned men might not have noticed the minute pinch of Aramis’ smile, his lips tightening inward as the silence extended and Porthos waited.

He shrugged, and then continued, “Serge, Jean, Martin, Durand, Etienne, Marcel – ”

“The stablehand?”

“He’s a good lad,” affirmed Porthos.

Aramis rolled his eyes, giving a slight shake of his head.

“What?”

“It should be eminently shorter than if you came up with one containing your poor choices, and I dare say you’ve eliminated a rather important name that should be near the top of your current one.”

Porthos brought his left hand to cover his chin, stroking the index finger and shielding his growing smile behind his palm as he made a humming sound of contemplation.

“As you wish, I suppose it was more my assessment of your character that cemented our friendship.”

“Dunno, y’might say I ignored my better judgment when y’threatened to shoot me.”

“I believe I said it was ‘likely’ that I could shoot you…”

Porthos shrugged, waving the hand he’d had on his face and making a dismissive gesture.

“Same thing.”

“It would’ve been an accident, and after all I did advise you to leave.”

“Didn’t leave.” He’d have let Aramis fire that pistol before he’d have left him on his own. Granted he’d doubted Aramis could’ve managed to shoot at all, much less at him, but it had made no difference. He’d never have walked away, orders or not, that day.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Seems to me it was a good choice.”

“Probably the best one you’ve ever made,” Aramis preened, but his eyes were soft.

“Done pretty well for myself.”

“We’re both fortunate in that regard.” Aramis cleared his throat, glancing away toward the chapel. “Even if brothers quarrel, ‘whoever loves his brother abides in the light, and in him there is no cause for stumbling’...”

Porthos bent forward with his laughter, a sharp movement that shook the bench and he reached a hand instinctively to assure himself Aramis was undisturbed.

“You’re the one stumblin’ everywhere,” Porthos protested, slapping gently at Aramis’ forearm. “Why do you think Athos threatened to lock the door last time we left you?”

“Yes, well,” Aramis squinted against the noontime sun and conceded, “given the amount of times I’ve issued similar warnings, I suppose it’s a fair point. That and I wouldn’t leave d’Artagnan on his own.”

“Course you wouldn’t.”

Porthos reached across to retrieve Athos’ hat from where Aramis had set it on the bench and plopped it back on his head. Immediately Aramis’ wrist came up to knock the brim further back.

“Except it’s not my hat,” he frowned, falling silent for a few breaths before he fixed his eyes on Porthos. “They didn’t take it did they?”

“Relax, would you?” Porthos tugged the brim down a bit, and ducked to meet Aramis’ eyes. “I’ve told you it’s safe back in Paris – we figured savin’ you was a bit more important than yer hat.”

“Ah yes, and my weapons?”

“Your pistols – ” Porthos was interrupted before he could joke or assure.

“Are substantially – ”

“All tucked away.” He spoke over Aramis, the distinctive pistols were of great importance to the man. Even if he fussed over his hat the clothing was more easily replaced than the treasured weapons. They had explained this to him, and Porthos would repeat himself as often as needed. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t tease him about matters. “Wasn’t time to fuss over packing.”

“We all have our priorities,” mused Aramis.

“We do,” Porthos spoke firmly, with a serious demeanor, letting the words hang in the air.

“For which I am grateful,” Aramis leaned a bit of weight into his side, hissing a long breath through his teeth when the motion abraded his shoulder too quickly against stone.

“Might’ve mistaken you for Athos if it weren’t for all those splints,” called Lagarde as he approached their bench.

“I don’t frown nearly enough for that,” Aramis assured, before making a gesture toward his legs and borrowed clothing, “and I’m usually much more fashionable.”

“Is that what you’re calling those?”

“Porthos made them,” Aramis stated with a proud grin, “they are functional, if not wholly fashionable.”

Given how restless Aramis had been, in spite of his limited mobility, he’d thought it best to help find the means to aid him rather than allow him to do inadvertent damage to himself. Porthos had come up with the means to protect Aramis’ feet without putting pressure on the broken bones. Locating supplies from the armory and the stables, he’d taken scraps of broken leather and wool to create open ended coverings with a thick sole to allow Aramis to walk without his splinted toes grinding against enclosed boots.

“No cause for complaint if they’re of aid to you.”

“You’ve been scarce,” remarked Aramis, but he nodded in acknowledgment of the comment.

“Entertaining our guests,” Lagarde’s posture was relaxed, but the tightening of his jaw betrayed him.

“Giving you trouble?” Porthos asked. He’d yet to visit the prison, other than searching for Aramis, to question those brought from Savoy.

“Some, but we’re nearly at an understanding. I was coming to see if Athos was available, but I expect he’s with d’Artagnan.” The last words were spoken with the lilt of a question.

Porthos nodded, eyes drifting to Aramis’ profile, before he addressed Lagarde.

“Lad’s not woken yet,” he explained. There was no need to express doubt, not when Aramis would be wrestling with enough of it on his own. On more than one night he’d observed the rounding of Athos’ shoulders and the open gaze he regarded d’Artagnan with when he believed Aramis and Porthos asleep. He’d keep faith for all of them if necessary, but the least he could do was not entertain pessimism among the other musketeers. “Don’t want him alone when he does.”

“Of course,” Lagarde’s jaw relaxed with his smile and he made a polite inclination of his head to Porthos.

“I can sit with him,” offered Aramis, “if you’d like Athos to assist in your work. He does have a talent for hastening such matters.”

Porthos chuckled along with Lagarde at that.

“It’s good to see you looking better,” Lagarde glanced at the barracks behind them, but spoke no more on d’Artagnan. “I’ve business with Fortin, I’ll inform him that Athos will join us.”

“Best let him know, yes?” Aramis asked as he watched Lagarde walk away, shifting his feet one at a time to the ground.

“Suspect he’ll be glad of the chance to get a confession.”

“But not to leave our friend,” Aramis guessed, “I will be fine if you wish to join him.”

With his newfound optimism Aramis pushed himself up before Porthos could rise and the cloak slid off his lap and out of his loose grip. He swayed and tilted back, pivoting due to the stiffness in his left leg owed to the cracked knee. , Noting the flinch to Aramis’ profile and the firm press to his mouth where he was grinding his teeth to keep silent, Porthos ducked around his elbow as he rotated his right arm in circles to keep his balance.

“I thought,” the words were a hissed observation, “I was getting better.”

“Take it easy,” advised Porthos, moving aside the cloak that had remained around Aramis’ shoulders to place his arm around Aramis’ lower back to prevent a collapse.

“I have been doing so all morning,” Aramis sunk more weight against Porthos as soon as he’d stood next to him. “This is taking far longer than it should.”

“Don’t remember your bones healing faster than any other man’s.”

Aramis let out a huff of frustration, but his torso softened into Porthos’ side. Although his posture sagged, his body was trembling because the leg he’d thrown most of his weight onto shook. A forced exhalation let Porthos know how he felt about the weakness of his limbs. Rather than dispute the speed of his past healing, Porthos focused on encouragement.

“Gonna take time. You’ve been pushing too hard,” Porthos admonished with a smile, “lean on me.”

Aramis did as suggested, pulling himself upright with the arm he got around Porthos’ neck.

“If you believe that, then I suppose there’s no choice?” Aramis’ bent arm tugged down twice, the crook of his inner arm jostling Porthos’ neck and signaling his intent. “My horse shall become jealous for all the times you’ve carried me.”

“We won’t tell her, she’s ornery enough as it is,” complained Porthos.

He bent his knees to get his other arm under Aramis’ legs and slid his arm until his forearm could serve as a brace under the swollen knee. The brim of Athos’ hat pushed against his own forehead as Aramis leaned closer to address him.

“The rumors will be different this time I would guess.”

“Why? ‘Cause the guards on watch are gonna be jealous I ain’t carryin’ them to bed once their too tired to stand?” Porthos shook his head, grinning at his weary friend. “Better than complaints of a ghost, I think.”

“I shall be the envy of Fort Barraux.”

He’d begun to lift his left arm to gesture, but wisely thought better of the motion lest he overbalance them. Porthos didn’t comment on that, but he pulled the arm around Aramis’ back fractionally tighter and began to walk toward the barrack’s entrance.

“Seems a lesser standing than ‘the best shot in Paris’ if you ask me.” Porthos teased, deliberately misspeaking the declaration.

“Hardly,” sniffed Aramis, a bit of the tension around his mouth softening with the familiar debate. “I have been declared, and by Treville mind you, to be ‘the best shot in France’ Porthos. There is no comparison. One is skill, but I am to be the envy of Fort Barraux for entirely different reasons.”

“Oh?” Porthos risked their stability to tilt and toe the dropped cloak out of the path of his boots.

“Yes,” declared Aramis, twisting his neck to check the distance between them and the doorway.

“Try and keep still, yeah? There’s no thorns but I’d rather not be dumped on the ground all the same.”

The hand Aramis had made to gesture with earlier moved to lay over his own heart.

“Are you claiming you won’t catch me?”

“Of course I will, you fool, but that’s not an excuse to be reckless. ‘Sides, it’d do more harm to you than me should you dump us on the ground.”

Porthos paused to rebalance them, tensing his abdomen and straightening his back. Only a few paces remained between them and the doorway, but he would have to angle them to get through the entrance without knocking Aramis’ toes into the arch or requiring him to bend his knee. He kept his feet close to the ground on each step to keep them from swaying too far in any direction.

“Shall I tell you why they will speak with envy of me here?” Aramis leaned his head back to display his amused countenance.

Porthos would’ve chided him for again changing their weight distribution, but he looked so pleased that he appeared to have forgotten his unhappiness over his lapse in strength moment’s prior.

“Don’t know why yer askin’ when it’s clear as a window pane that you’re gonna tell me.”

“That’s because it’s important.”

“How’s that?” Porthos asked distractedly, turning himself side-on to the opening to the barrack’s main hallway.

“Because none – save our own beloved Athos and d’Artagnan – have a friend” Aramis’ hand moved to rest on Porthos’ chest, “so dear as you that will carry him when he’s grown too tired to walk on his own.”

Aramis had the grace not to ask, but Porthos would’ve sworn to him that his blinking was merely owed to the adjustment from the sunlight into the darker interior of the building. He cleared his throat and hastened his steps back to their shared room and their brothers.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.”

Scars | “Let me see”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Give them my regards,” Aramis motioned from his chair, ignoring the ache from the pressure of the wooden back, “and please feel free to borrow some of my own interrogation techniques.”

“Not sure Athos has,” Porthos gave a gentle cough as his eyes slid to the shorter man and back to where Aramis sat, “your ‘actin’ talents’…”

“I am not sure we should refer to what you two engage in as talent.”

“Come now Athos, Porthos and I have won many a confession with our wit,” Aramis gave him a pleasant grin before looking to Porthos for confirmation of their mutual gifts, “and performances.”

“A performance I will grant you,” Athos raised a brow, and crossed his arms, considering Aramis without glancing to the bed or its occupant, “but your wit is open for debate.”

They’d given no indication that they had overheard Athos on their return and Athos displayed no sign of discomfort. Their friend had readily accepted Lagarde’s invitation; it was not the first instance that Athos provided assistance. Porthos had yet to ‘visit’ the prisoners, but Aramis had persuaded him to accompany Athos, nearly.

“Gotten us answers before,” Porthos shrugged at Athos and then crouched to reposition the stool they’d placed at the foot of d’Artagnan’s bed. “Here, let me.” He curled his hand over Aramis’ shin, nearly at eye level in his crouch with Aramis seated. “Y’sure yer okay here? I can…” the pads of his fingers stroked distractedly as he glanced over the room for any potentially needed items left not within Aramis’ reach.

Aramis glanced over the top of Porthos’ head to send Athos a fond glance at him before he looked back to Porthos, the tension lines around the corner of his eyes softening at the offer.

“Gentlemen, I assure you, I am fine.”

Athos’ huff of air was loud in the otherwise quiet after Aramis’ declaration. Porthos didn’t say anything, he only turned his mouth up and shifted his face into a countenance of suspicion.

“There’s little trouble I could possibly encounter in this room.”

Aramis made the assertion with a clean conscience, he really doubted there was much he could contrive himself or experience for a few hours save boredom. Unless d’Artagnan were to awaken, an otherwise empty room provided him little in the way of distraction.

“Encounter?” Athos raised a shoulder, eyes scanning over Aramis’ bed, the extra chair, a trunk in the corner; there were few objects with which Aramis could do much damage to himself. “You’ve talent for conjuring mischief everywhere from standing guard to sitting in a church pew.”

Aramis parted his lips to form a rejoinder, before he sighed out a breath – he’d little evidence to support a counter argument. His lips curved up instead and made a gesture of concession to Athos.

“I could – ”

“There’s no need for you to stay,” insisted Aramis. He waved his arm to indicate the relative lack of danger in the room, and then made a gesture at the doorway. “I am more than capable of calling for assistance in the event it’s necessary. Save to use the pot there’s little reason for me to move about, and there are few obstructions.” Aramis warned before Porthos thought to drag said receptacle closer to his chair. He tapped the small volume set on the mattress next to him. “I’ve a book to enjoy, a stool to rest my foot, and a friend to watch over,” he reached past the book to rest his palm on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. It drew all of their eyes to him in hope that this touch could finally wake their friend, they’d collectively held their breath through dozens of such touches for days. Letting his shoulders round he rubbed his hand back and forth over the curve of d’Artagnan’s neck before sitting back.

Porthos released his own burst of breath and rose to stand near Athos, his frame giving a sway of hesitation and keeping his body angled toward Aramis.

“Lagarde is waiting, my friends.”

“Prisoners ain’t going anywhere,” countered Porthos.

Athos glanced to watch the steady rise and fall of the sheet over d’Artagnan’s chest, and moved his hand to tap Porthos’ elbow in encouragement to depart. He fixed Aramis with a look that he recognized as soliciting agreement.

“I’m comfortable,” Aramis resisted tugging at the pillow set on the chair lest Porthos take it as a sign he needed to retrieve more. “I’ve enough diversions, and my charge to keep me occupied,” he gestured to their sleeping brother, before pointing to the bedside table to the assortment remaining from their lunch, “and look, there are even leftovers so I won’t starve in the space of a few hours.”

“Come,” Athos’ hand curved over Porthos’ shoulder with a light tug to encourage him toward the door, “it will do you good to release some of your frustration.”

Aramis gave an enthusiastic nod of encouragement, which he regretted when his neck twinged. Careful to keep even a minor discomfort off his face lest Porthos use the expression to justify further hesitation.

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate your company,” encouraged Aramis with a fluttering of his hand.

“All right, all right,” shifting his weight he dipped his chin to fix Aramis with a querying stare, “still could of let me get you that bell.”

“I’ve a perfectly serviceable voice.”

“Louder too,” said Athos, with an upward tug of his mouth.

“All will be well,” assured Aramis, inclining his head to acknowledge Athos’ comment, “and I expect you’ll return for dinner?”

“Saw them prepping the sausage for the cassoulet when I got that tray for lunch,” Porthos shrugged, and bent to retrieve his gloves from the trunk he’d discarded them on when they ate, “let ‘em know they could send along an omelet later…” his cheek dimpled before he added, “...and some spinach...”

“You wouldn’t,” Aramis’ face smoothed with disappointment at the imagined meager meal.

“Come now Porthos,” reasoned Athos, “he did finish the broth.”

Aramis regarded Porthos, tilting carefully back in his chair to send him a shift of brows and a smirk of pleasure.

“So long as no word reaches us of any commotion, I’ll see about that cassoulet,” Porthos warned, crossing his arms but grinning at him as if placing a bet over a dice game.

“If you’re going to bribe me with food I’ll expect it garnished with borage,” Aramis told him, raising his chin and letting himself smile with fond remembrance of fine meals, and friendly gambles, “and at least two bottles of Bordeaux.”

“Why stop at two?” Athos suggested, plucking his hat back from the foot of Aramis’ bed.

“May as well bring him a feast, then,” Porthos straightened to his full height, and his eyes drifted around the room to take the measure of his preparations.

“Then get your confessions,” ordered Aramis, “so we may have something to celebrate.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“I daresay you’ll make that man weep if you carry this on much longer,” Aramis leaned forward, smoothing down the sheet from where he’d jostled the fabric to gauge d’Artagnan’s heartbeat, before he clarified, “we heard Athos speaking on our return.”

He shifted to adjust his leg before settling back, but leaned his head forward to address the younger man.

“He’ll deny it, of course. Athos, when he feels like being verbose, is quite the eloquent speaker. If you heard what he said, know that he means those words. Although,” Aramis swallowed against a thickening of his throat, “when you wake, perhaps don’t remind him of them?”

Their room was on the ground floor and the mid-afternoon sun highlighted the uncommon pallor of d’Artangnan’s skin. He moved so little, save for his breathing, that he found himself watching the minimal motion to assure himself that the young man still drew breath. Their friend was so explosive with motion and temper it was disquieting to watch him laid out on a bed for days.

“Some words are easier spoken to a slumbering man. I’ve said many thing to Athos and Porthos that I would,” he hesitated, considering that there were few confessions he’d made that he would not reveal to the men who were his brothers in all but blood, “rephrase, and have rephrased, when they woke.”

There were some effusive statements, however, that were better left unacknowledged formally.

“I’ll confess that I may have feigned sleep during my own convalescing to hear such words of comfort from Athos, rare as the moments are for him to speak openly of his affection. I take it on faith most days how dear to his heart I am.” Eyes having drifted to the window during his recollection Aramis returned them to the bed and smiled down at d’Artagnan. He expected that the younger man would confirm the sentiment were he able. “On most occasions, I believe he knows I’ve hesitated to wake and then it turns to a lecture; a trap, really, since I must either give up the ruse or else endure the critique without response.”

He’d complain to the man himself were he here, knowing Athos would scoff and admonish Aramis for his theatrics. Occasionally, however, you could catch the man absent his secret keeping scowl and instead encounter the tender nature he felt such a misguided need to obscure. Reaching across, Aramis frowned and moved to brush at some errant strands the wind has blown to flutter against d’Artagnan’s closed lid. He waited a moment more in hopes that those eyes would open from the irritant. When no rousing occurred he resettled and sunk his elbows into the bedding.

“Since I’ve promised them not to wander, and truly I prefer the company, we’ll need to entertain ourselves. As Athos has already assured you of our enduring belief you shall wake then you and I may as well seek other diversions in the meantime. I am hopeful you’ve heard most of what we’ve discussed these long hours. And that you’d agree with me that they really should allowed me more opportunities to stretch my legs; the fort is hardly so large a place as to…” Taking a moment to consider how many times Porthos had, in fact, trailed him in the past, he conceded to the fault in his own argument.

He might not have tracked the amount of times the captain and his friend had needed to retrieve him from some corner of stable or unused room in the barracks, but he could admit his friends deserved their own rest.

“They’ve complained of my meandering, but we’ve not discussed all so much of that history in your presence.”

Athos and Porthos – mostly Porthos – had made many references to his escape but as both men knew of the events there’d been little need or desire to discuss those. The past was more known to Porthos than Athos, but Athos knew the critical events and Aramis had enough work keeping his mind on the present than to ruminate. Instead, as they’d planned their next days, and duties, by unspoken agreement Porthos and Aramis had fallen into speaking to and commenting at d’Artagnan. It was an aid, and a hope, that hearing them talking might draw him back. Each of them could recall hearing the others speaking to him when sick, or wounded.

“What else shall we speak of?”

Aramis believed, had even witnessed, that speaking to an unconscious man could sometimes lure him back. He petitioned for time on behalf of recovering soldiers. Bedside vigils were expected of him when it was one of his three closest friends, and he’d routinely checked on the captain and his fellow musketeers. A man with a duty to come back to, a man with someone to return to, stood a greater chance were he to be reminded of that.

“I believe Porthos defers to me regarding the sharing of what occurred after the attack, and our time here,” mused Aramis. He shrugged and frowned over at his silent companion, picking at a loose thread sticking up from a worn section of the bed linens. “A kindness I may not have deserved, and it’s the one of the few – very few, mind you – instances in our friendship when Porthos would have been justified in walking away.”

Breathing out a rush of air at the lack of response as much as the memory of the unpleasant afternoon that had, in the end, turned hopeful he turned back to consider d’Artagnan’s smoothed features. His own face fell, but he chewed his lip before he could frown.

“He wouldn’t though.” Aramis’ eyes softened at the assertion, relaxing into the memory and sharing it with d’Artagnan. “Unsurprising.” It hadn’t been then, Aramis had been attempting to drive the man from him with the full expectation that his threats would be heeded. “Unthinkable now, I suppose you would say.”

“Porthos could certainly boast of what he did that day, and goodness knows that man boasts of near everything else he accomplishes, but on this,” Aramis leaned closer to the bed gesturing with his right hand to punctuate his story, “he never speaks of what he did unless there proves a need, as he shared nights ago with Athos. Few have been the instances I care to speak of either the attack or our time here.”

Turning his eyes to the window he tracked the smudges beyond the chapel that lurked over the Alps. The sun he’d basked in with Porthos had been veiled by the looming change of weather, and their shared room had darkened by a fraction.

“I’d expected never to return here.” Eyeing the dominating feature of peaks in the distant landscape he could picture afternoons shuffling along the fort’s perimeter, sitting on the stone wall enclosing the small powder magazine, or milling atop the entrance to the fort, but most were portions of memories. Entire days distilled down to a moment when Treville had directed him back to bed or Porthos sat with him. “Or when he disguised his search for me as an exploration of a ‘previously unseen’ section of the fort he’d been curious about and just so happened to investigate when I’d wandered there.”

Aramis breathed out an amused huff before turning eyes fond with the memory to d’Artagnan’s smooth face. He doubted the younger man would care that he picked through his memories out of order.

“This is of course when I expect you’d call me to account for seeking one of you when you’ve wandered to some tavern or decided the midnight hours ideal for roaming about the Luxembourg neighborhood against my suggestion of rest.” His light chuckle filled the space where d’Artagnan’s response should have sounded. “I anticipate you’ll have much to say once you regain your senses, which I would prefer you attempt soon, if you wish my opinion. Considering you cannot object, I’ve a mind to taunt you until your flash of temper pulls you to wakefulness.”

Reaching to tap his upper arm, Aramis ran his own palm down to reposition d’Artagnan’s wrist to straighten against his thigh. They turned him to either side throughout the day, and were careful of turning his limbs. He’d been returned to his back before Athos and Porthos took their leave.

“If you’ve not felt it, or heard us throughout the attempts, Athos and Porthos have been ensuring your limbs don’t stiffen from their disuse. They’ve taken excellent care of us both, but mind that Balland is unavailable for the afternoon so please do avoid any excitement to your health other than waking, yes?”

Lifting both hands to turn his palms to face him, and then back around to examine the pinkened, healing marks on the skin he held them up as though demonstrating to d’Artagnan their state.

“Hold no doubt that I will help you, but I’d favor our chances if you wait until we have a pair of healthier hands.”

Aborting a motion to drag his right hand through his hair he rolled the edge of his palm onto the mattress to brace and move forward. Figuring there was little else to occupy his time, sharing his reminiscing with d’Artagnan served to keep himself distracted and potentially entice his young friend to waking. If he could hear their voices it would serve to remind d’Artagnan that he was not alone, they were waiting for him.

“Quite a few wounds remaining, but none to the head to fuss with this time. Well, none as severe. I’d no difficulty moving about owed to my limbs, no broken bones back then.” Aramis grunted, pausing to lightly press his hand to the bandages under his shirt, and the burn wound hidden there. “Avoiding Porthos was no challenge, although it wasn’t always deliberate, I assure you.”

He bent forward, moving as slow as a man many years his senior to avoid stretching the healing skin of his upper back. The skin stretched beneath the cloth, but taking it in stages made it bearable as he sunk the weight to his elbows.

“There are large chunks of our time here that are as a dream; disjointed memories and events I recall out of chronological order. I was not consistently aware of my surroundings; nor was I always cognizant of whether it was day or night. I didn’t mind his company, when I became aware of his accompaniment, but on one particular afternoon I wanted him gone. I’d managed to avoid Treville, you see, not that I believe him convinced that I was well. I’d remained polite, civil, skirting the edge of the significant latitude he’d seemingly granted me given the circumstances. When I sensed another approaching…”

He dropped his head, closing his eyes against the remembered glare before them at that time. The inability to see properly. It had disturbed him and he’d wanted to retreat, to be alone. His patience had been exhausted in keeping calm before the captain, once Porthos had approached he’d reacted more like a wounded animal, and lashed out in kind.

Blinking his eyes back open, and grateful for the shaded effect the gathering clouds offered their room he watched d’Artagnan’s chest rise and fall.

“I tried to bargain, first, throwing a psalm at him and I had snatched the words from my frustrated mind, determined to persuade him away from me out of courtesy. To leave me alone to tend my wounds in private...” He huffed out a laugh, adjusting the pillow behind his lower back before he shrugged at his unresponsive companion.

“You can guess how well that landed with him. I didn’t want the interference. I didn’t want any kindness, as unfamiliar as I was with how guileless his temperament could be then, and certainly not pity. But...I’d exploit any emotion I could if it meant he’d leave...”

He’d thrown an empty bottle at the man, ineffectively of course; it had arced well past his intended target. His vaunted aim demonstrably wrecked, an indictment he couldn’t laugh off even to a man who’d not observed his excellent aim for years.

“The symptoms were...disconcerting. I was,” after a pause, Aramis smiled with a tinge of self deprecation to accompany the admission, “I was terrified.”

He could still call to mind the phantom glow blocking the targets he’d positioned a quarter of an hour prior. Treville had been reluctant to leave, no doubt suspecting what had drawn his frame into sharp relief against the fort’s perimeter when he’d tried to persuade Aramis back to his quarters.

“The light in my eyes came on suddenly, as if I’d looked at a candle flame too long and could not clear the impression of it from my sight.” Closing his eyes briefly for the soothing darkness he blinked them open to glance at the crowding lumps of clouds beyond the chapel’s cross.

“How in my own discomfort had I selected a prayer of trust to drive him from my side?” Aramis pushed his elbow down to lift the shoulder closest to d’Artagnan. “It didn’t work. Not even the prospect of being shot by my own pistol gave him pause.” Aramis shook his head, he’d been astonished then but never since at Porthos’ dedication. “He wouldn’t leave.”

While it hadn’t been an immediate bond, it had firmly grounded the friendship that followed.

“I – ” Aramis cleared his throat, smirking at d’Artagnan and wishing he could have the benefit – the entertainment – of watching the various emotions display unguarded on d’Artagnan’s expressive face. “I couldn’t believe the nerve of him. What man doesn’t turn in the face of such a threat! What man doesn’t have the decency, the self-preservation, to abandon such a wretch, hmm?”

Even as he gave in to his dramatics in the retelling, Aramis knew he’d never have left a distressed musketeer either, whether Treville had assigned him the task or no.

“I tried that tactic too,” continued Aramis, uncaring that d’Artagnan wasn’t privy to his unspoken thoughts, “and I accused him of currying favor with Treville. He bristled, but he wouldn’t budge. I think that bulwark nature – his stubborn resolve to help endeared him to me in the end. That, and he brought me a picnic and blasted the bottles with me...the entire affair made for strange viewing I am sure. I would wager Treville watched us regardless of what he claims now.”

A gentle clearing of throat was covered by the rumbling thunder sounding beyond the fort. Aramis watched the wisps of the clouds race underneath the larger, fuller, dark ones threatening to storm over the fort.

“Porthos sent me – ”

“The man is relentless,” complained Aramis, but softened his tone when he lifted his head to turn to their visitor. “I expect you’re to report back.”

Poulin nodded once, the amusement obvious on his countenance.

“Well you may inform that worrisome ninny that nothing untoward has occurred in his absence. I’ve all in hand, and we don’t require his meddling.”

“I’ll tell him you’re well.”

“He’d be more entertained by my report,” Aramis straightened against the pillow before a twinge in his knee gave him pause, “but suit yourself.”

“Your leg?”

Nodding, Aramis made to grab for the limb. Intending to lift it he pressed back into the chair and bit his lip against crying out from the disturbance to his bandaged flesh. Poulin quickly guessed his intention and moved to cup Aramis’ ankle and brace a hand below his calf.

Once they were done maneuvering the leg, his chair, and the pillow behind him they’d removed Aramis’ cobbled together shoes. Poulin brought an additional pillow and Aramis arranged them to mimic a damasked, cushioned chair one might find in the palace. His right leg was stretched onto the bed, with his left resting on the stool, and he accepted Poulin’s offers to refill his cup and bring over an additional blanket.

“Should I close them?”

“The wind shouldn’t carry it in,” speculated Aramis, listening to the light rush of droplets striking the stone. It hadn’t begun to rain in torrents, but the skies over the mountains threatened a downpour on the way. “The bed’s far enough that we’ll remain undisturbed, and we could use the freshening of the air, yes?”

“Four men in a room…” Poulin said, letting his hands fall away from the shutters and back to his sides.

“It does make for a bit of...stale air,” Aramis conceded with a tilt of his head. “In my defense, the physician had forbidden me from bathing. He’s promised I may make use of a private bath in the Governor’s hotel once my side heals to his satisfaction.”

Poulin smiled, ensuring the shutters wouldn’t bang back into the room before eyeing d’Artagnan.

“I promise to close them should the weather worsen, but I won’t offer objection to that blanket,” he gestured for one Athos had folded in the corner.

An extra blanket for himself could always be discarded later, or gifted to d’Artagnan should he show signs of feeling the chill.

“You’re certain there’s nothing else I may do? It could be hours.”

“If, as you say, they’re making progress I think it’ll be a fair shorter amount of time.”

“Let’s hope,” Poulin remarked distractedly, staring at d’Artagnan as he responded to Aramis.

“I won’t take offense, and he currently can’t,” Aramis advised, watching the younger man without judgment.

“I, that is, do you think...” he risked a glance at Aramis, before looking back to d’Artagnan and straightening his back before meeting Aramis’ eyes. “Do you believe there’s a chance?”

“That he’ll wake?” Aramis asked it unnecessarily, wanting to put the young man at ease. He admired the forthrightness, knowing well how intimidating the intensity of their friendship could seem to others. “We live in hope.” Aramis gave him a small smile, full faith in the words he told him. “I’ve seen some men survive injuries we believed would rob us of their presence before the bells tolled midnight, others have been struck down by a scrape near invisible to the eye.”

Poulin nodded along, glancing back to d’Artagnan’s still form.

“We’ve done all we can for him, and there’s little else but to wait. Wounds to the head are complicated, but his breathing’s held steady and he’s fought back fever. I’d prefer sooner, as would we all, but we’ll wait. He’s more than enough fight in him, and if it’s down to stubbornness he’ll not so easily abandon us.”

“He’s good friends to care for him.”

“As do we all.” Noting the young musketeer had dispensed with doublet and cloak, no doubt rushed to the mission to check in on them by his friends, Aramis gestured to a roll atop Porthos’ belongings in the corner. “Wear that. No need for another of us to be abed with illness. Porthos can use it if this hasn’t passed by the time they head back.”

The waxed canvas of the large cloak brushed the floor, but it would serve to keep the young man’s shirt sleeves from clinging to him in the building rains. Poulin made assurances that he’d convey Aramis’ statements back to Porthos, but it was clear to Aramis that he’d amend the words to best suit Porthos’ mood when he returned to the prison.

“And what man doesn’t wish to have a friend whom he can rely on when faced with adversity?” Aramis asked after the younger soldier departed, and slouched deeper into the cushioning Poulin helped him add to the chair.

Having reluctantly abandoned the ‘shoes’ Porthos had made he dug his ankle deeper into the soft mattress. He’d endure the pain if he needed to move about, but if it were only his own needs to see to he could call out for aid.

“Tiny bones, but you saw how they twisted them. Snapped the littlest one on that foot.” Aramis moved his left foot on the stool to demonstrate, but expecting the absence of a response he continued. “They’re hellish – the stabbing. And so many at once? I’m practically walking on my ankles when I do move about.”

He tucked his half-full cup against the bedding at d’Artagnan’s hip for stability and cast his eyes to the window at the flickering light that streaked over the fort.

“Think it’ll be a large storm?” It had only been a light rain for the past hour, but the wind was picking up. The rain had begun to fall in steady rushed and the thunder had increased in frequency before Poulin parted. “Porthos adores that cloak, I helped him select the fabric, and he’ll appreciate it if this keeps up.”

Aramis was glad of the chance to help in a small way given how useless he’d felt over the course of the past week. None of his injuries were debilitating on their own, but together they inhibited his movements and it grated on him to be so inhibited.

He thoroughly disliked being further into the field of the unknown than his skills allowed and he reached the limits of his experience so that he couldn’t articulate the next steps. When all that was left to him was imagining the outcomes to their health, unable to intervene with certainty, it left him anxious. Not to the point that he’d allow his discomfort to bleed over to the choices he made to aid them, but enough that his mind was set to turning over and over like a waterwheel.

“To be so...useless. It wears on a man.”

D’Artagnan’s injury was such that the benefit of the treatment he provided couldn’t be predicted.

“Now as for yourself? Those thews of iron? Let’s have some fight on your part, hmm? It’s unlike you to be so passive.” He could recall, through his fever and confusion, d’Artagnan insisting on caring for him, and that he not give way for his wounds to overtake him. “Your own ramblings, however clumsy,” he couldn’t resist teasing, before his voice grew more somber, “they kept me from my own despair. You pulled me back to myself,” he admitted, before he took a breath to banish thoughts of their shared prison and the memories dredged up there. “I could also do with the company, contrary to Athos’ insistence I don’t always most enjoy the sound of my own voice.”

Aramis’ eyes slid over to him, waiting to adjust again after a series of flashing light.

“Now where was I before our most recent guest’s arrival? Oh yes, that psalm I chose to rebuff Porthos? A reflection to trust in God, surely, but Porthos will tell you it’s because I knew then that I could count on his aid.”

He angled his torso, the alterations he’d made with Poulin had him near side-on to stretch his leg along the edge of d’Artagnan’s mattress. He reached out to run the tip of his smallest finger along the small cuts at d’Artagnan’s hairline.

“They’re fading, and I doubt they’ll scar.” Tracing further along his temple he pushed carefully into the hair that masked the larger scrape that led to the more prominent lump near the back of d’Artagnan’s scalp. “Nor will this, that I can tell anyway. We might’ve carried similar scars were that case. Mine has faded, thinned, but it’s still there. For a time I imagined it had gone straight through to have gouged the very bone.”

He resisted twisting a hand into his own hair and imagined a tingle of sensation along the line he knew remained along his skin. Thicker than the width of a thread he could place the pads of his fingers to the exact spot without thought, but it was no longer a ridged puff of skin to worry beneath his fingertips.

“How little we know of the mind, hmm?” Brushing his splinted fingers over d’Artagnan’s forehead he marked the warmth of the skin. “Wounds we cannot see or comprehend can lurk here without a manner for us to mend them.”

Their room was chilled from the bursts of air the passing storm directed through their window and he considered that contributing to the contrast of the heated forehead.

“I’ve no means to fix this, my friend,” he turned his hand over to test for fever and was relieved to find the difference against his skin barely discernible. “Prayer is insufficient save for comfort, and as I’m not able to kneel presently I am relying on you to fight yourself. One good turn deserving another I can only offer you the same persistent encouragement that you did me.”

His only answer was a shutter rattling rumble.

“May I also point out that after the lengths you went to in order to see me through to our rescue? It would be disappointing for you to abandon your customary brashness now that we’ve been brought to safety. We’ve no desire to rush you, but you’re causing Athos and Porthos significant worry,” Aramis turned his hand back over to lay his palm over the forehead smoothed with the laxness of unconsciousness. D’Artagnan lay still save for the minimal rise and fall of his chest, and Aramis ran the flat of his hand through his lank hair, sliding it around cup atop the motionless head. “I cannot lose another here, not to Savoy, and certainly not you. If for no other reason than to indulge my selfishness you must wake soon.”

Taking a slow breath to fill his lungs and steady his voice he cleared his throat before redirecting his thoughts.

“Until you do, be assured we are here.”

He let the pads of his fingers that weren’t wrapped in gauze binding splints brush through the fine strands. Strands he’d enlisted Athos to aid him in washing as the days extended where d’Artagnan remained asleep.

“We’ve all watched over each other enough times through the years to trust someone will always be waiting. Do you know that Porthos has all the verses memorized now? He didn’t even know the psalm then. Relentless fool made me recite it for him that day, along with forcing me to sit and eat, and using a blindfold, he...well, I shall make you a promise. When you wake I will tell you of that afternoon in its entirety.”

After exerting a measured amount of pressure for assurance, he withdrew his hand from d’Artagnan’s head. Making an awkward gather of the heels of his hands to retrieve his cup. He finished the remainder and twisted to set it back with the pitcher. Throwing one arm over the back of his chair to keep d’Artagnan in his view and he watched the rain sheeting down, tiny groupings splattering to the floor when the wind changed direction. Checking that no drops struck the end of d’Artagnan’s bed he adjusted his seat and smiled back at his unresponsive brother.

“An ambush during a campaign saw a blade through my guard a few months after Athos joined the regiment and, though not badly wounded, I developed an infection. I wasn’t as fortunate as we were,” Aramis paused, clearing his throat to give a humorous breath, “not that either situation could be described as predominately fortunate but we’d no herbs for a paste were safely tucked in my boot and it rained for days. Do you know how difficult it is to keep a wound clean when you cannot even keep it dry? The bandaging saturated with sweat and rain, grit, dirt...regardless, it was an unpleasant time. And you’re familiar with Athos’ temperament in the summer months. The weather was as miserable, and when my fever peaked I was so delirious I’ve no idea what I said to him, but he joined Porthos to sit with us.”

The weather had been as miserable as their mission, but he could recall Porthos’ warmth. He’d been tucked into the larger man’s side, dragged from his horse and ordered to rest rather than help.

“I believe our camp was as sodden as our clothes. Porthos forbid me from leaving the tent, practice for how easy it comes to him now perhaps – although he’s still quite the challenge forbidding me from anything – he makes that face, yes? That pinched look, like his stomach’s soured but he’s no choice other than to persist with his request? An ornery bear who could slam you into the wall, but would rather drop down beside you and share the fire.”

Aramis mused that he wouldn’t mind the companionship – specifically the bodily warmth at the moment – and tugged the spare blankets into a thick clump on his lap.

“Athos joined us, Porthos had invited him, and possibly at the sight of my pallor – similar to yours at the moment – he deigned to keep vigil that evening with Porthos. A few nights along and I’d a fever burning from toe to forehead, the wound was…” he shivered with the memory, and declined to describe the minute details that might’ve fascinated d’Artagnan were he awake. “Athos had to finish the recitation for Porthos, to my and Porthos’ surprise, and how delighted I was to discover he knew the entirety of Psalm 25. He’s a voice suited for a pulpit or a stage, and how fortunate are we to hear it beside our sick beds. We privileged, we few.” Aramis winked at the younger man before smirking at him. “Less so when he’s pairing it with a glare and sharper words, as you can attest.”

As with the thought of his scar, recalling the pads of Athos’ fingers making gentle motions through his hair the skin of his scalp tingled in response.

“And yet, when he is patient, when he knows you’ve need of assurance, you believe he’d confront Goliath for you. After such kindness the other night I will be tempted to request that he ‘turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted’ whenever I might wish to soften him.” Aramis slid his eyes over to d’Artagnan, smiling in spite of the bitter-sweetness of his physical presence absent any of his exuberance. “I expect that’ll work about as well as you’d assume.”

“He wears his melancholy as a mantle often enough, d’Artangnan,” reaching over the bed linens he placed his hand over d’Artagnan’s curling it as best he could in an approximation of a hold in spite of the splints, “I fear your loss will make a permanent cloak of it. So, in fairness to us all…”

Aramis let his words linger as a crooked fork of light streaked across the portion of sky visible from their window. Their room had darkened to the point that a candle wouldn’t be amiss, but he’d concede his dexterity could make that a risk. With little need to move and the storm having intensified, he was content for the room to be illuminated by the lightning. Ignoring the weather there was still enough light to view his friend, and nothing more important than remaining at his side.

“Let me see,” still unable to bend his fingers, Aramis patted the hand his palm curled over, “if I can recite it as well as either of them…”

Clearing his throat, he leaned his head back and recited from memory:

‘Turn to me and be gracious to me,

for I am lonely and afflicted.

The distresses of my heart increase;

bring me out of my sufferings.

Consider my affliction and trouble,

and forgive all my sins.

Consider my enemies; they are numerous,

and they hate me violently.

Guard me and rescue me;

do not let me be disgraced,

for I take refuge in you.’”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

He could hear and feel Aramis, but he’d not been able to open his eyes. The thunder from the storm sounded nearly as loud as the explosion. Moments ago? Hours?

‘He’s here, over this way!’

‘Athos! Porthos?’

The storm was much louder, the rain pelting, it must have moved overhead.

‘We’re here! Keep speaking!’

How long had they been stuck in the room?

‘Is d’Artagnan there?’

D’Artagnan supposed he was motionless as far as Aramis could tell, but he was straining beneath his skin; every moment he made an effort to move.

‘Rest, we’re here.’

‘This may hurt...’

He believed he tried to shift his limbs. He thought he could feel a breeze against his cheeks, but it felt as if his muscles were trapped beneath wet blankets, heavy and constraining.

‘Don’t listen to him, he’s exaggerating.’

‘Let the lad decide for ‘imself.’

D’Artagnan wanted to speak for himself. There were so many voices, muffled, and talking over each other. He needed to tell Aramis to keep talking to them, letting them know where they were. He needed to tell him, and them.

‘I’m sparing him the need, he’ll have more important matters to consider...’

‘Is this necessary?’

How were they going to be found if Aramis kept silent? Why wasn’t he speaking?

‘...Aramis, wait…’

‘...you’re going to tear that open…’

‘Again.’

‘…yes, thank you...quite helpful…’

Wait. Aramis was speaking? But he was behind him? No, he’d been in front. Hadn’t he? He’d pushed him back.

‘...just a moment and we’ll be done...’

‘Turn his ankle. Support the calf.’

‘...Athos you need to…’

‘I have it in hand.’

‘Can’t argue...he does have – ’

‘I am not arguing.’

D’Artagnan wished to interrupt, he could feel the growl building in his throat for want of pushing forward his words. A noise. Any sound. He’d happily join any argument, he’d much to protest!

‘Will you please wait for one of us to support you?’

‘You were sleeping.’

‘We ain’t now, are we?’

D’Artagnan wanted to roll his eyes at Aramis’ feigned innocence. For a man who could detail precisely what could happen to the cut on your forearm should you not tend to it exactly as he’d instructed he often favored shortcuts for his own care. Worse, he could justify – with several exemplars – why his own decision to take less care with his own health was an acceptable risk that could be taken when he’d expend the same amount of time proving the contrary were the patient one of them.

If he was well enough to argue, then they must be saved. Had they been? He could hear the rain lashing over stone. The others must be digging them out. He wanted to move. Aramis’ warmth wasn’t next to him, he couldn’t feel his weight – he’d been in front, but now he was so chilled.

His skin was cold.

‘...the weather is perfect…’

The wind was inconsistent, d’Artagnan could feel the drafts getting stronger. Were they out of the ruins?

‘...I won’t go far, and not without Porthos’ aid...I promise...satisfied?’

‘No.’

Aramis’ laughter interrupted d’Artagnan’s thoughts. Was he arguing with them? If he could argue that must mean they were safe.

‘Don’t listen to ‘im, he’s been delirious, you carry on.’

‘Remember when he vaulted over the cannon to catch – ?’

‘I recall him ignoring my shout to wait.’

‘I was unable to hear you over the cannon fire.’

D’Artagnan would’ve burst out laughing himself were he able. Were he not so confused as to what they were speaking about.

‘...but I’m bored…’

‘You’ll survive.’

The voices ran together, overlapping, and d’Artagnan was certain he was missing some thread in the conversation. He pushed himself again to shout, to whisper even, but his lips wouldn’t move any more than his hand.

‘...I thought he’d woken…’

‘No.’

‘Athos, he’ll – ’

‘Did you wish to walk to the chapel this morning?’

His hand felt warm. No it was cold, like ice frozen over stone along the Seine. They needed to leave, he must’ve struck his head – he was more delirious than Porthos had been asserting moments ago. Had it only been moments? Porthos wasn’t with them.

It was dark, but not as dark as he recalled. The lightning was altering the darkness of his closed lids. Fighting to push them open revealed only silhouettes.

Of a room!

The room was unfamiliar, it wasn’t their prison – it was somewhere else.

Another flash robbed him of the shadows and outlines of chairs, but as he blinked he could discern the end of the bed he was lain on. And an extra foot.

Aramis’ foot. His bandaged foot, his toes were splinted.

He choked on an attempt to cry out, dizzy and excited all at once he let his head settle onto the pillow he could feel behind him. His neck ached with the stiffness of too long a sleep in one position.

“Ars,” he rasped and swallowed, blinking several times against the next flickers of lightning.

His breath followed the swallow, feeling as though it moved down into his throat into stomach instead of inflating his lungs. Pressure filled his throat and chest, words trying to gnaw their way out of the trap his body had made.

He turned his face slowly, as if he might still be trapped in another dream, and his heart tripped an awkward rhythm. His breath hitched and he flinched from the ache in his neck as well as the sight of Aramis slumped in a chair next to the bed.

An image of his friend before the fire came to the forefront of his thoughts, a ghoulish silhouette, and his heart fluttered with the disconcerting memory. That hadn’t been real.

“Ar,” he swallowed hard, clenching his jaw and his hands into fists.

Reminiscent of the frustration of crawling toward that figure in his dream; a desperate approach thwarted by uncooperative limbs he struggled as he had in the dream. Unlike the molasses of his mind, his hard-won motion to shift his wrist disturbed a weight on his left hand.

It was a subtle turn of his own wrist, but the motion disturbed his companion before d’Artagnan could.

He couldn’t hear himself breathing over the continuous rain and his mind felt as slowed down as his body. Fighting him against every thought he forced his eyelids to keep open in spite of the irregular flickers of light. Fixated on his profile meant that when Aramis shocked into to wakefulness their eyes met as the entire room flashed. The resulting crack of a lightning strike sounded as if it had struck down into the fields surrounding the fort; the crash and following claps of thunder covered Aramis’ voice.

From the motion of Aramis’ mouth d’Artagnan believed it might’ve been his own name, and in the relative hush of rain falling Aramis didn’t repeat himself. They both watched the other for a moment, each orienting himself to consciousness.

“You’re awake,” it was a quiet, obvious, observation.

D’Artagnan’s head felt heavy, and though he still couldn’t form words he split his lips into a grin.

“You’re awake,” Aramis’ eyes moved faster than his limbs, raking over d’Artagnan before he burst into motion, “you’re awake!”

Forgetting the state of himself – at least that was d’Artagnan’s guess – he scrambled to stand. The explosion of movement resulted in a clattering of the chair he’d been slumped in, a bang of wood onto the floor by his feet, and a stumbling that threatened to topple the man backward onto the further bed. Before d’Artagnan could raise his own head or voice Aramis was shouting.

“Here! Come!”

He stumbled with his calls, making for the door, limbs shaking and legs buckling in a manner reminiscent of a colt taking his first steps.

“Go, go, tell them!” Waving his separated fingers in a dismissive gesture he directed the person trying to enter the room to leave. “I’m fine, we’re fine, get to the prison.”

Wheeling his arms for balance, he moved with the least graceful strides d’Artagnan had ever seen him capable of making.

“Damn!” Glancing through his forward fall of hair as he bent at the waist to counter his backward motion, Aramis shrugged one shoulder at him. “I warned Poulin I’d regret taking off those shoes. Idoubt you recall my telling you Porthos made me some?”

Grinning at him Aramis nearly bounced on his heels when he straightened, before he began a shuffling, hop back to the side of the bed.

“You’ll forgive me, but I can’t pick those up just now,” Aramis made a quick gesture, presumably indicating the furniture he’d knocked over, and converted the last few steps to a lunge. Tilting over the bed he made a grab for his side, with one hand while the other reached to brace the weight he was attempting to balance. “Don’t move, my coordination still suffers…”

Making his excuses he collapsed on the edge of the bed, immediately placing his palms on d’Artagnan’s shoulders.

“There, feel free to shift now, less risk of a collision,” smirked Aramis, before his mouth flattened. “Are you able to move? Speak? How are – ” Aramis cut himself off, before he shook his own head. “Nevermind. Breathe. Nod if you can. Anywhere hurt? That I need to tend immediately?”

Attempting to take stock of his body left him disoriented for a moment, he felt the bed beneath him and the warmth of Aramis’ palms on his shoulders but otherwise he was numb. His entire body felt thick and heavy, like a foot that spent too long under the weight of a knee. His muscles tingled with the strangeness of stepping onto ground you knew was solid, but could not feel. You could see the ankle that prickled as though pins stung it, but there was only numbed sensation to confirm the visual. Only committing to that uncertain wobble, trusting the limb to hold and walking on despite the increased burning resolved such.

“Disuse.”

“Hmm?” Aramis’ expression shifted between joy and confusion.

It made d’Artagnan twitch under his skin, a burst of energy within that can’t be acted upon by limbs weighed down by unknown hours of rest, and he couldn’t tamp down the urge to convince him that all is well. He’s no guarantee that all is indeed well, and his skin felt as weak as threadbare cloth attempting to hold him together. Except he wanted to maintain the facade, to return to the confidence he’d had in their tiny prison, and keep the relief fixed on Aramis’ face that he’d had at his awakening.

“Throat,” d’Artagnan attempted to shrug, but he only moved his right shoulder about the span of a finger’s width.

“If we can raise you up a bit, there’s water,” Aramis wriggled closer, wincing from one of his own injuries before he lifted his hands. “Fortunately your own fingers are whole, yes?”

“I can,” d’Artagnan paused to catch his breath, pushing his voice and his muscles into compliance with every moment, “sit.”

Collecting himself before Aramis could voice an objection he dug the heels of his palms into the bed and pushed. His forearms shook, but with additional leverage from Aramis’ straightened hands underneath his arms, and bracing his ribs, they managed.

“Balland checked, and Athos acted as my hands, but it’s possible we missed a fracture absent your reactions.” He replaced his palms to d’Artagnan’s shoulders, bending them at the knuckle to mimic the pressure of a hold his hands were rendered incapable of making. “Your leg’s not to move off that pillow, and you inform me immediately of any other pains.”

Waiting until he’d nodded, Aramis retrieved a cup and braced it between the stiff splints surrounding his fingers.

“Plenty more than we had in our meager supplies in Savoy.” His voice was light, expression open, but d’Artagnan could detect the pinched skin under his eyes that betrayed underlying tension. “No need to feign a drink to spare me this time,” there was no sharp edge to his words, his tone more recognition of d’Artagnan’s efforts than condemnation, “still, it’s been days, best to sip.”

Had his voice been stronger d’Artagnan would have protested, but he didn’t want to point out that Aramis’ own worrying behavior had driven him to the ruse. No man enjoyed having a mirror reflect back his own weaknesses. Except it hadn’t been weakness, d’Artagnan hadn’t begrudged Aramis his worries or the cruel suggestions his mind would’ve no doubt been plaguing him with. Fever or no, he’d not for one moment blamed Aramis for his doubts.

Aramis pointing out a single ration of water when he’d drawn all assaults to himself despite d’Artagnan’s objection fortified his will.

Refusing to be passive more to spare Aramis’ hands than his pride d’Artagnan made several attempts to curl nerveless fingers around the cup. His success was short-lived as the first sips had him angling the cup steeply until Aramis cleared his throat to coax it from him and guide the base of it with a cage of his hands, back on the bedside table.

The storm had been receding, but it refused to disperse quietly; an errant gust bashed one shutter to echo like a shot in their small room. Their gazes met as they returned them from following the sound. Each observing the tension subsiding from the others frame.

D’Artagnan quirked his mouth to match Aramis’ twitch of lip before he sobered his features.

“They came.”

“They did.”

He regarded Aramis with eyes that took more effort to focus, still fighting to pierce the fog of his memories and phrases he’d heard, whether he’d dreamed them speaking or overheard them. Were they in better health he might’ve needled him over their shared torment, but there was a frailness to Aramis’ frame that he rarely let slip into his posture. Whether uttered or imagined he could recall the tone of some of the words, the sadness, the worry, the regret; he’d heard hope as well and he knew he’d not imagined that from his friends.

“He does have a pleasant voice,” d’Artagnan ventured, swallowing to help the words pass his throat, eager to speak after so long having to listen, “think we can convince him to recite for us?”

“You heard?” Aramis’ question took on a lighter tone, clearly not displeased at the confirmation.

“Portions, phrases,” he moved one shoulder to try and shrug, “who can say what I imagined?”

“Fortunate for me that I said nothing I did not mean.”

“Aramis – ”

“They’ll be along in moments,” Aramis redirected their conversation, reaching to flatten his left hand to d’Artagnan’s upper arm, “now that they’ve been informed. In the meantime: let me see?”

Motioning with his right hand at d’Artagnan’s temple he gestured for him to lean forward. Looking at Aramis’ second and third fingers bound together and separated by a thin piece of wood, he noted the index was also braced by a thin piece of wood but wrapped as a single digit. D’Artagnan could neither determine the harm or the benefit in examining him with the cotton wrappings covering most of Aramis’ ability to feel.

His arch of brow and tilt of mouth were plain enough to convey his doubt without articulating it to the other man.

“Balland will return tonight barring a delay from this weather,” Aramis’ palm pressed over d’Artagnans cheekbone before he slid it upward to turn the side of his hand to d’Artagnan’s temple, “but indulge me in the meantime.”

D’Artagnan breathed out forcefully, feeling it unnecessary, but he held still; complying with Aramis’ request cost him nothing save the need to adjust the pillow at his back. If enduring the examination would provide satisfaction to Aramis he could permit the effort. He was caught in the haze of being too tired to do much other than follow direction, merely sitting in this case, but not exhausted to the point that he could fall back into sleep.

He remained still long enough that Aramis took it as permission and shifted his hand around the curve of his scalp. D’Artagnan gave no sign of discomfort at first and kept silent. Bracketed by Aramis’ arms, and watching the other man’s face relax in concentration, he felt calmed himself. There is a reassurance that comes with Aramis’ ministrations. Whenever one of them is injured there is a comfort in the intensity of his focus, the care that he takes is such that it engenders trust even when the injury itself is worrisome.

D’Artagnan has wondered if the ability is a reflection of his singular concentration to shoot as well as he does. Turning his mind to his task and narrowing the world to solely that aim, whether a target or a friend’s care.

He flinched and Aramis reflected the motion with his own grimace, lifting his chin, but flicking his eyes down to d’Artagnan.

“There?” He slid the edge of his palm over the thrumming portion of the tender skin.

D’Artagnan only hissed air through his teeth in response.

“Yes, you’ve quite the lump here,” moving to cup the area he traced the edge of the misshapen portion, “the skin’s not split. Balland only needed to place a stitch here.”

Using the tip of his smallest finger Aramis indicated a section of skin just below his right ear.

“I would have done this myself, but,” retracting his hand, he cupped the back of d’Artagnan’s neck before he rotated it, twitching the pinky to demonstrate the lack of dexterity, “less risky for him to stitch it, and for you.”

D’Artagnan gave a thin smile before rolling his lips to wet them and replied, “I appreciate being spared as a pin cushion.”

“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Aramis assured him with a pat to the upper arm he was still cupping, “a little to the right and you might’ve borrowed Porthos’ earring for it.”

“I don’t think it would suit me as well,” adjusting his head to display the ear lobe in reference he smirked at Aramis.

“Not quite the fashion for a Gascon?” Aramis bent his one hand to squeeze his bicep at the same time he lifted the other to forestall a reply. “I believe we can all agree such adornments agree with Porthos’ stature. I prefer more subtle decoration.”

He moved his free hand to gesture to his neck, but mistook the distance and poked his collarbone with the edge of his splint. Casting the offending hand back, Aramis made a wordless noise of complaint.

“I’m grateful you’ve refrained from stitching,” teasing aside, he wanted the man to rest; he’d taken the brunt of their enemies’ abuse, “and it appears you’ve been managing…”

“For the most part,” Aramis kept his left hand on d’Artagnan’s right arm, but lay his other to rest on the linens, “but many fractures, however small the bones can prove a hindrance. Much as I wish it were not true, I was reliably informed by Porthos, just this morning in fact, that my bones don’t knit together faster than any other man’s.”

“A fact you’ve seen fit to test?”

Aramis frowned at him, briefly, before he carried on as if d’Artagnan had not spoken.

“Your leg will be no different but if you take proper care I see no reason you can’t accompany me to chapel. I’ll even lend you Porthos should need arise.”

“Lend?”

“He’s been adamant about ensuring my bones don’t take longer than anyone else’s to heal.” He rolled his shoulders back and shrugged. “Much as I have enjoyed the attention, I am certain he’ll be thrilled to act as your support. Lord knows the man feels better when he can take some action to aid his friends.”

‘He left you there!’

The exclamation came readily to the forefront of d’Artagnan’s mind with the echo of furniture clattering after the shout. Other disjointed phrases cluttered over d’Artagnan’s own thoughts before he recalled Porthos’ voice again, another day during his suspended time, coaxing and sure.

‘Easy, watch the splints, it’s a bit longer than yer toes but it’ll keep ‘em from flexing or catching when y’walk.’

D’Artagnan would wager Aramis was unburdened by the actual treatment, but needed to demonstrate some measure of protest. The two men were often dramatic in their interactions. He could appreciate that Aramis was essentially pointing out in Porthos the same behavior he engaged in by instinct whenever they were hurt. Aramis was efficient and collected in his ministrations, and he remained settled by continuing to watch over them in their recovery.

Judging it best not to point that out, he raised his hand to place it on Aramis’ wrist. Aramis pressed a bit tighter around his upper arm in response, before a shiver passed the length of Aramis’ arm to be felt on his own.

“Blanket?” He was surprised the man was only in his shirt and trousers, given the storm – a light patter of rain presently – had put such a chill in the air.

“While more convenient than shuffling to the window, assuredly, but...alas, they’re on the floor.”

Along with a chair, two pillows, a stool, one stocking, and the tangled end of what appeared to be someone’s shirt from what he could observe by craning his head to few the aftermath of Aramis’ leap from his chair.

“Mind your leg.”

At his eye-roll, and careful budging along the mattress Aramis let his guiding hand fall, and slid to turn and sit beside d’Artagnan.

“Surely it’s healed somewhat by now?”

“Surely you recall the caution that our wounds don’t heal more rapidly,” quipped Aramis, “although you’re free to consult with Porthos on the matter,” he offered, pausing to wink at d’Artagnan before resuming a slow slide and turn to sit beside him.

Once he’d settled at the head of the bed and arched his back into a position that didn’t tighten his profile with pain, d’Artagnan lifted the wool blanket for Aramis to slip beneath.

D’Artagnan nearly offered to share the pillow he could feel – and determine from the visible lump near the foot board – under the lines with Aramis for his knee, but thought it better not to prompt him into a further lecture of proper care.

“Cozy,” remarked Aramis before he nudged his shoulder into d’Artagnan’s.

“Familiar.”

“Better food?”

“Marginally,” Aramis made a measuring motion with his hands, the irregularly spaced splints skewing the gesture. “We’ll see about fetching you dinner shortly.”

“Functional window, more light, and water,” d’Artagnan leaned forward to see the bedside table past Aramis, already feeling better for having consumed a measure, “nicer beds too.”

“Infinitely more comfortable,” agreed Aramis, nudging d’Artagnan’s shoulder and tiling his head as though imparting a secret, “and our ‘jailers’ are considerably better. Why, I’ve even been permitted liberty – with escort – at least once per day.”

“Reasonable,” d’Artagnan generously assumed Aramis had tested the patience of their friends over the many days he’d slept, “will I be subject to the same?”

“Let’s see what we may negotiate now that it’s even odds. Although I want to inspect your leg this evening before I petition for any leniency for you.”

D’Artganan couldn’t muster his temper in the face of his genuine laughter and bumped his own shoulder against his friend. Having woken free and seeing Aramis restored, or bandaged at least, filled him with more joy than could be extinguished by the thought of bickering about whether or not he needed a crutch or what and when he was to eat.

“Do I have two jailers or three?”

“Given the amount of musketeers in this fort we’ve a number who’ll report us, if not outright detain and return us.”

“Your charm against Athos’ glower?

“Rarely does it fail, but I’ve been subjected to several recountments of our feared demise beneath rubble and flames.” He sighed and leaned to catch d’Artagnan’s eyes. “We’ll find no allies among them, but I believe Lagarde may be open to bribes, and I’ve been softening Poulin’s resolve through – ”

“Don’t take advantage of him, he’s – ” having interrupted Aramis he wasn’t at all surprised when the counter came back as quickly.

“Careful of assumptions, d’Artagnan, he’s earnest but as open to mischief as you or I.”

D’Artagan chewed the inside of his cheek against a sharper retort and settled on a lukewarm, “speak for yourself.”

“Ah, but I know you’ve a mind for it as well, now concentrate because we’ve a brief time to make our plans before they return.”

“Plans?”

“Regarding Athos.” Aramis raised his right arm to bring around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, “I’d wager our chances are best if you make the request for our entertainment.”

D’Artagnan held still so as not to jostle him before he’d settled his arm and then broke out in breathy bursts of laughter that reminded him of how little he’d moved, but he leaned more weight into Aramis’ side in companionship. The bed was equivalent to a tufted lounger in comparison to the last meager mattress they shared and he was grateful for the contact after so long asleep.

“As for plans, I told you” d’Artagnan hesitated on the crossroads of bringing levity or pushing them, for a moment, back into that room, “there was never a plan that wasn’t for us both.”

“The very heart,” Aramis held the curve of his arm tight around him, but he leaned back far enough for d’Artagnan to see the flash of mirth in his eyes, “of what makes a good musketeer.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 20: “People don’t change people, time does.”

Blanket | Found Family

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A slow breath in, held, and carefully released, kept a downward turn of mouth – or an upward twitch, were he feeling generous – from displaying on his face.

“I did warn you,” cautioned Aramis.

“I hadn’t guessed a walk to the well would be prohibited.”

“I’d draw up a list for you,” Aramis held up his hands to demonstrate, his willingness, “but it would prove too long both in length and time my dear d’Artagnan.” His desire to to intercede was complicated by his body, and prompted Aramis to put forth another suggestion. “We could await him on the parade grounds?”

“No,” Athos was quick to contribute to their discussion were he uttering a refusal; those were generally easiest, for his part.

“It’s not far,” d’Artagnan offered in support.

Athos glanced at d’Artagnan in acknowledgment, as well as an assurance of his continued recovery, but continued to watch the examination the surgeon was conducting of Aramis’ knee. He expected Balland to approve their excursion, but there was no harm in allowing them to think their liberty was conditional.

“He’s resolved,” Aramis peered up at him, daring Athos to deny it, before he assured d’Artagnan conspiratorially, “but I’ve years of experience in discerning which matters he’s willing to negotiate.”

If d’Artagnan’s arrival in Paris had proved most recently to be a contributor to Athos’ worries, the original cause for his consternation, at least within the regiment, was Aramis. Unique in their methods, Aramis’ greater years granted him a more extensive repertoire with which to plot his escapades. His rashness differed from d’Artagnan’s in that he often thought through several potential outcomes and then ignored them, whereas the younger charged off without consideration of failure. The stakes of the past few days were significantly less deadly than openly dueling or provoking the cardinal, but Athos would've preferred a physical altercation.

Hours of good-natured complaining at the limitations imposed by the physician, had been tolerable and usually redirected by a card game or one of them retelling an adventure of their youth. However, and Athos was not without sympathy for them in their confinement, their gains in healing led to overestimation of their abilities. They moved from grumbling through accepting their bed-rest to outright rebellion of the limits set by Balland and enforced by Athos with the occasional help of Porthos.

Tempted to aid them more than deny them, Porthos held divided loyalties by the quarter hour. It fell to Athos to broker their peace, which was not uncommon as the same men often left it to him to be their collective spokesman in both their defense and petitioning for their benefit. In an effort to prevent their friends’ concocting mischief, Porthos had devised ever more complex diversions for them. Thus far, their favorite was a dice game that involved four dice, three trays, two cups, and five rolls per person, per round – with an adaptation for Aramis – and several rounds of betting. Athos had suggested teams after a throw into the hallway that should have resulted in a forfeit was contested by both d’Artagnan and Porthos. Since it was to Aramis’ benefit he’d issued no protestation.

Their captain had, wisely if Athos’ opinion were asked, determined it best that they recover away from the garrison. The official reason being that any injuries would be at risk of worsening, and thereby delaying their return to duty, should the be moved. All of the musketeers – including those who’d participated in their rescue – knew the unofficial reasoning would be to spare Treville, and the garrison at large, the chaos born from the minds of bored musketeers.

Treville had sent approval for their extended stay at the fort, recalling any musketeers not essential to handling the prisoners, with special recognition that he and Porthos were also essential in handling the patients. Athos could well imagine, with a grimace, the contents of subsequent letters from Barraux should the two wounded musketeers be left alone in their care.

D’Artagnan’s compliance was as tenuous as Aramis’ and Aramis’ tolerance of bed rest after so many days was thin. Athos understood, but that hardly mattered when a fall could rip open the wound to his side, or tear the stitching from his upper back. Not one of his injuries was catastrophic, but their number disrupted Aramis’ normal fluidity of movement such that he risked worsening all of them merely by walking. For someone as active in thought and body as Aramis he could empathize, but considering Aramis used the same argument against too much motion on d’Artagnan’s part, Athos had a difficult time extending any sympathy – to either of them.

Aramis meanwhile, only proved delighted in poking at that fiery temperament. Thus far he’d no qualms in enlisting their youngest in scheming escapes he deemed ‘safe’ to both their health. In this, Athos could not have both patients as co-conspirators. More than once he’d returned to the room to find them seated on one bed, heads bent together and arms gesturing as they spoke in hushed tones interspersed with laughter at some plan or another they were reviewing.

It fell to Athos to prevent outright mutiny.

He’d no misgivings over exploiting Porthos’ guilt by overstating any possible delay in their recovery in order to garner his help. Hence Athos’ own scheme for the day had sent Porthos from the fort with a mission that satisfied his need to aid all his friends, and specifically ease the boredom of their invalids and their self-proclaimed suffering.

That had worked, the promise of a day spent outside, and Athos had been left to pass the morning with brothers calm in their anticipation of reward.

There was a charm to both men and though neither would admit it, and Athos would deny such, that had spared them his full ire after many ill-planned schemes. On their return to their quarters, only two days prior, his own quick signal to Porthos to send him back to the courtyard had prevented Aramis from descending out of the window. Aided by d’Artagnan, who’d been supported by his crutch, Aramis’ legs had been over the window ledge when Porthos appeared on the other side of the frame.

With his abscondment prevented Aramis consented to, or rather did not fight, Porthos collecting him into his own arms. Rather than aiding him back through the window-frame Porthos carried him all the way around to the barrack’s entrance, leaving Athos to encourage d’Artagnan back onto his bed in the meantime. All the while they could hear the undertones of admonishment and amusement of their brothers’ companionable discussion down the hallway. Once Porthos ducked into the room and turned to face them, Aramis’ expression reminded Athos of a kitten collected by its scruff and appearing completely unrepentant.

He loved all three men, but there were limits to a man’s patience when faced with such determination to interfere with their own healing. Enlisting Porthos against them, as much as one could persuade Porthos against Aramis, had aided insofar as minimizing the impact of their ideas. Such as catching d’Artagnan and Aramis leaning against each other to make their way down the hall ‘to examine the other rooms for better amenities.’ Or lingering out of sight of their window when a bench had somehow been moved there overnight – he was still working out which of their fellow musketeers had been convinced to assist with that scheme – so that when d’Artagnan checked before they pushed a mattress out of it he missed Porthos and Athos watching for them. Porthos and he had deposited the mattress in the hall for the afternoon and removed the bench, only to discover on their return not two hours later the other two had recovered the stuffed linen with the assistance of another anonymous benefactor. As for preventing their activities? Well, one alone was troublesome enough but Aramis and d’Artagnan working in tandem? Athos forced his lips into a frown before he could allow the muscles to form a smirk.

To be fair to them, tomorrow marked their third week at Fort Barraux. Their injuries prevented them from duty, but they could begin to pass some of their time recovering at leisure. Within reason, and limits.

D’Artagnan fared better than Aramis and could wander further with a crutch, but out of friendship, loyalty or both he’d not abandoned the other man to the room.

“This is looking better,” Balland interjected before Aramis could begin bartering the terms he boasted about.

“There, that’s as good as approval,” Aramis assured d’Artagnan, confident he could persuade them all to his desires. “Come now, Athos,” he twisted his torso to lean on his elbow and smiled up at Athos, “surely we aren’t to remain abed until Porthos returns.”

That was, in fact, exactly what Athos had planned. He conveyed as much with his expression as he pushed from the wall he’d been leaning on to cross his arms for emphasis of the unspoken confirmation.

“Is that approval?” Without so much as a flick of his eyes in Aramis’ direction, he addressed him while observing Balland palpate his knee but caught the intake of breath out of the corner of his eye. “I am asking Balland, Aramis.”

“To walk with this knee? I’d prefer him to have some support – ”

“He can use my crutch,” d’Artagnan interjected.

Athos had little doubt the younger man’s offer was more to do with being rid of the device himself than wishing Aramis to have to make use of it. He’d credit the younger man with cleverness, admiring the quickness of his suggestion as much as the underlying motive. Ultimately it was doomed to fail, if only because Aramis wouldn’t allow d’Artagnan to forego the use of the crutch. Having done so too many times to bother keeping track of, Athos knew pointing out the irony was a wasted effort.

“I can bear some weight. ”

Aramis nearly sounded reasonable, using a measured tone with Balland. One he often used when proposing some dubious plan to Treville that he trussed up in a tactic that could be logical, were one to ignore the disproportionate negative consequences that stacked against any gain to be had from the risk.

You could deny Aramis’ proposal without fear of insubordination if you provided a sufficient counterargument. Not an ideal quality in a soldier, questioning orders, but for a musketeer Treville permitted it, even appreciated it – on occasion. Following orders was the standard for a good soldier, but obedience absent any inquiry could be disastrous. A good leader knew when other opinions should be sought, and Treville was a fair man, if a bit impatient. Although Aramis, as Athos would testify, could try the patience of a monk.

“Some weight, yes,” Balland’s tone was pleasant as he resumed applying an ointment to the gouge that demonstrated where the pincer had cracked his knee.

The force had fractured the bone, cut the skin, and left the surrounding area puffed and mottled purple-black with bruising. It did look better when compared with how awful it had appeared, beginning to turn green at the edges, when they’d initially brought him to the fort, but ‘better’ was relative to the original appearance. Athos was considering a dry remark to remind his friend of that, but the surgeon addressed Aramis first.

“Minimal weight,” Balland cupped the sides of Aramis’ knee, the gentle pressure resulting in a hiss from Aramis. His age lent a parental note to his voice when he fixed Aramis with a steady gaze before he moved to rebind the bandaging. “You’ll walk with support outside this room, or not at all.”

Without waiting, or having honed a surgeon’s ear of not caring, for a response, he wound a further layer around Aramis’ knee, taking measures to support his calf as he did so. Aramis slid his eyes to d’Artagnan with a twist of his mouth, and took care to turn his gaze to rest back on Balland’s bent head rather than risk meeting Athos’ eyes.

“D’Artagnan supported me the other afternoon on our way to – ”

“Yes, I’ve heard of your clever experiment in bearing each other’s weight down the hallway. To explore your accommodations, was it?” Securing the end of the bandaging, he lay one palm on the top of Aramis’ calf while tugging down the hem of his braies with the other. He gave a considering tilt of his head in d’Artagnan’s direction before angling back to address Aramis. “Coordinating your movements, though tedious work, would seemingly accomplish your aim.” Smoothing the clothing and the bandaging, Balland twisted in his seat and leaned back with a cross of his arms. From his new position he could address, and view, both of his patients. “For a time. However, what happens when one or both of you tire? Your muscles are quicker to fatigue from lack of use and both of you remain at considerable risk of re-injury should you fall.”

Aramis kept silent, but risked a flick of his eyes across to d’Artagnan’s bed. The younger man’s face was a mirror of Aramis’ own tinge of regret at the realization; in helping each other they risked unwittingly harming each other. A factor both had conveniently ignored, or dismissed in pursuit of more pleasurable rewards. Athos wanted to grumble that neither of them had appeared so regretful or thoughtful when he and Porthos has laid out these precise points upon catching them in the hallway.

Of course Athos had been, perhaps, a bit more forceful in his rebuke than Balland’s subtle reproach to their stumbling about. Porthos, after his initial shout of protest, had deferred to Athos and pushed between their friends to provide both with a stable support. Ducking to get each of their arms over one of his shoulders, he frowned over their heads in turn as Athos listed the key flaws in their plot.

Admittedly Athos had been less measured in his words with them than the physician was granting.

“A ragged gash like the one on your leg would normally see you bear a scar and potentially diminished use of that limb. Aramis’ meticulous tending leads me to speculate that by next winter you’ll have trouble finding the outline. Would you see such fine stitching undone?”

Athos didn’t miss, and really hadn’t needed to look to him to confirm, the raise of Aramis’ chin at hint of compliment. It was a short lived bolster to his pride, as Balland redirected his gaze to him after his – in Athos’ opinion – lenient chastening of d’Artagnan.

“After weeks of ministering to him, through challenging circumstances, and guiding each other through imprisonment you’d chance endangering each other now?” He uncrossed his arms to gesture in accompaniment, waving between them in askance of what would possess them to jeopardize their recovery. “Here?”

Balland tilted his head, satisfied with what he observed of Aramis’ features, he looked over to d’Artagnan before he lowered his arms and waited with a gentle shake of his head. Given the years the man had served at the fort Athos wondered how many soldiers he’d similarly admonished. Athos had to admire the tinge of guilt he’d infused in his kindly lecture. Whereas Athos had appealed to reason in his frustration, he’d missed the simplest method for persuading them: each other.

Balland had appealed to their own duty to each other, self-imposed as much as the regiment’s own motto, and that would never fail to give them pause. They were all indeed their brothers’ keeper. All of them were strong-willed, but not one would refuse the others call to aid nor act to deliberately harm another if he were able to avoid such. So used to their antics, he’d taken Treville’s tactic of pointing out their idiocy for expediency, and Athos had missed the simplest solution. All he’d needed to remind them of was their bond and their love for their brother.

His revelation might have softened the tension on his face, or shown in his stance, because Aramis finally looked over at him and winked.

“To be fair,” he raised his brows at Athos before smiling at the elder man, “we have exchanged one type of imprisonment for another.”

“If I believed you in any way serious, I’d thunk you on the head young man.”

D’Artagnan tossed his own head back with his burst of laughter before pushing a knuckle into the corner of his eye to wipe away his amusement.

“And you,” Balland raised his hand, to tilt a finger in d’Artagnan’s direction, the deep lines around his eyes shifting to accommodate the smile accompanying the supposed threat, “I’d smack with your own crutch.”

Athos chuckled along with Aramis while d’Artagnan’s face shifted to surprise at being admonished again, likely having thought he was safe when Ballard’s scrutiny had settled on Aramis. D’Artagnan’s shoulders had rounded at the threat, but moved back near his ears as he directed accusing glares at Aramis and him for their amusement.

“As to your ‘imprisonment’?” Balland cleared his throat, straightening against the back of his chair, before he addressed them. “You young men have been entrusted to my care while you remain at Barraux, and therefore you’re answerable to me.”

For his tone, he might’ve been recounting the rolls of bandaging or the tweezers and needles in his bag than explaining terms. His pleasant demeanor softened the firm words, so that even Athos was not certain it was a threat. As before the surgeon was merely making the young soldiers aware of the potential consequences.

“Treville will not approve your return to duty without my advisement.” Replacing the scissors and extra rolls of cloth to a satchel he used to carry his instruments, he studied both of his patients for a few moments. “I’m aware that Porthos will be joining you for lunch?”

Both musketeers nodded, their eyes rounding slightly, and they looked to Athos no different than his younger brother when he’d quieted in the hope that his request for a favor would be granted from their father. A time honored bargain of change in behavior for the reward on offer. Athos turned to the window to hide his amusement at his thoughts, as well as to check on the progress of the men he’d enlisted to aid him in the morning.

“That is what we’re,” Aramis voice hesitated, wisely eliminating any reference to imprisonment, “told. Provided…”

“Athos finds no fault in my assessment? You may consider me your warden if you wish, but from what I’ve seen your friends are your guardians more than your jailers. Your own actions hold the keys to your release.”

Athos turned upon hearing the scrape of the elder man rising in time to witnessed him press his lips together before he gave them a broad smile.

“With that understanding, I see no reason you shouldn’t all spend a pleasant afternoon out in this weather.”

Having observed the other soldiers fulfilling his requests, Athos gave no objection to his friends venturing outside.

“If not the crutch…” d’Artagnan cast his eyes about the room for something suitable for Aramis to lean on, before frowning at the makeshift shoes Porthos had gifted Aramis with, “...what will you use for support?”

“Me? Why, I have Athos.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“This was always the plan,” observed Aramis.

The younger man’s breath tickled his ear upon leaning closer to make his declaration. Athos kept his eyes fixed to their destination rather than argue; although, lack of attention rarely served as a deterrent for Aramis’ wild speculation.

“I’m surprised it wasn’t set up yards from the entrance,” d’Artagnan came up to Athos’ other side, his uneven gait more pronounced with the use of the crutch.

As they neared the slope that would take them toward the sixth bastion Athos kept his eyes on the spot the men had setup the supplies Athos requested.

“I expected you’d prefer a walk to stretch your legs based on how eager you’ve been to ‘escape’ recently.” Athos raised a brow at him, squinting against the climbing sun overhead.

He’d loaned both his hat and cloak to Aramis for their excursion. The cloudless sky let the sun disperse over the whole of the Grésivaudan valley, but amild wind still carried down from the Alps. The warmth in the air permeated the leather of his doublet, but Aramis – despite all the small excursions – had moved substantially less than he and Porthos had over the past weeks. Lack of movement let a body feel the cold more keenly. Attempting to shrug into his doublet would irritate Aramis’ back and, absent gloves and boots due to his splints, it was little wonder he was subject to a chill outdoors. Among the requisitioned supplies beneath the tree he’d asked for their luncheon to be setup were some extra blankets.

“Naturally,” the brim of his hat brushed his temple when Aramis swung his own head back from the direction they were headed, “there are several bottles of wine, I see.”

Athos nodded once, eyes instinctively moving toward the crate holding the bottles at the mention. He knew it would also contain the cutlery and plates, and he’d even requested cups for the occasion. Next to it, atop the large blankets spread over the ground, were three covered baskets, and two bundles of cloth containing the their luncheon. A few pillows were stacked on top of additional folded blankets among the parcels of food.

“Looks to be more of a feast than a lunch!”

“I’d wager Athos planned this,” Aramis leaned slightly forward to look across to d’Artagnan, and squeezed the arm slung around Athos in acknowledgment, “and they’d no intention of ever denying us.”

“Nonsense,” dismissed Athos and delayed his next step in order to act as counterbalance to Aramis’ forward momentum, waiting for the other man to realize he’d leaned too far to view d’Artagnan. “Had Balland not approved your liberty I would have simply shared this with Porthos.”

“Don’t make that face d’Artagnan,” Aramis slid his eyes back to him, assessing his profile, “it’s an empty threat.”

In recognition of Athos’ change of pace, Aramis took advantage of the motion to risk another glance at d’Artagnan before shifting his weight to his heels and re-balancing before stepping forward. Hissing he paused, and hopped onto his left foot before he fussed over placing the right one flat to the ground. The soles of the shoes Porthos had made for him covered the entire bottom of his feet, but the splints were not complete in preventing the motion of the tiny bones within each toe once weight was placed on them. He pushed more heavily into Athos’ side and nearly knocked Athos’ hat from his own head when he turned further toward Athos, still walking toward the site of their intended repast.

“He would never lock us away without food,” assured Aramis, pinching his palm over the linen of Athos’ shirt since his fingers remained splinted and unable to tangle in the fabric, “truly Athos, there’s no need to threaten us like children to be sent to bed without dinner.”

“Will you please mind your feet? Porthos is not here to carry you.”

“Are you claiming you won’t?” Aramis swung closer in with his question, resting his right wrist atop his left over Athos’ shoulder and encircling his neck.

Years of practice reacting to, or countering, Aramis’ actions Athos once again adjusted his motions to prevent an unpleasant outcome for his friend. They swayed together before Aramis looked down to adjust his footing and then winked up at Athos.

“With the cloak’s excess fabric and your constant gesturing, I am stating that it would not be possible to transport you safely. It’s a wonder Porthos hasn’t dropped you yet with the way you flail about.” He slid the arm he’d previously been supporting Aramis with down to tug against his hipbone, encouraging him to turn around and move back to his side. “As you told d’Artagnan: ‘don’t make that face.’ Come, we’ll not even be seated before Porthos returns if you persist.”

“What face? D’Artagnan,” linking his arms tighter, he leaned his head back to question their youngest, “do I appear oddly to you? Any other expression than my most handsome self under a borrowed hat? I can’t imagine it alters my coloring so much that – ”

“Will you move along?” Athos kept steady, focused on keeping Aramis upright although he’d prefer him moving.

“I will!” D’Artagnan declared before Aramis could remark, and proceeded to lean heavily on his crutch without a glance back at either of them.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis couldn’t turn to view his progress without removing his hands from Athos’ neck and he swiveled his head over first his right and then his left shoulder in a futile effort to see. “D’Artagnan, wait!” A smile was already breaking over his lips before he laughed and fixed his gaze on Athos. “See what you’ve done? All this talk of withholding food and he believes you’ve a mind to do it.” Winking at Athos he shouted without turning after their steadily limping friend. “Mind your leg, d’Artagnan!”

Aramis moved his right hand to pat at Athos’ upper arm, before he raised it to adjust Athos’ hat to sit more securely atop his head.

“Come, let’s catch up to him before he does something foolish.”

“Before he does something foolish?”

Aramis shrugged his right shoulder, pivoting to turn back to his original position to walk alongside Athos without acknowledging the inquiry otherwise.

“Come along, Athos, can’t have him claiming all the choice morsels.” Aramis pushed against the back of his neck with his left arm, as if encouraging his mount forward.

Athos released a deliberate sigh of breath that he left for Aramis to interpret and made a gesture with his freed left arm to signal him to continue onward.

“He’s done well, with the leg,” praised Aramis, watching d’Artagnan hop-limp with the crutch over to the picnic Athos and Porthos had arranged.

“I would expect nothing less with your constant reminders,” Athos paused to provide Aramis the stability he needed to, again, readjust his weight, “but then, given your poorly planned escapes…”

“Well planned,” Aramis protested with a light squeeze to Athos’ shoulders, before he returned his attention to stabilizing his legs, “but poorly timed. How was I to know you’d linger so long after claiming you’d other duties about the fort?”

“Neither of you asked if Porthos and I were headed directly to those errands.”

“May wounded men not rely on the honesty of their friends” Stopping abruptly, he used the question to cover the need for a break. Athos could tell as much by the pinching around his eyes and the rocking back and forth to redistribute his weight that he was attempting to ease the pain in his feet and knee. “It’s a poor commentary on friendship if one cannot trust in – ”

“As the architect of your mischief, do you really wish to speak of trust?”

“Why would you assume that it was I who devised the plans?”

“You’ve also more experience negotiating exits from windows.”

Athos tucked more of his shoulder under Aramis’ and took more of his weight, encouraging him to lean closer for the remaining yards. Lifting up on his heels, Aramis pushed onto the outer edges of his feet before flattening them to shuffle forward the next few steps.

“Experience, my friend,” gaining more comfort in his strides, draped himself more fully onto Athos’ shoulder, “experience that has benefited us all: quick thinking, creative strategies, unconventional exists, these are vital skills a man should hone.”

Athos smirked at the inventory.

“Who knew slipping from a lady’s bedchamber could prove so critical to soldiering?”

“One must learn to use all the resources at his disposal, yes?”

“I’ll tell Porthos you’d prefer to work out your own way down the next time you find yourself stuck on a balcony,” Athos informed him with a light pat to his side.

“I think we can all agree I’ve sufficient ‘practice’ already, no need to turn down his aid. He does so enjoy assisting me, after-all,” theorized Aramis, leaning a bit away from Athos to regard him more fully before a hop and shuffle tilted him back against Athos. “Though I fear it may yet be some time before I can attempt anything more exciting than a casual stroll through the Luxembourg gardens.”

“It may yet be some time before you return to Paris,” he didn’t wish to diminish Aramis’ pleasant mood, and a cart might see them returned in time, but with both feet, both hands, and a knee compromised there was little hope of it being an imminent departure, “you’ll have to make due with an afternoon on the bastion.”

He’d asked the remaining musketeers to set the blankets on the lower portion of the sloping hill, between the smaller magazine and the 5^th and 6^th bastions. It was the section of the fort Aramis favored most in his wanderings and closest to the wall of mountains; not that the view was poor from any section of the structure.

“You’ll hear no complaint from me, regarding the landscape,” Aramis amended, before raising his face to take in the high span of the mountain range over the valley, “and I could do with a few more memories here that I may recollect with fondness. Including that it is we four, all of us, here.”

“Despite the trade you were willing to make,” Athos kept a watch of d’Artagnan while he spoke, the younger man struggling only with the original wound he’d been dealt in the ambush because the man next to him had stood as a shield afterwards.

“It was not my wish, but some debts we may only pay ourselves.”

“You’ve no debt here Aramis,” assured Athos, some part that recognized himself in Aramis willed him to cede any guilt of his own survival.

The source of Athos’ guilt mirrored that instinct, and he wouldn’t see Aramis consumed with a scale to balance a repayment that could never be cleared. His survival was not contingent on some debt to be repaid at a later date. His death wouldn’t undo the past any more than it could put it to rest. Athos knew it was not a weight he could remove from Aramis’ shoulders because a similar burden frequently crept over his own.

“No longer, but I couldn't have allowed it to be him. You understand that. You’d never allow her to cause one of us harm, when you could offer yourself up instead.” Aramis continued, knowing he’d no need to clarify the woman’s identity even if he didn’t agree with Athos’ reasoning where she was concerned. “We’d never ask it of you, or expect it, and you shouldn’t feel so compelled, but I know why you’d be driven to do so. I could do no different. Aside from solving the mystery of our assailants, the mission became ensuring he lived.”

“So long as you’re aware it’s not an acceptable loss.”

“Ah, of course I know you’d mourn me, such a sacrifice would indeed have been a tragedy,” Aramis swung his gaze to meet his eyes, reaching over with his free hand to approximate a brief hold on Athos’ shoulder, “it would cause considerable upset. I don’t know how you’d cope.”

“Porthos would never recover,” Athos told him without changing his expression.

Aramis merely burst into laughter, amused at the normalcy of Athos’ composure more than the joke itself. He shook his head and glanced back to where d’Artagnan was examining the contents of their picnic. Athos tugged on his waist, and waited until he’d turned back to him.

“Nor would I,” he made a tiny curve of his lip when Aramis’ eyes went wide but his mouth remained closed. “I’m certain d’Artagnan would find us both insufferable before long, it would be a favor to us all if you would avoid such.”

“I shall do my best,” Aramis grinned, tightening his arm across Athos’ shoulders with a tension that threatened to tip him, “I don’t think he realized the extent to which you can become unbearably melancholic. Perhaps we can convince Treville to partner him with you for the entire summer, although I doubt you’d try to poison him…”

“I didn’t try to poison you,” Athos looked skyward and let out a groan and a gust of air. “It was a mistake, I’ve apologized, and I’d never risk a circumstance where you’d rip out my stitches again.”

“And I’ve apologized for that, although I still maintain I did not intend to undo my needlework.”

“Fair enough.”

“You are correct though, Athos,” Aramis pressed closer to him making his own hat tip into his hair, “you would miss me.”

“Desperately.”

Aramis’ bout of laughter made d’Artagnan’s head whip over to them before he raked his eyes over them, and then proceeded to roll his own at them. As they approached the incline d’Artagnan began moving to sprawl along one edge of their picnic blanket.

“Ah, ah, d’Artagnan,” making a two fingered gesture, forced so by the splints, Aramis pointed at the pile of pillows and blankets. “Tuck one under your knee.”

“Really?” Frowning at them, he drove the end of the crutch deeper into the ground and braced one hand behind him to ease down. “It’s not a raw wound anymore, I can withstand – ”

“No,” Aramis smiled with a hint of his sharpest teeth, “as the kindly old man said, ‘it would be a crime to make a ruin of my needlework’: use the pillow.” Not turning toward Athos but expecting him an ally, he addressed him while staring down at d’Artagnan. “No doubt that’s why they are there, yes?”

“For him, and for you. Tuck it under your knee,” ordered Athos, while stepping around to act as a support for Aramis to take his own seat on the blankets. “Allow Aramis use of your shoulder,” moving to Aramis’ other side he braced along Aramis’ torso, intending to bend with him so that he’d keep his fractured knee straight as when he lowered down, “and you, keep that knee stiff.”

Once Aramis was seated close to the trunk of the tree shading their selected spot, Athos pulled two of the remaining pillows from the piled linens to arrange behind his lower back. The padding, and his cloak, would keep the healing upper portion of his back from rubbing against the bark while also providing a makeshift seat-back. Looking from one injured brother to the other, Athos reached into the crate as he took a seat and plucked a bottle free.

Dispensing with the cork he took a deep swallow before setting it against his hip, leaving his hand curled around the neck.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Porthos?”

“He’ll understand.” Athos closed his eyes and tipped his face to catch some of the sun filtering through the leaves.

“Not going to share?”

He waved his free hand in their direction, an indication his words were for both of them and not just in answer to Aramis’ questions.

“Eat something first.”

“Is that an order?”

“A suggestion you’d be wise to heed.” Athos opened his eyes and slid them to Aramis before raising the bottle and saluting him with it. He took another drink without waiting to see if they’d move to obey.

“May as well,” d’Artagnan told Aramis, already flipping back the linens covering the baskets and squeezing the cloth wrapped lumps to guess their contents by feel, “there’s certainly enough here.”

“Generous of them,” Aramis acknowledged, “going to report us to Balland if we don’t do as you and Porthos tell us today?”

There was no bite to the words, but Aramis was amusing himself and Athos saw little reason to deny him the entertainment. Or his own.

“Perhaps. As he’s appointed us your keepers…” Athos shrugged, lowering the bottle back to his side, “...best not to provide him reason to withdraw his support.”

“And that’s to be conveniently best accomplished by following your orders, hmm?”

“If it’s to eat all of this,” d’Artagnan swallowed around a wedge of Gruyère, “I say we go along with them, Aramis.”

Aramis shook his head more amusedat d’Artagnan’s enthusiasm than disappointed at his apparent betrayal. Leaning further into his cushion of the pillows he motioned for his own share of the ‘feast.’ Obliging, d’Artagnan made no teasing remarks when he sliced a few pieces from the main portion for him. His fingers and toes were healing but they pained him at odd moments and he’d been taking particular care not to overuse his fingers. He stretched them, checking their alignment with Balland every few days, but he was cautious over which tasks would put too much force onto them. None of them remarked on this, and all of them ensured if there were a task that required him to bend or strain his splinted fingers then one of the others undertook the action before he could make the attempt.

Holding a spoon to consume broth could be accomplished readily enough, but slicing through an apple’s skin was better done by another.

“Illness and injury certainly have a way of reminding a man how easily he may lose his position.”

“You’re not going to lose your...” glancing up from the brioche he was tearing at, he flicked his eyes to Athos for guidance, before sitting straighter to address Aramis. “They’re healing, Aramis. You said so yourself, earlier, with Balland when he checked them. The bruising is fading, and they don’t look anywhere near as swollen. You’ve been holding utensils more regularly, so there’s some improvement? Your hands are steady? No reason to believe they won’t continue to heal, right?”

D’Artagnan glanced at Athos and slid his eyes to Aramis’ direction and back to him without saying anything. Aramis, for his part, had shifted his own gaze to study the splinted fingers they discussed.

“Hmm? Yes one might say I’ve been as lucky as I’ve been unfortunate here.”

Athos tapped his closer, uninjured, knee with the rounded end of the bottle before lifting it in offering. Once Aramis had it between both hands, Athos took the opportunity to pass a pillow to d’Artagnan.

“Place that under him,” expecting d’Artagnan to understand it should be placed under Aramis’ knee he lifted and placed Aramis’ ankles onto the remaining one he set under his feet.

“He took care of you back then as well? Balland did?”

Athos appreciated d’Artagnan asking him so many questions and distracting him from becoming lost to his thoughts. It worried him when Aramis would become captured by the stare he’d seen on many soldiers and veterans. Aramis could speak of misery with a lilt and a smile, but when he grew quiet and withdrew from company to ruminate he rivaled Athos in his melancholy.

“He did,” Aramis smiled thinly, drawing his gaze from the parade ground, and down to the line of his legs at the uneven ends of the rough-stitched ‘shoes,’ “as did Porthos.” Rolling his shoulders he lifted the bottle to take another, careful, sip before using both hands to hold it out to d’Artagnan. “He’d be the one to best inform you of Balland’s treatment, after the initial examination he’d been present, although I don’t recall all of the instances in which he was there.”

“Have you ever compared?”

“No,” Aramis shook his head, turning his hands over in his lap, examining the splints distractedly, “no there’s never been a need. The captain and Porthos could inform me only of events best left unknown. I was not always aware of their presence, but I recall most of what I consider important. Porthos recently, made mention of my lack of...we’ll call it awareness, on some days to an extent I had not known. I suppose I might’ve suspected, but some memories are best left unexamined.”

His gaze cast to the right, the lower level of the fort and where the prison sunk beneath the bastion. He studied it a moment, and then looked to the sunlit horizon of the valley. After maintaining his silence, and his steady gaze in the distance, d’Artagnan craned his neck to look over his shoulder to determine what had captivated him. Athos shook his head at d’Artagnan after a few moments passed and he appeared as if he meant to prompt Aramis. Their wait was lessened when Aramis caught the movement of his friends, or had ordered his thoughts enough that he could speak.

“While I cannot tell you what I may have eaten for dinner, I remember Porthos’ bulk at my side, nudging at me and pulling the bowl away when it had grown cold. I recall Treville steadying the bottle of brandy he shared with me in the late hours of a particularly chilly evening, blessedly not in the prison that time, but not the whole of our conversation.”

He took a deep breath in and swept his eyes across the barracks, and the chapel, the gate, taking in the few soldiers moving about in the natural rhythm that kept such a structure orderly. Whether he was overlaying his own memories, or tracing steps taken years ago, didn’t matter; it was enough that he had made it to the fort then and he was safely returned now.

“The affliction, the one that affected me shortly after we arrived here?” He looked to d’Artagnan for confirmation that he remembered.

Athos had explained Aramis’ wandering in the middle of the night as part of the reason that their bed rest was necessary. That healing without setback was prioritized over a relief to their ‘boredom’ and that they were unsure if Aramis would see a recurrence of the temporary obstruction to his sight. Porthos had supported him in that, citing that the condition had occurred several times during Aramis’ recovery when they’d been here years ago.

“I never mentioned it, because I’ve not had such symptoms since your arrival in Paris. It has been infrequent over the years; I’d nearly expected it resolved, until now.” Aramis tapped the side of his head, careful not to poke at the skin with his splints. “My only comfort was that each time it has happened my sight returned to me, and I hold to that hope when it does repeat. As to the cause? Treatment? I remain uncertain. I told you, we know so little of the mind.”

“It’s always returned though, your sight?” D’Artagnan continued at Aramis’ nod. “No pain? Nothing that hints it will happen?”

“Very little warning, by the time I begin to notice my vision – bending, I suppose you could say? Within moments the light has overtaken my eyes and I cannot see around that brightness. Not a lot, that is. Think of what you might be able to see if you were to hold a candle a finger’s width from your face and attempt to distinguish what lies past that.” Aramis demonstrated with his own hands, making a gesture to represent the flame and what could lay beyond. “You’re well acquainted with the tricks of the mind when afflicted with a concussion. The double images, the dizziness, the gaps in memory...there are numerous symptoms, and many still that the ‘commotion of the mind’ may inflict on us.”

“Could they tell you how often it happened here?”

“Possibly, but I would have had to tell them as it’s not always observable. If it occurred when I was seated or in bed I may have closed my eyes and waited for it to clear, and there are missing periods of time, memories out of order and impressions of what I think might have happened. Much of what they could tell me would only paint a picture of my confusion, behaviors I was previously spared knowing, and how...how I…”

“How you managed to survive.”

Aramis glanced to him with a small smile, accompanied by a shrug.

“Only to return. Because what man can act against his fate?”

“I don’t believe that,” at his worst he’d admit some actions led to miserable outcomes, but he carried many misgivings about fate, “but were any man able to force a change of his, I would lay odds on you.”

“I told him we’d make it,” d’Artagnan observed, taking another sip of wine before nodding decidedly.

Athos had been about to remark on how stubbornness could be a virtue, even in d’Artagnan’s case, but Aramis shifted to adjust his knee with a flourish that commanded their attention.

“So we did, and I promised you that story, d’Artagnan. Since you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain,” Aramis sunk further back into the pillows against the tree, tipping Athos’ hat back to regard them both, “it would seem I must keep mine...”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“We were nearly inseparable after that," concluded Aramis with a grin at Porthos.

“‘Course we were, once you realized how great my company was...”

“You never had a better assignment,” Aramis contended, tipping his head at Porthos. “Initially I’d excused Treville pairing us as owed to my duties being lessened and Porthos’ having increased. I’m certain he watched us that day. Decided we’d keep each other from trouble.”

“Or be the cause of it,” observed Athos.

“I say he knew exactly what he was doin’ when he asked me to look after him.” Porthos nodded, tucking his bounty more securely in the corner of the blanket before he shifted to lean back next to Aramis. He’d returned sometime after Aramis began recounting Porthos’ retrieval of their food, and made no interruptions when the bottles were repurposed to targets. Shrugging, he let one forearm rest on his bent knee and lounged next to Aramis, not correcting a single detail of his recountment. “Turned out well in the end, for all involved.”

“Perhaps,” acknowledged Athos, with a glance to d’Artagnan, “but if it began as a means to ease his worries at the time, he was ‘rewarded’ with more than he bargained for in future.”

“Hey! I’ve kept ‘im outta more trouble than even he remembers all these years,” boasted Porthos, with a nudge to Aramis’ good side.

“I think you’ll find, if you were to ponder the evidence of those many years, that it is I who’ve prevented more catastrophes from landing on your head,” declared Aramis and, smiling, he lifted his hand to make a display as he listed, but quickly shook it in a dismissive gesture when it was clear he’d more events than unbound fingers. “Langeais. Angers. Soissons. Fos. Laval. Sancerre? That dice game in Falaise? Hmm?”

Porthos crossed his arms, and finally challenged Aramis’ storytelling. He might’ve held their previous time here as something to tread about with restraint, but held no such reverence for any of their other shared memories. Athos was familiar with some of their more frequently retold escapades, as well as knew which were in doubt, and held his own opinion of which of the two men more accurately portrayed what had likely occurred.

“Yeah? And when I had to cover you from slippin’ out of that chateau in Toulouse? The Tour des Fiefs in Sancerre, and every time I caught you leaping from a tower, balcony, or window? Y’ain’t got enough fingers for that even if they weren’t lashed together,” Porthos leaned closer and smirked at the bindings, lifting thumb and forefinger before Aramis’ nose, “Roussillon and Perpignan.” Porthos nodded when Aramis uncrossed his vision and squinted over at his face. “And, yer fortgettin’: Abbeville, Coucy, Menton, and Annecy.”

“I am irresolute concerning Coucy, that castle was confusing,” Aramis twisted and patted at Porthos’ shoulder with the flat of his palm, “in the daytime, and worse on a moonless night. I am willing to assign equal blame and victory. There were four towers, after all, and we did manage it in the end.”

Porthos hesitated, rubbing at his beard and making a considering noise in the back of his throat before a deep chuckle had him shifting his brows. His cheeks dimpled when he turned to face Aramis directly.

“Still, y’have to put that explosion in Aubagne fairly high, admit it,” Porthos poked his forefinger twice into the wool of Aramis’ cloak, “you wouldn’t have – ”

“Hornfleur, Porthos, you’re forgetting Hornfleur, Porthos,” teased Aramis in a lilting pitch, with the sincerity of one who held a prize aloft and on offer certain he would be assured to snatch the victory because he controlled the parcel.

Porthos, never to be outdone, wouldn’t concede so readily.

“Don’t see how rescuin’ you from splutterin’ in the ocean…” swiveling his head to d’Artagnan he smirked, flicking his eyes to catch a glimpse of Aramis’ slack expression at the time-honored and well-worn story. “He ever tell you what a poor swimmer he was?” Porthos directed the question to d’Artagnan, as Athos had heard this tale, several times.

“Who is it between us all that catches the bulk of our fish?”

“Not debatin’ that – at the moment – but we’re talkin’ about the ocean,” he used his hands as though each one held the comparison and then gesticulated them in uncoordinated small circles, to mimic flailing, “he was rubbish in those waves. All those scrawny limbs you’d think he could cut through ‘em but it was like watchin’ a fawn on an icy patch, little swell of a wave smashed ‘im right under and dragged him along the sand under the water, further out into the sea.”

Porthos laughed with enough force to shake his whole torso and d’Artagnan ducked his head, not even pretending to reach for food as he tapped a hand to the blankets in his mirth. One encouraged the other and before long Porthos raised a hand to swipe at the corner of his eyes before using both hands to demonstrate a tumbling and dragging motion to represent their friend’s battle with the water.

“He...he…” voice cracking on his sputtering laughs he looked away from their youngest’s struggle to contain his amusement to try and get a handle on his own, “...he looked like a soaked cat when he surfaced and clawed to land. Ever see a cat drenched in the rain?” Porthos planted his palms to press and drag along his own face, chuckling all the while. “All those curls lank and straight…”

Porthos might guard their memories of the fort, but he positively relished in retelling tales like teaching Aramis to swim. Those stories never bothered Aramis beyond a bit of posturing or teasing, and he’d complain bitterly, unprompted, of his dislike of the sea whenever they were in Le Harve or otherwise required to sail.

“If you’re going to brag of your supposed accomplishments, and I have never been ungrateful for your pointers, then at least explain matters correctly. The event you speak of was two days earlier and we were on the beach in Deauville,” Aramis told d’Artagnan, correcting the record before turning back to Porthos, “and the Channel is not precisely the ocean, Porthos. While that diversion was entertaining, I was recounting Hornfleur: two days later,” he flipped two fingers to waggle in Porthos’ direction, “Shall we narrate for our friends how many spies you invited to your table?”

Porthos settled back, turning his shoulder against the wide trunk he shared with Aramis and pursed his mouth to mount his defense. Before he could speak Aramis was curving his arm to gesture at d’Artagnan as he continued, and like Porthos earlier he knew Athos had heard this version – and a few other variations – before.

“An ‘excellent judge of character’ indeed. He’ll claim it was a tactic, but he’d no knowledge – ”

“I knew they were English,” interrupted Porthos.

“Yes, that much had been obvious by their accents, but you believed them escorts to that linen merchant...Babcock or Badcock, was it?” He fluttered the tips of his fingers as much as the splints allowed in a dismissive gesture. “No matter, it was some ridiculous surname of the type the English favor. A grating language to the senses; French is much more refined on the tongue and the ears.”

On that, at least, Porthos did not argue with him.

“None here can debate you each owe your lives to the other, and continue to trade that debt, yes?” Athos reasoned, taking another swallow of the nearly emptied bottle he held. “As do we all.”

Porthos and Aramis watched each other, miming tallies on their fingers, conducting a series of shrugs, and tilts of head in an attempt to determine the current settlement of their debts.

“A draw? You’ve probably an even ledger or close to it considering, all your escapades,” gesturing at them with a motion to indicate their innumerable – and no doubt legendary – adventures, d’Artagnan shrugged and reached for another piece of cured ham before looking from one man to the other as he chewed, appearing quite pleased with himself.

Porthos and Aramis turned to him and then each other before looking back at their youngest, from Athos’ vantage point he could see that they winked to him, to convey they were the one to be believed in the end. Neither needed to turn to the other to confirmthey had done so, and they both broke into laughter before Aramis slid his eyes over to him.

“He only says that because yours was the first trade,” claimed Aramis, inclining his head toward d’Artagnan before smirking over at Athos.

Considering, for several moments, how to answer, and if he should take the bait Athos watched his brothers for a moment. This limited outing was devised as a diversion as much as a celebration of their return to each other. Aramis appeared delighted wearing his hat and cloak, and tucked underneath the shade of the tree half leaning on Porthos and the pillows, while d’Artagnan lounged alongside them and Athos couldn’t imagine not giving in to whatever game he was playing.

“By all means, we sit here intrigued, do continue…”

“D’Artagnan.”

At the mention of his name d’Artagnan cocked his head, looking first to Aramis and then to him for clarification. Athos shrugged, examining the bottle to determine if a few more drops could be pulled from the glass.

“The balance of things,” explained Aramis, pushing his voice to a diplomatic calm, “not that we keep tally, of course, but were we to do so...your first deed with us was to save Athos.”

Having tilted his head back to catch the last swallow from the tipped bottle Athos refused to give in to the undignified choke, and swallowed thickly as he lowered it. Narrowing his eyes, side-on to Aramis, he frowned. If they were to split hairs d’Artagnan’s first action was to threaten his life, quarrel with them all, and then lend his assistance since it suited his own cause. However he had, of course, been an integral player in clearing Athos’ name.

D’Artagnan blinked, taking a few moments to reflect on his earliest memories of, and introduction to, men who were as close as any kin to him now. Born from the loss of his father and not an exchange any man would willingly make, he’d found some consolation by gaining three brothers. Bending his arm, d’Artagnan dropped his head onto the cradle of his hand and smiled over at him.

“A traded debt?”

“May it always be repaid,” glancing at a smirking Aramis and Porthos, he motioned for the wool wrapped bottle nestled at Porthos’ other side, “without a tally kept.”

“No harm in rememberin’ how well we care for each other...although I suppose since some of us require a bit more favors than others…”

“Oh, enough, or I shall recount for them of that affair with the shepherd in Lespignan. There’s no mistaking which of us owed the other after that mess,” complained Aramis with a put upon sigh, “it took my favorite laundress in Paris five attempts to remove stench and stain from that shirt.”

D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose at the implication, having grown up on a farm he’d best know what foul duties one could undertake. Athos was also unfamiliar with the events being referenced.

“Why not simply abandon the garment?” Athos asked dryly, leaning over to take one of the precious bottles of Chartreuse from Porthos.

“It was a gift,” Aramis explained, as if the suggestion to discard it were more offensive than what had been done to the shirt, “and it was embroidered here, with lace on the cuffs. Not to mention the cut and fit were impeccable. She recovered it, but it was lost to me on a mission a mere few weeks from its salvaging.”

“Speaking of shirts lost, you’ll be pleased to know yer fancy shirt’s bein’ replaced,” Porthos withdrew a folded letter from his doublet, waving it to Aramis before he passed it to Athos, “seems y’may receive more than one at that. Accordin’ to Treville. Balland handed that to me when I returned from the Monastery of the Grande Chartreuse, seems our Florentine charge was pleased with us.”

“He’s adamant that he meet with us before he leaves Paris, and if we are not returned by that time he will seek us out here,” Athos continued, impressed with the young man’s determination to see their efforts rewarded. “He’s praised the regiment quite highly to His Majesty, and named us as most deserving of recognition.”

“So I am to receive a replacement of that woad dye shirt as thanks? What of the rest of you?”

“More than that,” Athos continued to peruse the letter, before surrendering it to Aramis’ motioning hands, “if what he’s conveyed to Treville is to be believed there will be a purse for all of us, and gifts, including your fine shirt.”

“Ha!” Aramis had lain the paper on his lap to read it, the heels of his hands anchoring it against the breeze. “He wishes to invite us to Florence?”

“Demanded our escort,” Porthos confirmed.

“But we were attacked,” d’Artagnan wondered, knowing Richelieu would not allow their own king to forget that piece of the tale.

“He was seen safely to Paris, and he’s impressed with the lengths the king’s personal regiment went to protect his cousin. Along with the loyalty among our own men.”

Athos believed Francesco’s intentions were true, but there was a chance these were the excited promises of a young man flush with his first brush with true danger. His family was well-known in Florence, and he’d be as protected as their own king on a smaller scale. He’d turn away no gifts offered, and should they not be presented he would see to procuring the blue shirt Aramis had been so gratified with.

“If we’re not returned to the city before his departure, he implies he and his retinue will come here until we are able to make the journey.” Athos glanced at Aramis, making a sweep of his eyes over the bandaging and splints. Unless Francesco intended a few more weeks to visit his cousin, Aramis’ bones would not be healed by that time. “If you – ”

“No,” Aramis shook his head and passed the letter to d’Artagnan who’d sat up to take it. “No, Athos. There is no version of any impending plans where I will not accompany you.”

“Aramis – ”

“Thews of iron,” argued Aramis. “D’Artagnan? Tell him.”

“Me?” D’Artagnan looked at Aramis and his bewilderment softened to a fondness, that turned to conspiracy when he spoke. “Athos, he can’t remain here. It was Aramis who stalled them, kept them talking, and he – ”

Athos spared him needing to recount what was plainly evidenced by the inventory of wounds distributed so unevenly between the two men. He couldn’t condemn Aramis for his decisions when he’d have devised a similar strategy if he’d been the one paired with d’Artagnan in captivity. Keeping the ruse as long as possible lessened any pursuit and had contributed to if not insured their safe journey back to Paris.

“We’ll see if you can accompany him as a guard within the carriage.” Athos was certain he saw a shared look of mischief pass between the two men, but he couldn’t chide them for it when he was so relieved to have them returned. “A lookout, as it were.”

Relieved at their reunion didn’t mean Athos was inclined to jeopardize either of them. They could accompany Francesco’s guard without needing to actively participate in patrols or scouting; Athos could devise enough excuses for them to stay closest to Francesco and guarded by the other soldiers. Porthos and he could pair off with them at all times. There would be sufficient guards, bolstered further by order of the king for the return trip, and Aramis could easily be given a seat on or within one of the carriages. Should he be well enough to ride, he’d be one among many and Athos could simply place him within.

“What?” He asked Aramis, who stared at him with a curious patience, assessing him.

“Any plan you wish so long as it’s the four of us.”

History had taught him to be suspicious of Aramis’ quick obedience, but there was no true danger in facilitating him accompanying Francesco. The threat foiled and the last remaining plotters captured, it would only be Aramis’ own limitations that brought him risk. If Athos were honest, he’d prefer him with them and within their protection than left to his ghosts – however exorcised they might be – alone at the fort.

“It’ll be the four of us,” Porthos nodded, catching Athos’ eye to assure no contradiction to his words, “there’s no way Balland’d keep you here without at least one of us to keep you from disrupting the fort.”

“Porthos, I’m merely one man – ”

A chorus of ‘that’s enough’ and ‘more than enough’ drowned out the rest of his thought and he dissolved into laughter and relented. Sinking further back into the pillows and nudging Porthos he made a sign to Athos to open the bottle.

“Gentlemen, I believe this warrants we finally partake of the ‘Elixir Vegetal de la Grande Chartreuse,’ Athos...the glasses please?”

“So what’s so special about this liqueur?”

“D’Artagnan, I shall leave that tale to Porthos, but we present you with the ‘elixir of long life’ and I can think of no better than you three to share this with.”

“Prior’s the same, and he promised a case if I bring you back to visit.”

“Are you certain you interpreted him correctly, Porthos?” Athos teased, pouring and passing each glass. “Given that it’s a silent order. Perhaps he offered you the case to not bring visitors.”

“Athos!”

Continuing to ration the green liquid into the clear glasses he’d requested from the cook, Athos prepared to ignore any protest Aramis could make but was not surprised when Porthos defended him instead.

“Nah, Bruno adored ‘im,” Porthos shook his head, glancing between the trunk and his friend before throwing his arm around Aramis. “He’s the one convinced them to let us stay; and we fit right in.”

It took imagination to cast Aramis in robes though it was not unimaginable, but the picture of Porthos strolling about a Carthusian monastery left d’Artagnan biting his lip and Athos just barely managing not to quirk his own. Instead, Athos raised a brow and d’Artagnan mouthed ‘Bruno’ at him, before voicing the question to Porthos.

“In due time, d’Artagnan, we’ve all afternoon for Porthos to relay tales of our stay there. For now, we’ve been generously gifted with a beverage derived from a recipe gifted by the king’s father to the monks. It’s rumored to contain over one hundred herbs.”

“S’why it’s so...green…” Porthos explained lifting his glass to peer at the bright liquid highlighted by the sun.

“They intended it as a medicine, at first,” Aramis nodded quickly along and motioned to d’Artagnan before he raised his own glass, two-handed, to demonstrate the color, “but it’s grown much more popular as a liqueur. None save the monks know the recipe.”

“Couldn’t convince them to tell you?” Athos smirked, lifting his own glass once the others had theirs.

“Athos, for shame, I would never tempt a monk to break his vow.”

“Not unless you were the monk,” Porthos guessed.

Aramis peered over at him, quirking his lips in preparation for a response before his face took on a more serious mien. He returned his gaze to the glass he balanced between his broken fingers and looked to each of them in turn before he made his unconventional toast.

“I shall tell you one vow I will never break,” extending his hands to the middle of their small group, he waited for the other men to place their own alongside his, “all for one…”

Athos’ voice joined the others before they pressed their glasses together, the sweetness of the unknown drink a compliment to what felt a solidification of their reunion.

He’d found family in the regiment, and these three men were as his own brothers. There was no resentment, no tallies kept, no call for aid that went unanswered; no matter their quarrels there would never be a fracture that could not be mended.

Athos knew whatever the need, and no matter which of them asked, it would always be all for one and one for all.

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