Archive of Our Own ^beta

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No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | *Finding Old Messages | *Motion Sickness

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“For you know that I myself am a labyrinth, where one easily gets lost.”

– Charles Perrault

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“Don’t see why we’re tasked with findin’ his lost papers,” Porthos grumbled, the movement of the side of his mouth hidden by the shadow cast from his large hat.

“Because then the cardinal will have someone to blame for their ‘misplacement’...” offered Aramis, as he watched the men gathering on deck of the merchant vessel, “...besides the emissaries. He’ll already be telling the...”

He trailed off as boots carried a thin man over to them on the shifting deck. Aramis swallowed against a rising unease and softened his knees to lean with the rocking motion. The rolling up and down of the ships had been a building bother over the past few hours. Each descent down the gangplank of one ship was a venture in steeling himself for ascend onto the next one. When they found the messengers he’d make no apologies if he were to be sick on their boots.

For the sailor, however, he attempted to mind his manners for the sake of their mission.

“Do you see them, gentlemen?”

“Not among this lot,” proclaimed Aramis, keeping his eyes moving over the lines of men as he answered the man who’d introduced himself as Second Lieutenant Lefebvre, “and you’re certain you’ve made no arrangements for additional passengers aboard this morning?”

“None. Captain Tremblay assured you of this, and I can confirm. We’ve no tolerance for stowaways, and we’d not lie to the king’s men.”

“These men might be seeking ‘alternative arrangements’ for travel,” he swallowed and blinked against an errant drop of sweat sliding from his temple before turning to the man, “you trust your crew?”

“Entirely. None of them would risk their livelihood, or their backs, with such a crime. Our third officer is retrieving the manifest for your review, unless you’d prefer to view it in the captain’s cabin?”

Aramis glanced past the man to squint over his shoulder at the quarterdeck of the flyut bound for England that Athos and d’Artagnan were searching. Through the rigging he caught sight of Athos’ profile, as he signed to d’Artagnan to watch the steps to the upper deck. In moving his gaze, or sensing eyes on him, d’Artagnan locate him, nodding briefly before tracking the movements he’d been directed to watch.

Leaning with what he believed to be the sway of the ship his shoulder brushed against Porthos’ pauldron. The leather creaked along with the ropes holding them to the dock and Aramis swallowed again. He tried to recall how many remained to be searched, but his mind was cluttered with attempting to remain upright.

“Might be best,” Porthos answered when Aramis took too long than could be considered reasonable, “get us all out of this heat.”

Moving closer to Aramis, he stepped slightly behind and to the side so that about three finger’s width of his arm and shoulder pressed against Aramis. Porthos blew a force of air through his nose, otherwise keeping silent, and Aramis caught him shifting his weight from the corner of his eye. The bracing presence added to the heat, but it was welcome; without a word exchanged he knew that in the event he should lose his balance, in any direction, Porthos would catch him.

“A brief respite,” glancing at the subtle brace of Porthos’ body, Lefebvre acknowledged it with discretion, before again pressing for clearance and admitting that the heat was a concern for them all, “whether we set sail or not – by your orders presumably – we’ve still work that keeps us in the sun today.”

Aramis nodded, intending to explain the king’s order that had been sent ahead of them had issued orders to close the ports from Brest to Calais. Their fellow musketeers had been dispatched to each of the ports to search for the messengers who’d been expected to sail from Le Harve. Though not the most direct route to London, it was the closest to Paris and there’d been no rush to the emissaries journey. There’d been no cause for concern until the missing pages were discovered.

Once the pair were found it would be for the king, and the cardinal, to determine if the additional papers were taken by mistake or design.

Porthos answered once again when Aramis proved unable to push the words past his lips.

“Happy to approve that order bein’ rescinded fer you as soon as we can.”

By the time they’d reviewed the manifest Aramis was bracing his hands, torso leaning heavily over his wrists on the desk. He could sense sweat beading along his hairline, and his fingers curled under the wood to stop him from reaching to swipe at the tingling droplets.

“Thank you, Captain.” Aramis used the excuse of retrieving his hat on the corner of the large wooden desk to steal a moment longer of stability. “Everything appears in order.”

Porthos had been standing on the opposite end, reviewing one of the logs with the merchant ship’s first lieutenant and moved to meet him at the corner in front of the captain’s desk. He cleared his throat when Aramis lingered without saying anything further to Tremblay. It would hardly have been the moment to explain his hand was barely able to grip the brim of the hat he held alongside his leg.

Fortunately he was saved by Lefebvre’s return with one of the cabin boys.

“Have they completed the search below?”

“Yes, Sir. Nothing, and no one was found.”

The boy at his side nodded emphatically, eyes sliding from his captain to admire the musketeers standing backlit by the large panes behind the desk. Aramis spared a moment’s thought for how disappointing he must appear; wilted and pale. He swallowed against his nausea and straightened his shoulders.

“We’ve your description of these men,” the captain said, expectant and waiting, “and I am happy to pledge to His Majesty to detain them should they be somehow discovered on our sail to Portsmouth.”

Porthos nudged him in the side, waiting for confirmation that Aramis would agree with him to approve their departure. It was hard to account for everyone and two men in a busy wharf could hide numerous places. They’d combed the ship and obtained the assurance of cooperation, there was no reason to hold them.

Aramis nodded, not trusting his throat to allow him to speak.

“We’ll alert the harbormaster,” confirmed Porthos.

“Very well,” the captain shifted the manifest to inspect a chart, dismissing them to make ready for their delayed route, “Lefebvre, order the men to prepare.”

The second lieutenant moved past them to convey orders to the crew, and the young boy slipped around Porthos once they’d passed through the door to captain’s cabin.

“Want me to fetch you some ale from Cook?”

Aramis took a moment to realize it was a higher pitched voice, and therefore not Porthos, that had inquired. He leaned against the beams and titled his chin to view the young sailor. Whether coincidence, desire, or sympathy, his stomach gurgled in the silence that followed.

“Won’t help,” chuckled Porthos and placed a large, assuring hand on the boy’s shoulder, smirking over at Aramis before advising the boy, “he’s never developed his sea legs.”

“Gets a bit of the seasickness, does he?”

Porthos nodded, smirking.

“And you’re to search all ships in the port?”

“Every last one,” Aramis lamented, refraining from cursing the very ship the boy would be sailing on within the hour.

Sailors were a superstitious group of men and he’d not add to the young man’s troubles. Even if he despised sailing, he admired the vessels and their purpose; ships had opened the world although he’d little admiration for the method of travel.

“I much prefer the motions of a horse,” complained Aramis, placing his hat back on his head, “to these vessels.”

The young man twisted his face in disbelief, but smiled and shrugged.

“Guess that makes sense for the Musketeers! Best be getting to the preparations, good luck to you!”

Porthos conveyed thanks for both of them as the cabin boy headed away to his duties, before bracing both hands on Aramis’ shoulders. Porthos’ face slid into two, and then three, images before he could focus on the smiling visage of his friend.

“Want to wait here while I make a search of the last three?”

The noise Aramis made when attempted to answer him sounded plaintive to his own ears so he was unsurprised when Porthos’ teasing grin softened. His face smoothed to concern as he put more weight into his bracing and assessed him.

“Maybe we’ll just sit you on the back of a cart, yeah? Athos’ll understand. You can keep an eye, see if anyone attempts to slip off a boat.”

It would at least provide him some duty. There were only a few left to search and it was arguable that a lookout could be useful on land at this juncture. His scalp felt as though it were exposed to the sun despite being inside the ship, and he knew he must appear affected by the weather if not the boas. If Porthos’ expression was anything to judge by he expected he looked pale and wan, even Athos might take pity.

He tried to nod, but squeezed his eyes shut against a dizziness that threatened to pitch him into Porthos’ arms.

“Easy.”

Even the light pat of Porthos’ arm vibrated in a manner that distorted his perception of where his feet were planted.

“Porthos,” he waited until the dark eyes were focused on him, “the harbormaster, hmm?”

“Right, let’s get y’off this ship.”

Aramis made to follow as Porthos eased away and motioned for him to lead the way back to the main deck. The boat lurched with the swell of the waves, and he rocked back and slid downward. Porthos by some miracle remained upright and unaffected.

“Hey, I was half-jokin’ about those legs, yeah?”

“I expect you’ll tell me the ship didn’t lurch with a wave just now?”

Porthos didn’t attempt to suppress his chuckle.

“Not that many waves in the harbor,” he shook his head, but didn’t tease, “calm, gentle lapping out there. Could rock a man to sleep.”

He wanted to protest that it could rock a man to illness, but the expenditure of words would not be worth the effort.

“Much as I wish it were not an ailment…” Aramis coughed and swallowed, blinking rapidly and raising his head to look at Porthos when his hands returned to brace his shoulders. “Off, let’s get off this blasted ship.”

“It’s barely moving,” advised Porthos, “think you can make it to the gangway?”

“As if this ship were bound for Hell.”

“Only England,” Porthos squeezed his shoulders, releasing him only to keep a close eye on his stance.

“Is there a difference?” Feeling as though he were more likely to tip backward than forward he pushed away from the rough wood. “Stay close behind?”

“They’ll all be too busy t’see you staggerin’...unless that nice lad told ‘em…”

“Very...amusing.” Aramis brushed the back of his hand under the brim of his hat, eyes already squinting in anticipation of the unyielding sun that awaited them, threatening to blister the very planks beneath their feet. He didn’t care if the sailors would be amused by his graceless walk across the deck; he wouldn’t be the first man to struggle aboard a ship. “I’d hardly...be disappointed...to fall into the sea today…”

Blinking against the sun, he paused to lock his knees and resist stumbling along the deck. Porthos took that time to come alongside him, and remain at his left for their long journey across the deck. Aramis glanced at the wood to check if it were in fact steaming under the sun, and found the planks separating and doubling under his gaze.

He expected that he would trip, but he managed to keep his boots under him and kept them moving steadily across the deck. Marred only by walking on a diagonal. Porthos remained at his side, taking care to bump their shoulders to keep Aramis from veering too far off course. The gangway appeared to be a few paces away, if a bit blurry when the shouting reached Aramis’ ears.

“That’s d’Artagnan,” Porthos’ own hat cast a shadow over Aramis’ view when he turned toward the vessel down the line from their own.

“Go, go,” insisted Aramis when their youngest shouted Athos’ name.

“Red Gurads,” growled Porthos, before stomping forward, “c’mon.”

“Right...” Aramis said more to himself, willing it to be true, “...behind you…”

He tripped, after Porthos ran to the gangplank, and Aramis sent a prayer of thanks that the port had quays. He didn’t think he could accurately navigate a rope-ladder into a small boat. As it was he clung to the ropes, letting them slide through his gloves to sway and leap down the plank.

He covered his trembling legs by jumping the last yard to the dock and taking a moment to brace his hands on his knees to breathe. Red Guards were unpleasant at best, but they’d no cause to endanger his friends or their mission. However, there was no telling what scheme the cardinal might have concocted between their leaving Paris and their arrival in Le Harve.

Aramis stared at his boots, the dust and sand sticking to the leather in the heat. He watched them all spin into a blend of color with the ground and closed his eyes against the whirling blend of shapes. The exposed skin of his neck burned from the punishing sun that was near overhead and he swallowed against the building saliva that heralded worse.

Driving his closed fist into his thigh, he drew in a deep breath to hold back any illness and forced himself upright. In the distance he could hear the chiming of blades engaging and the shouts of his friends. Drawing his own rapier before he even laid eyes on the fray, he pivoted and ran to join them.

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No. 2: TRUST ISSUES

Role Reversal

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“Two head for Calais,” whispered Aramis into their huddle by a stack of crates waiting to be loaded, keeping the bruised guards in his periphery. “Not you,” Aramis said without looking to Athos’ raised face where he leaned into Porthos’ side. He motioned with three fingers to pull Athos’ gaze. “I’m over here. Which only further proves you’re unfit to walk, forget attempting to ride a horse.”

“What do y’think they’re tellin’ ‘im,” grumbled Porthos, raising his head up to watch the cluster of guards making gestures and shouting at the harbormaster a few yards to their right.

“It won’t matter,” Aramis insisted, motioning at a barrel situated on a slight angle before the crates, “set him there, and move back.” He signaled to d’Artagnan to step further into the recess between two stacks opposite, shaded by some netting draped on the top. “Our orders are from the king, their papers are signed by Richelieu. We’ll prevail regardless of anything else those letters instruct.”

“I don’t like splittin’ up, whoever remains here has to deal with ‘em.”

“Hardly a pleasurable task,” Aramis shrugged, tugging off his right glove to prod again at the wound he’d cleaned where Athos had been struck by a winch, “but not an onerous one given the great disparity in our skills.”

“Athos has to stay. I don’t like only one of us left with ‘im.”

“M’fine,” Athos’ head dipped, “more than c’pable,” and he might’ve murmured something else toward his chest before he turned his head to where the guards still debated with the older man and sneered, “...them…”

A sound that was half snicker and half snort sounded from the narrow space between crates where d’Artagnan stood.

“You heard the man. We can deal with them.” Aramis smiled, dabbing with one hand and enclosing Athos’ questing hand with his other. “If Richelieu sent out his own guard, after we’d been ordered to the ports, then we’ve even more incentive to find those messengers and the missing papers first. That map said ‘hide in the city’ but the ship marked on there, the Astraea, sails from Calais.”

He dumped more water onto his handkerchief to clean the new beads of blood sliding down Athos’ temple.

“How long before they realize?” D’Artagnan crossed his arms and inclined his head in the direction of the group now out of his sight.

“Porthos’ sleight of hand?” Aramis smirked, glancing to view the pleased expression on Porthos’ features. “So long as the harbormaster keeps hold of those documents I doubt the guards will notice the paper Porthos slipped free.”

Athos frowned up at Aramis, his bottom lip curling in and pulling to the side as he mulled over either Aramis’ words or his own response.

“We have to find them first.” Continuing to make his case, Aramis evaluated Athos’ injuries, tilting his head and reexamining scrapes, all the while he spoke. “Richelieu claims the couriers also took a small sheaf from his desk ‘by mistake’ and if he’s to be believed they cannot pass into English hands. It may be a ploy – ”

“Or a trap,” grumbled Porthos, dropping a hand to steady Athos’ shoulder when he listed away from Aramis’ ministrations.

“Thank you,” acknowledged Aramis, “and yes, it may prove one. However, we’ve a chance to prevent most angles to his scheme by intercepting the messengers.” Pressing the folded cloth firmly to Athos’ temple he flicked his eyes to Porthos and then angled to view d’Artagnan. “They carry the king’s documents as well as Richelieu’s correspondence and the papers the cardinal claims went missing.”

“By ‘accident,’” complained d’Artagnan, “or so he says.”

“Precisely,” Aramis nodded, turning back to where Athos was hissing a noise of complaint and attempting to pry Aramis’ fingers from his scalp, “he may well hope we don’t catch up to them and then whatever plot he’s devised can be laid on the regiment’s doorstep.”

“Then why’s the Red Guard here?”

“And with a letter from Richelieu!” D’Artagnan glared at the gathered men, distractedly rubbing the darkening mark on his jaw.

“That I cannot guess, but our best chance is to have the truth from the emissaries. Before they can set sail.”

“Or disappear,” warned Porthos. “On their own,” he looked back over to the guards who now yelled and argued among themselves, gesturing to the ships, while the harbormaster waited, “or with their help…”

“You think they were sent to eliminate them?” D’Artagnan asked.

It didn’t make much sense that musketeers had been dispersed to several ports by the king, if Richelieu were then sending out his own guards. Unless it were for some alternate purpose, and it was possible the king and Treville were not aware Richelieu had issued additional orders.

“How would the king’s letters be delivered? Richelieu can’t mean to interfere with the king.” D’Artagnan guessed.

“They may not be meant to be delivered at all,” Aramis answered d’Artagnan without looking up from combing through Athos’ hair with his fingers to ensure there weren’t further cuts, “and then the cardinal can have someone to blame if the documents aren’t recovered.”

“Yeah, us,” suggested Porthos, crossing his arms.

“Enough.”

They all looked to Athos when he spoke but Aramis caught Athos’ hand before he could disturb his tending. Aramis didn’t believe Athos’ injury to be grave, but it warranted caution and limiting Athos from exerting himself. There was little choice in which of them would stay and who should continue on. As it was their time was limited and Aramis would soon have enough to contend with even if he were only to be focused on one of them.

“Take d’Artagnan.” He told Porthos, catching d’Artagnan’s eye with an expression that warned him against any objection. “Ride to Calais. We’ll head for Amiens, if they are hiding in the city we’ll find them.”

“You just don’t want t’search any more ships.”

Aramis wouldn’t even attempt to deny it, his legs still tricked him into believing the solid earth was swaying.

“God willing, no.” Aramis straightened his back, curving his bare hand over Athos’ neck to soothe the man whose unfocused glances shifted between them all. “Besides, it’s best I tend Athos.”

“Will he need stitches?” D’Artagnan asked, likely not considering moving until he’d confirmation.

“I’d like to put some on that slice they managed on his shoulder, yes,” Aramis squeezed gently on the nape of Athos’ neck, “and were he capable of stating it he’d assure you that it wasn’t your fault.”

D’Artagnan’s dark gaze flashed to him, before his eyes drifted down to Athos and softened by the time he met Aramis’ eyes again. The least Aramis could do was ease the tension building in the younger man, none of them would have been able to prevent the lucky cut the guard snuck into Athos’ doublet.

“Go…” Athos motioned his hand up towards Aramis, but it was clear to all of them he was in agreement with Aramis’ decision.

“You’ll need time to sneak back to the high road and our horses,” Aramis reasoned, “you’d best leave now.”

The hand Athos had been gesturing with began fumbling in the open folds of his doublet, poking at the linen and leather.

“Leave that, you’ll disturb the bandage.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” insisted Athos, tilting closer to where Porthos stood and hooking his thumb to peel the leather forward and tugging within.

Before Aramis could interfere he’d pulled free the letter from Treville bearing the king’s orders.

“Ah!” Aramis proclaimed upon realizing Athos’ intention; if they were to follow his plan, d’Artaganan and Porthos would have greater need of the orders than they would.

“Got a bit of blood on it,” Porthos observed, as he took the folded parchment from Athos’ loose grip.

“Adds to the authenticity,” shrugged Aramis, patting a hand on Athos’ shoulder and ignoring his glare. “Now, take the remaining time while they’re distracted to steal from here. If needed we’ll send word to Calais once we reach Amiens, otherwise we’ll expect you to join us there. Athos shouldn’t travel far in his condition.”

“I am – ”

“Accompanying me to Amiens, my friend,” Aramis cupped his hand to the back of Athos’ head and waited for his eyes to meet his, he settled for a close approximation, “that rigging nearly cracked your skull. You will not be free of my escort for some time yet.”

“Good thing he’s so fond of yer company then,” Porthos tapped at Athos’ opposite shoulder, before straightening slowly, and moving with purpose, “you take care.” He nodded to Aramis, reaching to clasp the hand he offered before glancing at d’Artagnan, “c’mon, no sudden movements, and keep to the cargo stacks. You follow the line of the jetty and I’ll work my way on the opposite side to the road.”

D’Artagnan nodded, but kept his eyes on Athos. A frown firmly in place.

“He’ll have the best care, whether he wants it or not,” teased Aramis, before sobering when he detected lingering guilt shadowing the younger man’s feature, “you have my word.”

“I’m not doubting you.”

“M’fine...go,” ordered Athos, the grimace on his face might have been his attempt to offer d’Artagnan his version of encouragement. “Go.”

“Be careful,” d’Artagnan’s voice was higher than a whisper, but still low as he rushed the words and tensed to depart, “we’ll see you in Amiens.”

Porthos, Aramis noted, had already slipped from their side and he caught him edging past a canvas covered cart.

“Good luck,” he glanced over to the cluster of red guards and made a waving motion to d’Artagnan when one of them turned back to the harbormaster.

“Up to us to keep the ruse,” Aramis spoke toward the crate that Porthos had been stood behind as he talked to Athos, “help them put as many leagues as they can between them and the guards.”

“Could be...more.”

“Hmm?” Aramis glanced down to press the cloth firmer into Athos’ temple, before angling to speak in the direction of d’Artagnan’s former place. “It’s possible. Richelieu’s some additional plot in this. Whatever he’s sent to Henriette Marie will be intended to make it into her hands. The documents he claims are missing? These guards have some role in that.”

“More at Calais...on the road.”

He shrugged, letting his eyes drift over Athos before he twisted to view the group of guards with the harbormaster.

“Possible, but as you’re my most pressing responsibility I am trusting that our brothers can handle themselves.” Athos’ chin pushed further into his chest and Aramis hissed at the darkened patch staining the strands. He’d made the decisions, and he would defend them regardless of the outcome; he believed in their friends and he knew if Athos were uninjured he would have considerably less worry. He’d be the one leading the mission now, and he’d be the one to determine when Athos was recovered. “Durant and Alarie were sent to Calais, they’ll be of aid, but we need to handle these men.”

Aramis kept up moving and speaking in different directions in the same pattern that he’d done before Porthos and d’Artagnan departed.

“I’d prefer to stitch this before we leave,” he tugged at the fabric over the cut on Athos’ shoulder, encouraged to see it had slowed. “Although I’d settle for wrapping it if we can slip these interlopers.”

“Amis.”

“Hmm?”

“Amiens, we should,” Athos glanced at the warehouse over his shoulder rather than at his face, but he counted the effort, “make for the city.”

“Not until I’ve satisfied myself,” Aramis waggled his finger at him, smiling gently to soften the declaration, “that you can travel to the city.”

Aramis smiled, well accustomed to the glare directed at him – at least vaguely in his direction.They had a minor disagreement over Aramis’ ministrations without speaking before Athos finally conceded and leaned his back against the piled crates. His eyes were squinting, the wrinkles at the corners the only outward indication of how much pain the wound would be causing him. The pain in Aramis’ own head was only just ebbing from having been aboard the ships, he could empathize with how badly Athos must feel. He’d held off stitching to observe how much swelling might occur.

In the midst of the guards protests and loud remarks on their duties, the harbormaster’s voice raised over their complaints. Aramis was trying not to watch as he worked; trying not to draw scrutiny to them, and risk anyone noticing their number had shrunk.

“Musketeers!”

Aramis straightened at the address, keeping his limbs loose to acknowledge he’d heard but demonstrating unhurriedness toward obedience. They were not accountable to the guards, and he flicked his eyes over the harbormaster’s shoulder as he hurriedly approached.

“I’ve a port to run, gentlemen,” the stern man stopped within inches of Aramis’ shoulder, brow furrowed with his annoyance on skin that resembled leather for all his years exposed to the sun and sea spray, “not fights to adjudge. The king may have ordered us closed, but you’ve no business delaying matters. You’ve taken too long already to sort your affairs. This harbor should be busy with boats and in the midst of them I’ve now brawling soldiers!”

Aramis swallowed back a response of ‘they started it’ and kept his silence, as it was to him to negotiate on behalf of Athos and himself.

On most occasions their presence here was eventful, but they rarely caused the harbormaster significant troubles or stopped his work for a large portion of the day. Mostly. Gratitude of Porthos’ absence washed over him as it could call to mind an incident of citrus, fruits, tea, and vegetables dumped onto the quay with several chickens fluttering in their wake. As well as the sheep. And the goat, he distinctly remembered the goat. He grimaced against a smirk, hoping that the harbormaster did not also recall the goat.

“If I may, Jacques,” he leaned on their familiarity with the man, after years of encountering him in their duties at Le Harve, “our orders, which are directly from the king’s mouth, as you saw in Captain Treville’s missive are to secure the messengers. We were merely conducting a search of the vessels when the cardinal’s men chose to interfere. Violently,” he gestured to Athos’ slouched seat on the barrel, “I might add.”

“I don’t care which men do what, so long as the port opens before 3pm. Am I understood?”

“It would be our pleasure to approve that, as it falls to us and not the cardinal’s men, but we’ve a few remaining ships to search,” Aramis dreaded this next part, but leadership came with responsibility and it was to him to take charge of matters, “and Athos cannot do so in his condition. He’ll keep an eye from here.”

“Aramis – ”

“Athos, leave it to us, yes?” He winked at the seated man, willing him not to contest his loose cover of where d’Artagnan and Porthos were. “We’ll make quick work of it.”

“You’ve half an hour at most,” warned the harbormaster, turning to push a sack atop one of the crate to make space for himself to perch next to Athos, “the governor’s on his way. None of you leave until he’s satisfied, orders or no.”

“Fine with me,” Aramis smiled, a lightness to his step in counter to the heaviness in his stomach at having to board yet another damned ship, “with any luck we’ll find our men on these last ships and all travel may resume.”

“Off with you then,” grumbled Jacques, an irritated nudge of his chin before he leaned to help Athos push the cloth back against his temple. “Here, that needs more pressure.”

Were they not reliant on the convenience of Athos being favored by the hardbormaster Aramis would be tempted to admit it was Athos who’d cut the net supporting the cargo all those years ago. He and Porthos had been responsible for the chickens. And the sheep. Porthos had been solely to blame for the goat. And the hole it had nipped from the hem of Aramis’ cloak.

Nodding at Athos, he trusted the harbormaster to keep the guards in line until his search concluded. He sent a quick prayer that he’d manage to remain free of illness and upright absent Porthos’ support for these last few. Sneaking a glance in his periphery he noted the red guards had drifted to seat themselves within the shade of one of the warehouses, the ruffian who’d injured Athos kicking at a stack of burlap to toss himself onto. Satisfied that none of the guards were yet questioning where their other two were, he backed towards the next ship.

“We shall give no further challenge, unless called to defend ourselves.”

Spreading his hands before him, he smiled at Athos, trusting he’d keep the harbormaster occupied either through his injury or a distraction of words, or both, while Aramis kept up their ruse. His respite on land, and in the shade of the stacked cargo, had soothed his stomach. While he doubted the men would be found on the remaining vessels, he intended to make a quick, though thorough investigation. He glanced over his shoulder, grateful for his hat protecting him from the sun’s unrelenting rays, to check his proximity to the end of the gangway before calling back over.

“And...while we await the governor, might I impose on you for use of your office to tend my dear friend’s shoulder?”

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No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | “I warned you.”

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“This way,” Aramis’ hand cupped Athos’ elbow to tug him further west along the Rue des Trois Cailloux, “I think that’s him, by the poulter, up ahead.”

Athos was alert, but slow in his steps. They lumbered along, trailing the man they believed the king’s messenger with Athos shuffling into him and drifting away like a rowboat tethered to the dock. Aramis much preferred to be the fixed point in that analogy, his own stomach had nearly rebelled when he’d disembarked from the final ship at Le Harve. Thankfully the governor much preferred the Musketeers to the Red Guards overall and showed them favor despite their disheveled and straggly appearance. Between Athos’ wounds and Aramis’ pallor at navigating the docked ships they’d hardly represented the regiment as exemplars of the king’s favored soldiers.

In the end, the governor had detained the guard while granting Athos and him leave to depart for Amiens. Aramis had requested the guards be held until sundown if possible, and secured assurance that it would be done. He’d request Treville write to the man in both gratitude and clarification once they’d returned to Paris.

That meant successfully detaining the emissaries and thwarting whatever scheme the cardinal had set in motion.

As they progressed down the street Athos would focus on Aramis for a moment, only to let his eyes track to the side to follow a vendor’s cart rolling past, or the rush of children running to the next stall. Keeping a watch on him mostly through the corner of his eye Aramis had divided his gaze between checking on his friend and remaining fixed upon their quarry.

Aramis had caught the man’s profile when they’d emerged from stabling their horses after a hot, and rather miserable ride from Le Harve. The thick, oppressive heat had little chance to abate with two of them riding astride Aramis’ mare. He’d judged it best not to risk Athos tumbling off his own horse for their ride to Amiens. Even at a walking pace such a fall could prove disastrous.

His only consolation was that before they’d left the port Athos had been sick on the boots of the man who’d caused his injury. A newer member of the Red Guards and the one who’d caused the rigging to strike Athos, Aramis had been most amused at the accidental revenge. He’d also been satisfied that Athos had little left within him that would put Aramis at risk of a repeat during their travels. Regardless he’d ensured both of them had full water-skins before they’d departed for Amiens.

It had been a stroke of fortune or an odd slice of fate that Aramis had spotted the profile of a man who resembled the emissaries they’d seen in Paris. He’d slipped his arm through Athos’ and pursued the man through several allies and lanes before they’d turned onto the city’s main shopping street. The market had been noisy with livestock, crowds of twos and threes haggling over produce and examining candles before making their offers. Excited children had nearly tripped Athos in their rush to observe a fishmonger at work.

“I’m almost certain,” whispered Aramis, although they were several yards and stalls down the street from the man, “what luck to have found him so quickly. The other can’t be far, and he might be heading back to wherever they have chosen to ‘hide in the city’ as that paper directed.”

“Too easy.”

“You believe so? They may have counted on us following the others to Calais. The paper gave no dates or times.”

“Why specify then...to Calais?” Athos walked at a pace more akin to an elder gentleman, but he didn’t stumble and he moved as Aramis directed them. He’d wince and squint as the noises of the crowds rose, or his head pained him by nature of just the wound, but he kept moving. And he kept on his feet. “They’d have to depart...there eventually…”

“Or double-back to Le Harve from here.” Aramis hummed as they walked, dragging the back of his glove over his brow. The leather did little to mop the sweat gathering under the brim of his hat. The sun was lowering with the later afternoon, but the heat had barely lessened. “Although it is odd to direct the intended recipient or readers to ‘hide in the city’ and also mark Calais as a specific port. Then again, the guards carried that paper, we’ve no means to divine the intended recipients or the meaning of the precise instructions.”

“Something...is off…”

“More than one thing, my friend,” agreed Aramis, but there was nothing to gain by abandoning the only lead they had. He continued to guide them along the street, pausing to view a stall or examine some of the vendors wares in case the man took note of their meandering pace trailing after him. “If we return to Paris without the messengers, or the papers, Richelieu will be able to spin any tale he wishes. We need some tangible proof of our pursuit, or the letters themselves to absolve the regiment.” In his periphery he saw Athos incline his head in agreement with his theory. “We’ll follow him, see what business he’s about. Little else we can do.”

He felt Athos shrug and he continued to keep pace beside him as Aramis slowed to wait by a chandler’s stall as the messenger they tracked paused at the corner of Rue des Vergeaux.

“Shall we continue?”

Athos tilted his torso forward with a sweep of his hand, indicating Aramis to lead their way. Or guide it, rather. Athos would fall behind if Aramis were not slowing his own pace to match his friend’s. Every few steps their shoulders brushed and Aramis’ hand would encircle Athos’ arm to reorient him while he kept his eyes on their target.

“That’s the ‘Maison du Sagittaire’...quite the fanciful facade for a cloth merchant’s store. I admired it the last time I visited this city.”

He glanced at that building, wondering if the emissary would enter the cloth merchant’s store; what other purpose might the cardinal have tasked these men. The two large bays offered a glimpse of rolls of dark wool, and bolts of rich colored wine and navy brocades, next to bright silks draped to display their luster. The interior stock visible through the high arched windows was enticing as the allegorical sculptures adorning the white stone facade.

“I passed a lovely afternoon explaining some of the sculptures: Affliction and Piety.”

“Appropriate before...tempting your companion to sin…”

“A gentleman, and a musketeer, should not disclose the details of such affairs.”

“Naturally. Where is – ”

“Standing in place, he’s looking into the left window.”

“What business...would Richelieu have with a cloth merchant?”

“What business does Richelieu have with anyone? Perhaps he’s a spy in Bultel’s employ.”

“Blutel?”

“The cloth merchant, Athos. Quite wealthy. He’s a favored supplier to my patroness.”

The edges of Athos’ eyes, crinkled with his pains, smoothed momentarily to analyze Aramis’ face. Aramis lifted one shoulder with the quirk of his lips, unrepentant of his social prowess.

“Come, he’s moving again.”

“Pity, I would've enjoyed perusing the various cloth; he’s quite the selection of imported fabrics. We might’ve had you fitted for a new doublet to fortify our ruse.”

“Or the proprietor,” Athos paused, but Aramis could not discern if it was for effect or owed to his injury delaying his thoughts, “and your lady friend’s acquaintance, might recall who you were.”

“True,” admitted Aramis, smirking over at Athos, before training his eyes on the messenger’s progress, “he would remember me.”

Allowing Athos to speculate, he tapped his knuckles to Athos’ bicep.

“He’s coming back this way, here,” turning his back to the street he rummaged in his doublet for the paper Porthos had procured from the red guards, “look at this, or appear to, so long as you seem engaged he should pay us no mind.”

Athos checked over Aramis’ shoulder once the man had crossed behind him and passed several yards further back to the market street. He clenched his fist in an effort not to rub at his scalp, and nodded to Aramis.

“He’s passed us.”

“There’s a map on this corner,” Aramis’ brows drew closer together, and he lifted the page to display the referenced piece.

“Of the city?”

“I’m not certain, I don’t believe so...the Somme isn’t depicted here.”

“He’ll be near an intersection if we don’t pursue.”

“To be examined,” Aramis said, turning and tucking the paper away, “later.”

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“Less crowded,” warned Athos, as their target turned north around another corner, “we’ll be more noticeable.”

“Together we shall succeed or fail, my friend.” Aramis glanced about the bustling market street, the women harried as they gathered their necessities and the men hefting and sorting inventory in and out of stalls. Athos had been following their conversation, if a bit grumpy owed to the heat or the strike to his head, but Aramis didn’t trust him to remain focused on his own. “I can’t leave you, and I’d rather you watching my back than awaiting my return.”

“We should observe him.”

“That is my intention, yes,” Aramis craned his neck to view the corner around a man shouldering a sack of wheat crossed their path. “If that street is more sparsely populated we may need to separate.”

Taking the turn onto the next street close to the brick edge of the first building they stuck to the shadows to obscure them as much as provide respite from the lowering sun. The later afternoon had provided more shade, but the city streets and facades still teemed with residual heat.

“Only observe,” advised Athos, stepping toward the edge of a graystoned building on the east side of the street.

“Not yet,” Aramis tightened his grip on Athos’ upper arm, pulling him closer into his side as they moved down the buildings and edged them toward the arch of a closed door.

The street itself was broad, and there were fewer pedestrians ambling through, and most headed south toward the busy market street, paying little mind to them in their doorway. The man they trailed stopped to tilt his head back and followed the length of the polygonal tower up to the pointed top of the red bricked hotel. He studied it for a few moments, causing Aramis to nudge Athos into an alcove of the doorway under a sign for the cordwainer.

“Must be closed today,” Aramis peered through the half-shuttered windows, noting the cut leather lying on the table in an otherwise unoccupied store.

Athos sighed out his dissatisfaction at the chosen observation point.

The hotel was across from the man they tracked was wider, and unlike the merchant’s building it bore no sculptures, no Sagittarius guarded its arches. The Gothic tower poked at the sky and was admittedly a focal point of the street, but other than a meeting to be held within he could discern no reason for the man to stare for so long.

“What is he waiting for?”

“Admiring the architecture?” Athos suggested in a tone reminiscent of his well-known, bored detachment.

Shouldering Athos further into the recess of the arched doorway, Aramis kept his tone as light as the pressure he used to maneuver his friend.

“Possibly.”

Aramis adjusted his observation as he spoke, watching the man turn on his heel and move to the opposite side of the street. His passage necessitated Aramis stepping further out as he approached a doorway a few doors down from where they were ensconced.

“He’s entered a small building,” Aramis stepped backward, keeping Athos and the man’s retreating back in his range of sight as he leaned further to see the messenger, “four doors from this one. Come on.”

“I wouldn't.”

“We’ve no other leads, Athos,” declared Aramis, noting to himself that he would be at the door the man had entered within three more steps.

“We’d do better to observe him.”

“It’s dark in there, quiet,” Aramis observed, flattening his back to the right of the front window, and blinking against a change of light in the front room before he declared, “I think he’s gone out the back!”

Without waiting for Athos’ input he reached for the handle and shoved open the door to move inside the darkened house. Since they were on the eastern side of the street the light filtered in from behind and did little to illuminate the space. The light that there was from the back exit was fading like a rapid snuff of a candle as the thick door banged closed.

“Wait!”

Aramis’ intent to pursue was drawn up short by the contents of the table even before Athos had cried out. There were scattered papers visible, and as Athos moved from the door-frame a heel of a knife was visible under one page. The table and a few chairs were in the front room but it was otherwise devoid of furniture. The hearth was empty and looked to have been unlit for some weeks judging by the debris cobbled around the grate.

Aramis motioned Athos to prop the door for more light and bent over the scarred wood of the table to shift the papers into order. Removing his gloves he made a semblance of a pile, revealing an ornately carved handle. Intrigued, and with such a fine item seemingly out of place he reached for the blade.

“Stop!”

“Quick call the guards!”

“Look, look here – they’ve murdered him!”

“Arrest them!”

“I warned you,” Athos’ even voice cut through the shouts and accusations as he stepped closer and withdrew his pistol.

In the heat and the dark it took a moment for Aramis to realize the handle was wet and sticky with the same blood he observed on the blade. His own fingers had made marks on the carved side and he thumbed over the pointed ridges near the cross-guard of the knife. Three pointed ridges. Three chevrons.

He might’ve groaned aloud if he didn’t feel so much like burying the blade in his own thigh. Although he would’ve much preferred to drive the bloody weapon into the space where the heart was rumored to be missing from its owner.

“Send for the bailiff, quickly!”

“Peace!” Aramis called, stepping alongside Athos, with the knife pointed to the floor. “Peace! We’re musketeers on the king’s business.”

“These men are not of the Musketeers,” bellowed a newcomer, “I’d swear to it.”

Aramis nearly leveled the bloody knife at the guard in his outrage. The man was not one he recognized but he bore the dress of the cardinal’s men and he marched into the room as if he commanded the entirety of the Red Guards.

Instead of a bladed weapon he drew a signed paper that could prove equally fatal to him and Athos.

“I’ve orders from Richelieu, and I do not recognize these men as member’s of the king’s regiment.”

“We don’t recognize you!” Aramis insisted, presuming Athos would have addressed the man had he known him at all. “Your acquaintance, or lack of, is hardly proof of anything.”

“Let the local watch take them into custody,” ordered the man, without acknowledging Aramis had spoken. “These men have murdered an emissary of the king.”

As more men crowded the small room, Aramis reached for his own pistol.

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Chapter Text

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No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS

Sensory Deprivation

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“These men murdered an emissary of the king with the very blade that man holds!”

Athos breathed a long exhale into the silent room. The darkness amplifying the sound. He attempted to focus on orienting himself to the windowless room rather than being distracted by the recollected voices.

A man of considerable patience, Athos had done little to measure the passage of time since he’d been forced into the tiny cell

The messenger they’d tracked was dead.

Convenient for the Red Guards.

Very inconvenient for them.

“I know that weapon. Such a decorated pistol belongs to Aramis, of the king’s musketeers; he’s fond of flamboyant decoration to himself and his weaponry. These men are attempting, poorly, to disguise as musketeers.”

Aramis had been livid at the accusation and implication that he’d stolen his own weapon and was impersonating himself. Athos had believed Aramis would’ve stuck the bloodied weapon into his accuser if it hadn’t been taken from him. As evidence.

Evidence to murder, of which they now stood accused.

Along with theft.

Spying.

And when Aramis threatened the unknown guard with a could be considered a duel he had edged into breaking the law against the practice.

If they were guilty of breaking any law it would be Aramis’ temper getting the best of him during the confusion of their arrest leading to a near challenge. A matter Treville could clarify, or his orders would have if they’d not given them to Porthos and d’Artagnan.

Now they had the task of proving not only that they were innocent of all that they stood accused, but that they were, in fact, the men they claimed to be. A task made more difficult when the guard who’d charged them with murder had produced orders from Richelieu calling for the detainment of two spies. Two spies that this guard had claimed were him and Aramis.

Richelieu’s spies were numerous. They were by their nature anonymous. There were a few known to them, and those that they were aware of they took care to avoid.

He’d located the single cot in the room by tripping over the single, blessedly, empty bucket. Slouching back he pressed more weight into the rough wall, every bump and uneven point poking through the thin layer of his shirt. Tilting his head back he gingerly tested the surface, strands catching and lifting with the unevenness of the stones before he let the wall take some of the weight from his neck.

The side of his head throbbed, the pressure hadn’t let up since he’d first caught the metal winch to the side of his face. Were it winter he’d shove his head beneath a frozen lake, or settle for the bucket he set outside his window for his unconventional ablutions some mornings. Except they were not in winter, the season held no coolness let alone ice; every day was a stifling, burning, misery.

He’d find no relief in the weather.

Aramis had accomplished what he could, going so far as to fashion cold compresses from a rushing river that held some coldness in its ripples despite the oppressive heat. They’d made a few stops along the ride to Amiens, but Aramis had only ‘permitted’ him to dismount during one of their longer respites.

The lack of sight didn’t bother him, but the absence of sound did.

Aramis had first threatened, then argued, then reasoned, and finally insisted that a messenger be sent to Paris to query with Treville.

The inlaid pistol the guard referenced had been taken from him along with all of their weaponry before they left the place of their arrest. None of their explanations had withstood the accusation of the unknown guard: he held a letter in the cardinal’s hand. In contrast Aramis had held a bloody knife; a ‘stolen’ knife that bore the Coat of Arms of the House of Plessis de Richelieu.

“Probably thought to conceal the deed, but one of them is hurt.”

That had been the second guard, there had been two of them and he and Aramis recognized neither man. Dressed as Richelieu’s Red Guards they’d produced their orders and a body.

The body of the messenger they’d tracked.

There’d been two guards here; four had been at Le Harve.

His injury made it hard to concentrate on anything. Aramis had been determined that they remain together, but he’d been ignored. Insulted as well. Athos gave him a measure of credit for acquiescing to the men of the watch without fighting; there had been too many to mount an escape.

Athos recognized that his own state would have hampered any attempt to fight their way free. Even if he could’ve created the opening for Aramis to flee, his friend would not have escaped with him in the condition he was.

“Captain Treville will not only vouch for us, but he’ll see you called to account for this.”

“So says the murdering spy pretending to be a musketeer.”

Aramis had bristled at that, and Athos believed for a moment he would fire the named weapon directly between the eyes of the man accusing him of theft. Impersonation. Worse, murder.

“We are musketeers! Bring us to the bailiff, he knows us.”

That might have worked, they had aided the bailiff here before, although it was arguable how memorable they would have been to him. It would have been worth discovering, had they not learned that the prior bailiff of the city had been replaced just shy of a fortnight prior.

Some days the world pushed its will on a man with such force he would wish to retreat; most days Athos fought against that impulse. Currently he slouched lower on the creaking cot and strained to hear Aramis’ voice from elsewhere in the tower.

Any voice.

The room he’d been brought to muffled the outside sounds, within the building and any from the street.

In his solitude it was impossible to stop the barrage of voices, impressions of the afternoon filled the silence of the room for him to sort and review. His head was pained, but his mind still strained to work through the previous few hours.

The dark space didn’t give him a clue to the time, but the sun had set by the time they’d been brought to the large belfry tower. Its solid square imprint a dominating feature of the public space in the city. Several floors in height the tower imposed itself on the square and there were few windows under the bell chamber.

The bells should have indicated the hour, but whenever they sounded the deep clangs overwhelmed him and he’d no opportunity to count their number. Ringing in his ears and reverberating down his spine they resounded through the room and made him feel as if the clapper were striking against his own skull. He imagined his fingernails were stained with the dried blood he’d disturbed when the first round sounded overhead. Rational thought was subsumed in favor of clawing at his scalp in desperation for the pain to lessen. His hands had done little to shield him from the domineering noise, and his head ached with the echoes long after the last bell had faded.

“Nonsense! For one, Athos is too handsome to be English. We’re no spies!”

He’d been incredulous at Aramis’ increasingly wild defenses. Given how the guard continued to provoke him, Athos was not surprised that Aramis chased the bait more often than he tried diplomacy. His attempts at humor fell flat among the assembled men; although, Athos couldn’t blame them when there was arguably a dead emissary of the king in the alley.

Their difficulties were numerous. Absent any missives or orders of their own, they were reliant on their dress, speech, and weaponry. All of which were compromised. Their appearance, wounded and exhausted, did not distinguish them from the average citizen, save for their dress which could be argued was not their own.

A man as typically as well-groomed as Aramis was now unkempt in appearance, having suffered from his search of the ships and the unyielding heat on their journey to the city. They’d caught sight of the messenger on their arrival to the city, almost immediately, after stabling their mounts and had no time to rest. Aramis had cleaned up his wounds and bandaging as best as he’d been able at Le Harve, swapping the cloth around his head on one of their stops when it had grown too saturated with sweat and crusted blood. Their appearance would be overlooked for soldiers, but they currently stood accused of impersonating musketeers.

Their weapons, clearly of quality, could also be used against them. Even pistols as unique as Aramis’ served as an accusation when it was charged that he’d stolen them. One could not argue they were not stolen from oneself when one’s own identity was suspect. The same was true for their insignia of the regiment.

Standing accused of murder, holding a weapon belonging to Richelieu, it was more difficult to argue that they were the musketeers they claimed to be. Especially when a red guard had produced a document claiming to be searching for two spies written in the cardinal’s hand.

Rather conveniently he and Aramis fit that description more readily than their own identities.

“How would we have stolen the clothing, mounts, and accouterments of two musketeers without being pursued by the regiment?”

“Perhaps because they weren’t as skilled as their fame purports them to be?”

Aramis had been tense before the insult, but Athos had to grab his arm at that to prevent an altercation prior to their imminent arrest. Caught holding a blood-stained weapon belonging to Richelieu, with a dead man yards from where they were discovered, and absent any evidence that they did not kill the messenger, they were at a disadvantage.

Athos had provided little support to their defense, finding he could muster neither the condescending speech his ancestral station afforded him, nor the authoritative certainty of a soldier in the king’s regiment. Any words were slow move from his mind to his mouth, much less well-crafted and articulate thoughts.

Their best hope would be Porthos and d’Artagnan’s arrival in the city, with their original orders and the ability to identify them. Otherwise word needed to be sent to Paris and a document provided from Treville for their absolution. He may even come himself, were he to hear of the knife that implied cardinal’s involvement.

The earliest they’d be brought before the magistrate would be in the morning, and with the dawn the chance of d’Artagnan and Porthos arriving at the city increased. Failing that, they’d need to petition for word of their arrest to be sent to Paris so that proof of their identity and their innocence could be given. There was the option, should Aramis consent, of calling upon Aramis’ mistress to verify his identity; but, considering she sounded to be of a high-born status she may be disinclined to admit their acquaintance.

His friends often deferred to him to speak for their group, but in his current state his thoughts were muddled. Quick to come into his mind, slow to be sorted, and some flashed like a streak of lightning and dissolved away with the same speed. He mulled over the possibilities of who had murdered the messenger, why it had been done, and attempted to discern what their options would be for a resolution.

A resolution that would not involve injurious consequences for him or Aramis.

The idea weighed on Athos so heavily that he tilted forward without being conscious of the motion until he’d braced his elbows on his knees to cradle his head.

“If you would listen to reason, we could prove – ”

“You’ll have your say when you’re brought to the Malmaison.”

“Where are you taking him. Athos!”

He’d heard Aramis protesting and questioning their guards all the while he was led deeper into the tower, to the small room that now served as his cell. He’d caught a glimpse of the arched ceiling and the exposed brick before he was shoved forward and the heavy door bolted into place.

No light permeated the space when he’d shuffled toward the cot he observed in the brief light of the lantern.

The bucket clattering and his curse were the only sounds until the large bells struck overhead. Then he’d wished all sounds would cease.

In the privacy of his own mind he confessed he missed Aramis’ random, one-sided chatter. As he was wounded Aramis had less expectation than usual for a reply and had filled the silence with all manner of distraction. From complaints, to encouragements, to wild conjecture, Aramis had provided an appropriate measure of discussion as they traveled.

He’d experience with Athos’ temperament at his most relaxed and when ill-tempered, and adjusted accordingly. Mostly. Aramis had his fair share of grievances to air, but remained considerate of Athos’ ailments all the while he shared his recounting of their ill fortune thus far.

Athos rubbed at his beard at the thought of what his friend would have to say now. Theft, murder, and conspiracy carried far greater penalty for a consequence than a strike to the head or a bit of sickness at sea.

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Chapter Text

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No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve

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“Oh, do tell me that was empty.”

Athos smirked into the dark, waiting a beat before he confirmed that the bucket Aramis kicked over was as empty as it had been when he’d been confined to the room. With the confirmation there was a scraping noise to indicate Aramis had picked it up before he continued on his tour of the tiny room.

“How is your head?” He inquired moving to Athos’ right, from what he could distinguish from the shuffling grit under Aramis’ boots.

He made an inarticulate response in kind, leaving it to Aramis to interpret the sound and unsure himself of how he felt. Were there any light he’d convey his mood with a glance.

“That well, hmm? Well, at least you no longer have to miss me…”

So proclaiming, the cot vibrated when Aramis’ boot toed against the leg. The noise of the bucket being set on the floor clattered as Aramis’ hand patted along the cot until he found his thigh. Between his voice and lack of effort to mask his movements, Athos didn’t need his sight to realize Aramis’ intent.

He raised his hand to guide Aramis to sit next to him, and prevent his back from scraping the brick.

“Ah, minimal expense given to prisoners,” Aramis patted at the top of his leg, assuring himself of Athos’ location, while also checking for resources, “no blanket? I’ll venture to guess we’ve been granted no pillow either…”

Athos let out a snort of breath in response.

Given their lack of comforts he couldn’t begrudge Aramis shifting closer to bring them shoulder to shoulder. That closeness also allowed him to detect the low grunt Aramis let slip when he finally settled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re tense.”

“Maybe I don’t care for the dark?”

“That would be more believable if I’d not been on several campaigns with you,” Athos observed, noting that Aramis’ frame hadn’t relaxed despite his attempt at levity.

“Small enclosures make me nervous?”

“Shall I point out all the instances that disprove that?”

Aramis’ shoulders shifted, then he shrugged, and his boots scraped the floor in a slow shuffle.

“I’m cold.”

Athos let out a sigh but leaned away briefly to bring his arm up and around Aramis to pull him closer. He’d no complaints about the coolness of the room after such a rather unpleasantly hot day, but then he’d been acclimating to this space for some time now. Or so he believed. He’d still no inkling of the time passed since he’d been locked into the room.

“And now?”

Aramis settled more weight against him, declaring he’d need to check Athos’ head before Athos interrupted him to request an answer to his inquiry first.

“We had a discussion. I politely introduced myself, and was given no names in return.” Aramis explained this with a tone unique to himself, critical of the lack of adherence to civil behavior while demonstrating mild disbelief of the refusal of manners. “Neither of the red guards identified themselves, and neither did they support sending word to Treville.”

He hissed when he misjudged how far from the wall his head was when he tipped it back. Athos could tell he’d moved by the increased pressure along his arm, but wasn’t able to prevent the bump. On balance he doubted a slight knock to Aramis’ head was on par with the bone scraping strike that had nearly stolen his feet from him on the ship.

“They can’t mean to leave him unaware when it involves the regiment. Even if they don’t believe us to be who we’ve claimed, they’d be expected to alert him of ‘impostors’ and the ‘recovered’ property.”

“Not according to,” Aramis rolled his outer shoulder, an irritated sound interrupting his thoughts before he continued, “those two guards. They’ve claimed they’ll be alerting the cardinal to the murder – ”

“Not the king?”

“Not the king. They believe Richelieu can clearly be trusted with such matters.” Aramis’ hair brushed his cheek when he nodded in response to Athos’ scoff, and his arm moved to gesture. “Yes, my sentiments precisely. They’ve informed the watch it’s a matter for the magistrate to sort when we’re to be charged. Oh, they’re still compiling those, by the way...as I saw fit to accuse the taller one, the one with the scraggly beard? I informed him that he was obstructing the king’s men and he’d be the one brought to account for that come the morning. To which we may have disagreed...and there might have been a challenge issued...”

“Aramis.”

“He struck me first, and naturally I couldn’t allow that to go unanswered.”

“Naturally,” Athos smirked to himself despite keeping his tone bland.

“You would’ve punched him too if you’d heard some of the accusations, the slander, hurled at me – at the regiment. The red guards can rarely be accused of any intellectual achievements, but these two are particularly dull. And vindictive.”

Aramis’ arm gestured again, and Athos’ slowed thoughts delivered an idea to him for the motion of his friend’s arm. A reason he did not favor.

“He responded in kind?”

“I think my lip is split…”

“Is that the only place he struck?”

“He delivered a rather harsh blow to my chest,” Aramis muttered, his arm moving again, “and my chin. Men like him are always braver when their opponent is being prevented from striking equal blows.”

“A known shortcoming of many of Richelieu’s men.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I somehow think the cardinal believes that an advantage among his recruits.”

“And yet Treville’s men would all stand with him were there no reward or order and he’d have but to ask.”

“Without question.” Aramis confirmed the volume of his voice changed with the direction of his head as he glanced around ineffectually in the dark of their confinement. “But here we sit...”

“For now.” Athos ran his left hand over the empty portion on the bed further from Aramis judging there would not be enough space for both of them to lay down. “If you wish to sleep…?”

“I’m perfectly content where I am,” Aramis nudged his shoulder and reached his own hand up to tap at Athos’ arm around him, “but your head still needs tending. No doubt they demonstrated little concern for your injuries.”

That much he could recall, grateful Aramis had taken time to clean and dress the cut to his shoulder at Le Harve. Thus far Aramis hadn’t stitched the damage to his head, declaring what they all knew – head wounds bled profusely – and that he preferred to wait until he knew the extent of the swelling. While he believed Aramis would make the attempt to stitch one of them in the dark if the wound necessitated such, he expected – and knew from the lack of bleeding – that the state of his scalp was not dire. At least not from the cut.

“We’ve no light.”

“Athos, please,” Aramis turned, the building warmth disappearing and allowing a bit of chill to pass between them, “do you believe for a moment that I couldn’t treat any one of you blindfolded?”

“I believe you’d have better luck with some light, or I would.”

“Turn this way, please.” Aramis instructed before the cot shifted as he braced his left hand on Athos’ shin when he drew one leg up to lay between them and Aramis turned. “I am of sound mind, and promise not to rip out any stitches. And...as you’ve had no chance to slip anything into my drink…”

“Will you never let that go?”

“Never,” promised Aramis. “For one, since we both survived that fateful night, it makes a remarkable tale to tell now.” After some rustling sounds of cloth and his boot dragging through the debris on the floor Aramis brought both hands to Athos’ upper arms. “Secondly, Porthos shall never let us forget what we put him through. We might as well embrace the story so he doesn’t embellish it beyond all recognition.”

Aramis squeezed his fingers to grip just under Athos’ shoulders, before sliding his hands to find the sides of Athos’ neck. He set his left hand against the side of his neck and slid the fingertips of his right to the edge of the bandages he’d placed over the cut that had angled off his collar bone.

“Feels dry, but as there are no windows it’ll have to wait until they bring us food or bring us out of here. I did petition for the opportunity to treat you.”

“Denied?”

“As readily as every other request.”

“I was not allowed to have any needles or bandaging, but they did permit me to keep this,” the pads of his fingers drifted off the thin cloth covering his cut. Aramis’ hand pushed at his leg before he felt the cot absorb the groping motion before Aramis made a wordless noise to signal his victory. The light brush of air in front of his face let him know that Aramis had brought his hand back up to ‘show’ him something were it not dark between them. “Thankfully I had the salve tucked in my doublet for ready retrieval.”

“You’re not wearing it,” Athos observed, the lack of the outer clothing obvious from where Aramis was pressed against him in his thin shirtsleeves.

“They took it from me, same as you,” Aramis kept his left hand on Athos, and moved the salve again, “along with weapons, pauldrons, gloves, and my sash...as though I could…” he paused, the slight motion of his torso indicating to Athos that he’d moved his head, “...I suppose it’s fair enough, I’ve secreted an item or two there on occasion. Since they took most everything else I tucked this in my boot, as we’ve been graciously allowed to keep them.”

Athos had been allowed to keep little more than Aramis. His doublet and hat having been collected along with his weapons, belts, and powder before being placed in the cell. Unlike Aramis’ sash they’d not taken his scarf when he gestured at it to blot at his head with. There was an item he was concerned with, thinking the guards may have shared an interest.

“The paper Porthos acquired?”

“Safely ensconced from our captors,” assured Aramis, “I’d try to memorize the contents, however…”

“Lack of light, it’s – ”

Athos cut himself off when the raucous sounds of the bells rose overhead, and over their voices. He would have sworn on king and country that were he to consume a barrel of wine his head would not pound as hard as it had while they clanged above them. He pitched forward without realizing he’d moved until he felt the accompanying sway and bracing motion of Aramis to counter his sudden burst of movement.

If his friend attempted to say anything it was lost to the chimes. He wanted to claw at his head, but Aramis caught his left wrist before he’d realized he’d attempted to raise it to do so. Instead Aramis’ opposite hand came up to lightly press on Athos’ scalp and guide his forehead to the join of neck and shoulder before he could attempt to smash it into the brick. Burrowing his pounding head into warm skin was preferable, if he were being reasonable, to grinding his head along the wall. By the time he was itching to turn and press his tense skin into the rough stone and brick, the bells had ceased – but he could still hear the resounding, phantom sounds lingering in his ears.

Nimble fingers moved at the base of his skull with the same precision as if he were threading a needle, a task Aramis nearly always accomplished on his first attempt. Gentle presses of the pads reminded him of Aramis’ presence but the man waited to speak, or so much as making a ‘shushing’ sound without confirmation that it was not welcome, and that it wouldn’t pain him. He nearly gave a dark chuckle at the thought that all he needed to discourage Aramis’ chatter was genuine pain.

Fortunately his friend took great consideration, and care, when any of their number was hurt. He’d push and tease relentlessly in any other circumstance, but he’d considerable sensitivity to their limitations when wounded or ill.

Athos evened his breathing, calming and following, as likely intended, the light touches out of the disorienting fog of pain and back to the room. He breathed outa rush of air and lifted his head from Aramis’ shoulder.

“Dizzy?”

Athos shrugged knowing Aramis would feel it through the arm keeping his hand on the back of Athos’ head. He wasn’t so dizzy that he feared being sick, but he’d be hard pressed to stand unless they were attacked. Before he could speculate further on his ability to keep his feet, Aramis’ fingers pressed lightly under his chin.

“Ten o’clock and all is not well...we don’t even know where our friends are. At least we’ve some time before you’ll need to withstand another barrage of bells.” Aramis didn’t attempt to move Athos’ head, but he tapped a nail on the tin containing the salve. “Think you can withstand a few moments for me to reapply this?”

He nodded, a shallow motion against the resistance of Aramis’ fingers. With the pads so close to Athos’ jaw he must have felt the tension that indicated he was about to speak.

“Do turn your head should you feel unwell?”

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Chapter Text

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No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY’RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | “It’s not my blood.”

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“You should escape.”

Aramis gripped the container of salve without thought, frowning across at Athos. Softening his expression, even though Athos couldn’t see that, his response was fond, but chiding.

“We should.”

“I’d slow you down.”

Aramis waited, swallowing against his first response, as he used his smallest finger to daub at the corner of his mouth. He rubbed the excess salve between his fingers, and shook his head.

His friend was prone to melancholy, on any night, but the weight of memories traditionally took him the worst in the warmer months. Aramis could personally attest to an increase in their quarrels, irritation the most likely response from Athos and often giving way to a dismissal. Porthos and he were accustomed to the unpleasant bouts now, and they adapted when they could, rarely abandoning their friend despite his requests. Or orders.

‘If I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die.’

He’d no orders for release to wave at Athos this time. Their friends didn’t even know they were in need of their aid, and thus far there was no pardon in their future.

‘I thought I'd finally shaken you two off.’

He could hear Athos’ self-deprecating chuckle.

‘Believe me, there are easier ways.’

“You won’t shake me off so easily, my friend.” If they were to be tried, then they would stand together, and Aramis wouldn’t leave him. Escaping to seek help alone, while an option, could be more detrimental than not. The risk of being caught in the attempt would only further compound their perceived guilt, and the willingness for anyone to investigate their claims. The remaining man, Athos in that case, would pay the price for both. “We leave together, or we fight together; there are no other options.”

“Your lady friend?”

Aramis’ mouth curled up at the thought of her, in spite of their unpleasant housing, before he sobered to their circumstance.

“Even were she willing,” Aramis had no doubt she’d aid them but, for her own sake, he’d rather her not drawn in to their affair, “she prefers to spend summers in Antibes.”

Athos made a sound in his throat at that.

“There’s still Porthos, and d’Artagnan.”

A considering noise came from his left, but Athos made no further comment.

There would always be Porthos and d’Artagnan, but their friends would need to be timely. Unaware of their troubles, the two of them had no reason to rush their own return.

Unless he flattered himself that Porthos would be sensitive to his earlier illness. Or took into account that d’Artagnan was quite concerned with the injury Athos had sustained. Both of them would be concerned for his recovery, but both would also trust in Aramis’ ability to look after Athos.

His wound, perhaps.

He’d managed to tend that in the darkness, and smiled to himself at the reminder, but their current accommodations were a testament to their misstep. Given Athos’ mood, perhaps owed to the confusion resulting from his injury, Aramis was grateful he wasn’t being blamed in full for events.

“So long as they don’t tarry at breakfast, they may be in time to see us tried.”

“Or hung.”

A rush of air escaped him before he could muster a criticism for the ill humor. While Athos endured the miseries of the world with wry humor, and a devotion to wine, there were moments Aramis worried he’d sink into the temptation of oblivion were he left to defend only himself. Aramis could understand the impulse, and his pursuit of love, and a devotion to the spiritual, served often enough as his own shield against the unhappiness the world so often lodged at a man. Sometimes a man required a cause outside of himself in order to kindle his own resolve. So long as Aramis remained with Athos he wouldn't give over to his more fatalistic melancholy.

The summer months really could bring out the worst in the man.

Regardless of his commitment to hope Aramis scratched at his own neck, his hand moving to rub near the hollow of his throat against the imagined coarseness of a rope.

“Nonsense, they’d arrive well before any gallows can be constructed.”

“There’s a perfectly serviceable bell tower.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Athos’ outward breath was loud in the small chamber before he shifted and nudged Aramis by way of apology, commiseration, or a need to drag himself from such morose thoughts. “Given the dead man’s identity, and our own claim they’ll have to send word to Paris.”

“To Richelieu.” Aramis bit his own lip and winced at the complaint as much as the re-irritation of his cut.

“Who’ll no doubt regard this of the highest import.”

He’d meant to turn Athos’ mood to less unhealthy musings of their future.

Except he also had a desire to be realistic on their chances. A duty, given the Athos was injured and had he been a bit more cautious they might not have been entangled in whatever this was. Whether coincidence, a scheme, or an outright trap, they’d need to be prepared should matters sour, or the magistrate be in an unfavorable mood. He’d been a part of enough application of the law to bear witness that many a man’s fate rested on the whim of another. Aramis had no intention of either he or Athos suffering an ignoble end because some official had passed a dissatisfying evening with his wife or found his breakfast unpalatable.

“Regardless, Porthos and d’Artagnan will arrive tomorrow. Absent any proof ourselves we merely need to stall them until our friends come.” Aramis took care as he pressed more weight into the wall to rest his head, and smiled at the pictures in his mind. “Our young friend would relish the opportunity to confront a court. The assembled crowd turning in confusion at the disturbance? The base sound of indecipherable rumblings and protestations, coughs and muttered queries, and men shifting with a hint of nervousness or excitement at the bold disturbance of the assembly of justice. And there, back-lit by the sun...our dear d’Artagnan eager to pursue his own answers. He’d burst through the arched doorway of the bailiffs house with the same brashness as he did the garrison, although with a bit more polish – and better dress – than he’d had that first day. Undeterred and uncaring of the odds he’d face, and – ”

“Ignorant of how offensive – ”

“Shh, my imaginings are much nicer than yours.”

Athos’ knuckle hit his thigh in what had likely been his hand’s attempt at a gesture to continue.

“And think of how Porthos does so love to tower over a crowd, hmm? The mass of assembled men would part at the sight of his dark glower when he caught sight of us in a position to be judged. I’d lay odds he’d discern immediately that Richelieu’s newest guards are to blame, and he’d mark them to deal with afterwards. They’d know it as well. Porthos directing a challenging look to a man is menacing on its own, and you well know how magnificently threatening he appears when its for our sake. Those sneering guards would be quaking despite the crowd and several yards between them. And Porthos? Wielding the upper hand as if it were his own blade. Imagine them striding in with our orders? Proof of our identity, and a promise that we shall uncover this unsavory plot.”

“Or find us already condemned.”

“Athos, that’s not very creative.”

“Likely a plot.”

“Yes, I imagine, but even the cardinal wouldn’t see fit to expend so many resources to see us…” he trailed off, thinking better of the idea as Richelieu was a man of complex schemes as much as the expedience of a fortunate opportunity. “There’s something more to this, from the letter to Henrietta Maria to his ‘missing papers’ to the guards, and the emissaries. We’re missing what he’s hiding with all of this, he’s another aim. Maybe nothing to do with the missing papers at all.”

“Such as the dead man?”

“He was one of the messengers we’ve seen at court, that much is certain. What he’s done to warrant murder, I’ve no idea.”

“Maybe nothing.”

“Possibly. One never knows the part Richelieu, or the king, may have devised and a minor offense may seal one’s fate as much as the need for a sacrificial pawn for the ‘nobler’ cause, as it were.”

Athos made a noise that could be interpreted as part distaste, and part indifference.

“It matters little, we merely need to solve the puzzle enough to survive the plot,” Aramis shrugged, winking in Athos’ direction, “and if we are able to thwart a scheme of his without a cost to France, all the better. With luck, d’Artagnan and Porthos will have seen the other emissary aboard to deliver the letters to the Queen of England and recovered whatever remains of these ‘missing’ documents.”

Turning his ankle, he rolled his shoulders back into the wall in counter to moving his leg. Once he’d been assured Athos was not bleeding profusely, and silently, in the dark, they returned to sharing their meager pallet side-by-side. He hadn’t bothered to put his boot back on when he overturned the bucket to rest his feet, ignoring Athos’ mention it would add to his chill. Thinking of that advisement, he pressed his left upper arm closer against Athos.

“Not long before the next bells.”

Athos gave a soft groan of disapproval, but there was little either of them could do to prevent the disturbance.

“You should sleep, between them.”

There was also the hope that after midnight the earlier hours and fewer chimes would provide him some relief. Aramis hoped that was the case, and he knew well the fractured sleep that came with disruption to the mind.

“One of us should,” agreed Athos.

Rolling his eyes at Athos’ snort of breath, Aramis raised his arm to sling around Athos’ shoulders. In a move that was as much in the spirit of companionship as practicality Aramis released a chuckling sigh as he relished the additional heat.

“Your head – ”

He sensed Athos’ own turn toward him, breath close enough to waft against his beard.

“Aches.”

“Yes,” Aramis told him lightly, rubbing the heel of his palm at the center of his chest in recollection of his own pains, “that is generally the result of a blow such as the one you took.”

“Won’t be able,” the long pause and force of Athos’ yawn undermined his assertion, “to rest.”

“Yet, you should.”

Aramis was too irritated to sleep, thinking of the guards and whatever lies they’d need to counter come morning. There was a high likelihood they’d need to rely on their friends for their freedom, as an escape would only compound their perceived guilt. Not to mention it could increase the number of men that would be sent after them. In full health it was a chance he’d advocate for, but he required more time to observe Athos’ health before he’d trust his ability to withstand being on the run. There were, of course, his own resources to consider; he’d need to rest eventually as well and Athos was not in any shape to maintain a watch.

Of course should the morning prove them facing a sour crowd or any hint of threat to their surviving imprisonment he would orchestrate their escape. Provided his new favorite guard didn’t interfere he’d confidence he could see himself and Athos to a measure of safety.

At least in order to send word to Treville.

“Or,” Athos offered the option as if he were gesturing Aramis to proceed him through a door, “...you could.”

“My friend, one of us needs to keep a watch over you and of the two of us it’s a task best left to me.”

Aramis angled his head to smirk at Athos, not needing any light to discern the contrary glare his friend would be directing at him. The movement set off an itch and he rubbed the back of his wrist under his nose to disperse the flakes of dried blood.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?”

“You keep,” Athos’ breath indicated he’d moved closer and Aramis suspected he was being examined in the dark, despite their inability to view each other, “moving.”

“Not much else to do in here.” Aramis shrugged, lifting his arm from around Athos to rest both his arms around his own torso.

Before he could fully cross his arms, Athos took hold of his left sleeve.

“What is wrong?”

“We’ve been arrested?” Aramis tried.

“Aramis.”

“Athos, we’ve been through this,” he gave a light tug of his arm but Athos tightened his grip, “unless you wish to speculate our options for the morning again you’re better served with some sleep.”

The fingers pinching the stiff fabric moved to clasp his arm, inadvertently brushing against his torso and Aramis leaned forward to cover for the tensing of his muscles.

“What is the matter?”

“You’re confused again. You mistook me for d’Artagnan by the river, remember? And you forgot where we were before we reached the city, prior to our – ”

Aramis kept up his account and leaned back toward the wall when Athos continued to inspect his sleeve, using both hands.

“This wasn’t here,” interrupted Athos, insistent and unfortunately not waylaid by Aramis’ distractions, “you weren’t cut in the harbor.”

“It’s not my blood.”

“Aramis.”

“It’s not,” but he winced at the tone of his protest, knowing the slight edge to it would only act as the scent of meat to a hound, “entirely.”

“Where?”

“I told you – ”

“That he struck your chest, and your chin. This is too much for a split lip.”

Athos gave a squeeze to his arm the dried patch of fabric pulling the hair on his arm opposite its natural growth. In turn Aramis lifted the arm to gesture upward, knowing Athos would feel the motion, but without enough force to displace his friend’s hold.

“It’s his.”

“And?”

He might’ve kicked the bucket over if it wouldn’t be a nuisance and a potential hazard to locate absent light.

“You’ll need to act as my mirror come morning so I might ensure I’ve cleansed the dried blood from my nose and mouth.” Before Athos could press him on what he’d done to the guard, or what their jailers had inflicted during their separation he attempted to shift the focus once more. That, and he did require Athos’ aid – it wouldn’t do for a man hoping to convince a court he was a musketeer to appear so unkempt. “I hope by then we’ll at least be granted some water, a drink being necessary of course, but I’ll require a small portion to wash my face.”

“Of course.”

“And I’d like to check your own wounds.”

“Ensure my bandaging is in order for our audience?”

“Naturally. As well spoken as you are, you are at your most effective when not quite so disheveled. You know how these officials are...coiffed and groomed…”

“Petty.”

“That too,” Aramis agreed, his own yawn stretching the thin skin of his lip to cause a throbbing sting, “but there’s a chance they’ve no love for the cardinal, and wouldn’t risk the king’s ire over his own regiment.” Aramis knew that was less likely, but men were often motivated by what they stood to gain, and few would risk crossing the Musketeers on reputation alone. In addition, not if it meant angering Treville, and by extension the king. “We’ll have to see which of us appears the worst come morning.”

A huff of air warmed the space between them before Athos shifted to let his head settle on Aramis’ shoulder.

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Chapter Text

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No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | “It’s us or them.”

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Midnight had been torturous.

The only comfort he’d had after the ear-splitting clamors of the bells was Aramis’ assurance that they were the last barrage, the next ones would be lesser. He’d swallowed back nausea from the moment his knees cracked onto the rough stone floor.

They still ached, twinging as he drew them up as the sound scraped again and he felt the warmth of Aramis’ body disappear from the end of the cot. Aramis had eased him up from the floor after the midnight bells and insisted he lay down. He’d closed his eyes against the attempt to make out shapes despite not being able to attempt any real bouts of sleep. His mind drifted, listening to Aramis’ breathing and small movements in the dark, along with the occasional admonishment when Aramis sensed Athos paying him too much attention.

Sensing yet another shiver vibrate through his legs he’d been about to demand Aramis either share the cot entirely or he’d sit up himself but they’d both been disturbed by the jangle of keys at their cell door.

“No reason for them to be here,” Aramis’ voice whispered, his hushed breath harsh and warm against the uninjured side of Athos’ head, “it’s not yet two hours past…odd hour for a meal...”

“I doubt they’ve brought us food.” Athos frowned and pushed his arm into the cot to lever up to a sit, watching the line of light flicker beneath the door.

“Or anything of benefit.”

There were few reasons their jailers would visit their cell at this hour, and none of them boded well for them. Any trial conducted away from the public would have no just cause at its center.

“Have you anything?” Aramis asked.

They’d been divested of weaponry and searched for anything of worth they might have ‘stolen’ and Athos’ own purse and coin had been confiscated. Aramis’ confirmation that he retained the paper from Le Harve was encouraging, but other than the salve they’d little else. He couldn’t recall if Aramis had put his boot back on, and there were few items of use should this become combative.

He moved his hand to the buckle at his waist, his doublet removed and in a tangled pile with their possessions held by the men of the watch.

“Belt?”

“Move to the corner, I’ll take the opposite wall…”

“You wish to fight them?”

It was not strictly speaking the most sound of ideas and they’d no plan. If they fought they’d be working together on instinct, each taking the man or men closest to them and hoping to dispatch them as quickly and silently as possible. A scrap of a plan that could backfire on them and give their visitors a plausible excuse to harm them further.

“Depends on their reason for being here,” Aramis’ voice lowered, “and who.”

Athos nodded, sitting up fully.

He was chagrined but not startled at Aramis’ hand reaching to guide him. A squeeze at his elbow helped pull him to stand and Athos patted at the piece of forearm he could find before he moved to take up his position. He edged to the end of the cot, stretching out his arm to trace the wall with his fingers; following the bricks to the join of the corner.

They’d have scant seconds to adjust to the light once the door opened.

“If they’ve come for any other reason than to question us…”

Athos warned and listened for an assenting noise from Aramis. There was nothing to gain from a fight unless their lives were in imminent danger.

He expected Aramis wasn’t questioned earlier, so much as disputing the accusations and, from what he could tell, fighting with at least one of their accusers. Athos’ recollection was out of order, but he knew Aramis had only mentioned a strike to his chest and chin, he’d referenced his split lip. That his nose had bled would’ve been owed to another hit, and his continued shifting on the bed indicated he’d some other pains. Had there been even the tiniest of candles in their cell he’d have already had the truth of it from Aramis.

That his friend was suggesting they fight if need be tempted him to think Aramis not too badly injured. However, he’d seen his friend as pale as a cloud and moments from collapse still raise his sword. Aramis was not always the soundest judge of the limits to his endurance.

It was that thought that caused him to send a brief look to Aramis when the door opened, adjusting to the growing light by using it to assess his friend’s current state. Either Aramis had managed to hide any reaction from him as he felt the patch of blood on his left sleeve, or the injury hadn’t corresponded to where the dried patch formed. Athos had also not felt any damp patches that would have been on that arm if that’s where the originating cut had been. He frowned, observing the long cut under Aramis’ right shoulder, continuing under his clavicle before it dragged toward the ‘v’ of his shirt. It was at an angle and position that would’ve corresponded to the patch of blood on Aramis’ sleeve if he’d attempted to staunch the blood-flow from the initial cut.

Aramis caught his eye and shrugged before blinking rapidly to adjust to the glow of the torch carried by the first man into the room.

The same guard that had accused Aramis of not being ‘Aramis’ – a red guard – entered.

Curious that he would be allowed into their cell without the guards from Amiens overseeing matters.

His eyes flicked to Aramis again and found his face tense, but his body appeared to be relaxed. Or from a glance at him, without knowing him well, it would be assumed he was leaning against the wall and awaiting clarification of the interruption. Athos took note of the angle of his shoulder, the bend in the leg he’d placed behind the bucket, and his arms loose at his sides, but the fingers of his further hand half-curled in readiness to make a grab should he need to conjure some form of a weapon.

“We can make this quick,” the tall guard stepped into the room, reaching without taking his gaze from Aramis, “give us the paper you stole.”

“Stole?” Aramis’ voice called from the opposite wall. “Athos do you recall stealing a piece of paper among all the other items we’re accused to have stolen?”

Athos glanced to the shorter red guard, ducking into the room, it was the same man that had accompanied the other guard when they’d been taken into custody. Neither were familiar to him from the cardinal’s men, but he’d not put it past any of the guards taking advantage of confusion to interfere with the duties of musketeers. For all he and Aramis knew they’d been ordered to do just that: cause a distraction and delay their mission. It was equally likely that the murdered emissary was as unexpected to the guards as it was to him and Aramis, and it had been convenient to implicate them.

“We need that paper.”

“And for that you had us thrown in jail? Accused of theft, impersonation, and murder?”

Athos kept silent, letting Aramis do the talking – for the moment. The shorter guard had moved further into the small room, keeping side-on and slightly away from Athos and watching Aramis, but keeping Athos within his sight-line. His hand rested on the butt of his pistol. From the new position Athos was able to view the hallway and signaled to Aramis that it was empty.

As far as he could determine, from his limited perspective, and lack of light in the hall there were no others accompanying them. Further confirmation was given when the taller of the guards stepped back to close the door to their cell. Aramis stood the furthest from their grouping, but they were all within a few steps – or a lunge – of each other.

“I say again, give us the paper,” the taller of the guards took another step toward Aramis, trusting Aramis to be at his back since the shorter had drawn his pistol.

“Or what? You’ll shoot us?”

“He’ll shoot if you attempt anything, we’re here for the paper you stole.”

“You seem certain we have it,” Aramis turned, rolling his shoulder on the wall and Athos presumed preparing to move the bucket with his foot as his leg straightened, “when you’ve already taken our belongings.”

“Give me the paper.”

“You’ll see to our release if we locate this document for you?”

“We’ll see to it you aren’t executed for murdering the king’s emissary.”

Athos noted the subtle change to Aramis’ face at the wording, glancing back to the shorter man and his pistol he tracked the man’s first finger to where it had curled over the trigger. He shifted his own hand to his belt.

“It wasn’t us who killed the emissary. Whatever orders you’re following, neither of us is your murderer and we’re not these ‘spies’ you claim to be pursuing on Richelieu’s behalf. You claimed to know Aramis’ weaponry, my pistol, and yet I’ve never lain eyes on either one of you. There are a number in this city that can confirm my identity, and prove you’re lying; a poor choice on your part to pretend to know me specifically when I can so easily disprove your accusation.”

The taller man, thinner than his counterpart, turned and gave a sign to him, meeting Athos’ eyes before giving him his back to address Aramis.

“Provided you leave this cell.”

“Guard! Guards!”

Athos anticipated they’d hear footsteps soon, despite the floor the guards might be on, as the door wouldn’t buffer shouting. Or there’d be none as the city’s soldiers might have allowed these two to enter their cell based on their orders from Richelieu. Given the late hour, it was also possible the watch had fallen asleep and these two had snuck through and obtained the keys. That was less likely, but there were a number of means to prevent them being brought to trial. Glancing again at Aramis, it would be worth risking adding to their charges to prevent the guards from obtaining the paper Porthos relieved from the guards at Le Harve.

Whatever the import of the document, fighting with these two would ensure they could assess the paper themselves. If they wanted to recover it so much that they were willing to risk assaulting and imprisoning musketeers, withholding it from the guards seemed paramount. This visit only compounded all of their initial suspicion that the cardinal had devised something more than a simple recovery mission for the regiment.

Considering their options, he was willing to follow Aramis in this; they’d be better served to keep the paper from the guards. A few more bruises, and a few more charges couldn’t harm their chances any further. He expected Aramis was exaggerating his witnesses, but if these men would threaten to conceal them here then they’d have to demand to prove their identity before the red guards could abscond with their prize.

Aramis gave another shout for the guards.

“They won’t disturb us, they provided our entry.”

With that the dark haired guard confirmed what Athos had begun to suspect: no aid was coming. They’d need to fight these men to prevent worse befalling them. There was a chance the red guards could accuse them of having attacked, and they’d been required to kill them, but they’d more reason to want him and Aramis alive to gain the paper they sought. Which meant keeping it from them now, and getting to make their case, and hopefully sending word to Treville.

If the soldiers of Amiens had allowed them entry, and were not coming to investigate the shouts, a scuffle in their cell wouldn’t raise suspicion. No one would come. No one would interfere.

“It’s us or them.”

At Aramis’ statement Athos flung the belt over the shorter guards arm, pressing into him and turning their position before he could fire his pistol. He heard what he presumed to be the bucket clatter and splinter, and focused on tightening the leather around the shorter man’s arm. He forced the weapon lower and continued to push the man toward the wall with the door.

He ignored Aramis’ shout and continued to press the other man away from the sound of wood splintering and the thunk of leather and flesh. The shadows cast on the arch of the narrow walls shifted, and he expected one of the other men had grabbed the torch. He felt the swath of heat arc close within his space before it swished off toward the back of the room. Whichever man had hold of the flame he hoped they’d take care not to set the cot or the remnants of the bucket on fire. It was a rather tight space for such.

Twisting the wrapped leather further, his feet slid awkwardly over an uneven section of the floor. He kept his feet but the other man’s arm came up to a height near level between them before he fired. The shot caused Athos’ ears to feel as though a blade were pressed into the canal of one and stuck into his head.

He barreled through, using the last of his concentration to drive the man backward until they hit the door. Unable to turn at the crash of more wood and the sound of two men scuffling he kept faith that Aramis had not been struck by the ball.

Splitting his concentration cost him, however, as the pain of the shot had loosened the hold he’d had on the belt. His opponent took advantage and in between attempts to restrain the limb and prevent the man from reaching to reload the weapon the spent pistol cracked into his temple.

He’d no need of the lightning-like flashes to indicate to him that it was the same side of his head that had already met with a metal winch earlier that day.

Unable to discern further noises behind them from the muffled sound stifling his ears he threw himself against the stout man. Twisting when the other had given ground Athos lashed the belt up and over to get it around the man’s neck. Not trusting his arm alone to accomplish the task he applied pressure with one hand on the side and the other constricting the overlapping leather. He kept up the pressure through the bucking and shifting, mirroring the other’s movements.

Athos nearly collapsed down with the man when he finally succumbed to the hold. He took some of the man’s weight to prevent him from slamming his own head onto the stone floor, but he’d readily admit he expended little effort. Mainly, because he’d not much strength to give and, to be fair, the man had cared little for the damage down to his skull when he’d struck the side of Athos’ with his pistol.

He swayed a moment, tensing his abdomen to prevent doubling over, before he knelt to turn the man to his side. Pulling the belt free as the limp body rolled he braced his left hand along the guard’s back to get him onto his stomach. He’d managed to withhold being sick when Aramis prodded at him, but he was less inclined to extend the courtesy with this man. His primary concern was securing the guard, and once he had both wrists wrapped once he glanced over to where the torch had fallen to the floor.

The light in their cell was dim, the torch had lander far enough toward the rear corner of the room that it cast most of its light before Aramis. He and the guard would be able to see each other more clearly than Athos and Aramis could.

Groping for the discarded pistol he seized it up, and watched Aramis’ still form before he reached to locate his own opponents powder and remaining ammunition. He stiffened when he discovered there was only one additional shot to be found in the man’s supplies. Athos kept the thought to himself that, perhaps, the intent had been to shoot each of them after recovering the document.

Aramis’ back was to him, but his friend was crouched over the other guard. Broken sections of the cot jutted out from between the two, another piece lay across the prone man’s boots. It wasn’t discernible if the opponent was conscious or not, but he was prone and Aramis’ hands were in front, presumably threatening or attempting to secure the other man. Wooden staves were strewn around behind them, one of the metal rings beside Aramis’ right arm, his calves obscured by uneven sections of the cot’s splintered leg.

“Can you walk?” Aramis called over his shoulder, not looking back to him which verified Athos’ theory that the taller guard was awake or might only be stunned.

“Once I stand.”

Athos made the effort only a few heartbeats after he spoke, not wanting Aramis to become distracted from his opponent in an effort to aid him.

There was every chance they’d face the soldiers on duty after this, so there was sense in securing both men before they attempted to ‘discuss’ the matter with the guards. Athos grudgingly conceded that the taller of the red guards had been clever in pronouncing them spies. It robbed them of their ability to use any of their items, casting doubt on pauldrons to personal effects as proof of their identity.

“You have him?” Athos asked once he’d braced himself against the door.

He watched the tangle of legs and broken wood, straining in the dim light for an indication that the downed man could take advantage of Aramis.

“See what you can find to secure them,” Aramis suggested by way of answer.

There was a risk in opening the door, but taking the red guards hostage in their own cell would not prove all that effective absent any real weapons. The guard’s spent pistol would provide the means to keep one of them hostage, but it would be a significant risk to attempt to secure the safe passage of two men with only one hostage and any number of angles to have to protect.

In addition he placed little faith in any of the Red Guard’s devotion to their fellow soldiers. Based on the import that had been placed of the document he expected the worth of any of their lives amounted to little in comparison. The guard Aramis held seemed as ready to see them rot in a cell as see them shot. Were his companion their hostage, the taller guard would probably shoot him to catch them, and were he their prisoner he’d undoubtedly struggle to the point one of them would be wide open to another solder's pistol fire.

As none of the guards from Amiens had come at the sound of the first shot, he expected little value was placed on two ‘impostor’ musketeers weighed against red guard’s with orders from Richelieu. If Athos’ head was not already splitting from the blows he’d taken he’d have a headache from sorting out events and competing motivations.

Checking the flintlock he opened the door, slowly, and let the weapon lead his way into the hall. The empty passageway.

Given the multiple floors, it was possible the pistol fire had been muffled. As the hour was approaching two in the morning it would not be implausible that only one man was within the bell-tower, potentially others sleeping, and likely one or two in the square. With the murderers of the king’s man secured, there wouldn’t be an overwhelming need for additional men to be patrolling the city, or placed on watch.

He frowned at the chains hung beside their cell, the irons no doubt at the ready to secure them before they were walked the two streets down to the Malmaison. Counting it fortunate that neither of them had been placed in the bindings prior to being shut in the cell he plucked them from their hook and gave them a light shake to indicate his findings to Aramis.

“Convenient.” Aramis teased without turning. “Oh, and toss me my boot?”

With the additional light from the hall, Athos nearly raised a brow at discovering Aramis’ boot, unnoticed when he exited, had somehow crumpled in the corner near the door. Likely hurled at his opponent at some time during their scuffle, Athos bent to retrieve the familiar leather and bundled it to pass to him with the chains. The cell was eight maybe ten feet long at most and barely as wide, so it took just a few steps to reach him.

The greater light in the rear of the cell revealed the taller guards slack face, a blade in Aramis’ hand and a long cut along the man’s neck. The edge still dug into the lower portion of the deep slice into the man’s skin. At the depth of the cut, from what Athos could see, it wouldn’t kill him. It would scar.

“Aramis?”

“A reminder. For when he wakes.” Aramis told him, without sparing Athos a glance. The tone of his voice one that Athos recognized as firm resolve. Aramis would hear no opposition to his intention in this, and short of murder Athos would issue no objection. “A marker, as it were.”

As Aramis spoke the last his free hand reached up, the dried patch of blood Athos had felt earlier visible against the pale linen of his shirt, to tap at the long cut across Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis’ own was not as deep, but Athos knew that mattered little to his friend. Whatever had passed between these men in Athos’ absence, Aramis was committed to extract whatever debt he felt owed.

Curling his own hand around the additional chains, he debated their options silently. If there were only one or two guards within the bell tower they had a chance of negotiating with them. Slim, but possible. He’d let Aramis devise an explanation in that case. Of greater potential was locating at least one of the individuals Aramis boasted of and seeking their aid in standing witness for them with the court. Barring that they could use their limited weaponry to escape and hide within the city until Porthos and d’Artagnan’s arrival. Least likely was their ability to flee the city entirely.

“Athos.” Aramis’ voice carried a note that suggested it was not the first time he’d called for his attention. His friend waited until he met his eyes to ask his question. “Is that loaded?”

“One shot.”

“Perhaps we should trade?” Aramis smiled up at him, some of the coldness he’d gleaned in his voice earlier had dissipated, and lifted the bloody knife with a loose hold that let him shake it in offer.

“Your plan?”

“We negotiate with the guards.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Keeping close to the wall made it easier to follow Aramis down the passageway.

They’d waited until the bells had sounded two, and then a few moments more for Athos’ skull to grant him some measure of peace. And balance. He’d stumbled into Aramis’ back not three steps after he’d locked the door to their former cell.

They’d left the torch behind, preferring their movements lit only by the wall sconces. Of little note to anyone else that may be within the tower. Whomever was on guard or awake would be expecting the footfalls of two men, so they moved with care but not with the aim of complete silence. They’d secured both red guards, neither man having stirred before they exited and Aramis had located the key to their cell on the taller guard’s belt. Aramis had stumbled slightly upon standing, passing the key to Athos to secure the door, but otherwise easily moved past him to take the lead navigating to the ground level.

He’d provided Aramis with what he believed was a summary of their options, unsure which would be their best until they’d encountered the men between them and the door. Based on Aramis’ earlier difficulties the soldiers preferred to defer to Red Guards. Aramis might yet be able to convince them of the benefit, not to mention debt owed, to any man who would provide aid to the Musketeer’s regiment. Even bloodied and disheveled Athos held some faith that Aramis could convince at least one guard around to sending a message to Treville, even if that meant Aramis and Athos would be returned to their cell.

‘Should we convince them of at least a messenger then we can remain here. If one were to leave now, by the time he would reach the garrison we would not yet be brought before the bailiff. Plenty of time for the captain to send word, or our friends to arrive. Preferably both.’

Aramis had reasoned while sorting himself and his boot, while Athos had watched the door.

Unable to recall what subsequent plans followed which outcomes Athos had reconciled himself to following Aramis’ lead. Reminding himself their predicament was not entirely Aramis’ fault, he reasoned of the two of them Aramis remained in better standing to convince the guards. As with deciding who held the pistol, some decisions were best left to who possessed the needed skills in the moment.

Athos squeezed his eyes against another burst of light when he bumped into Aramis. That, at least, was Aramis’ fault. He’d stopped abruptly.

Moving around his shoulder to step alongside him when Aramis did not advance Athos swallowed once.

Keeping a firm grip of the blade he held, he gave himself credit for turning away from Aramis before he succumbed to the nausea that had plagued him for hours.

There were three guards that had been on watch. Three men left to guard the bell tower’s occupants. Two had passed their time at cards and one had been seated, now slumped, near the door.

All three were dead.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Forced to Stay Awake

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“A few minutes more. We’re over halfway,” encouraged Aramis, lilting into him as he spoke, and causing them both to step to the side to avoid spilling into the damp road, “less than five hundred feet...”

He covered the stumble with an assuring squeeze of the arm he’d slipped around Athos’ torso.

“Certain you can keep your own feet that long?” Athos asked without inflection, keeping his eyes on the spire rising over the sloped roofs.

The hour did little to mediate the danger, and though the streets were empty their relative isolation made two injured men – or escaped prisoners, in their case – all the more visible. The heat of the day had abated, but there was little chill in the late night air and there was a thickness to it, made worse by their closeness.

“For a stroll with you? I would walk several miles, Athos.”

Athos tensed his mouth to prevent his lip from quirking upward.

“We could’ve taken that right down Vergeaux, paid a visit to Bultel,” offered Aramis, tilting his head closer to speak, “but I don’t think he’d listen to reason at this hour.”

“Would he listen at all?” Athos asked, bracing his own torso to give subtle support to Aramis so he might regain his balance.

“After some...convincing, I believe.”

Athos let out a huff of air, eyes tracking along the street for any sign or sound of other men about at the late hour. Few guards would be patrolling, and most men stumbling home at this time would be paying little attention to them. The walk should take about five minutes for a man in good health, but their own pace would double it, at least.

By his estimation they’d a few hours until dawn and, likely, or with good fortune, any chance of discovery of the deceased. That should forestall any pursuit for a long enough time that they might cobble together a defense. An escape. At the least some clue to the true culprit. They’d a short span of time before the city’s guard would be focused on their capture.

Aramis and he hardly presented formidable opposition to any interference.

He kept the bobbing spire in his sight. A beacon. They were less than two hundred paces from the cathedral, but lumbering together made their steps a shuffle that extended the distance to their destination.

What little they could locate among the guards had been taken for their own defense, and an attempt to look presentable. Clothing in disarray and various injuries gave them the appearance of men set upon by bandits, if not the villains themselves.

‘Three dead men, you believe they’ll let us explain?’

Aramis’ impatience had bled into the words when he’d shuffled them from the tower they’d been held within only minutes earlier.

“We claim sanctuary,” Aramis insisted, settling on this option of the many he’d claimed to have prior to stumbling into the street with him, “if any are about to hear our request at this hour.”

“That...” Athos tensed against speaking, the swelling on the side of his face leaving him feeling as though he was forming words around cotton wool. “That’s your plan?”

Aramis shrugged with minimal effort, but it shifted Athos’ arm higher with the light motion.

“My plan,” Aramis responded, turning momentarily so that his breath wafted against Athos’ cheek, “is a moment’s rest.”

Before Athos could complain of the additional heat to his skin his friend turned back to their intended refuge.

“We need,” Athos swallowed, the sensation of wadding in his mouth delaying his speech, “a better plan.”

His head pounded. His eyes burned. While he knew there was no iron poker against his skull the sharp pain stole his thoughts. In his distraction his most pressing, and coherent, thought was not to be sick. Again.

“Athos?”

A response of some kind would be required, he was certain, if only to prevent a barrage of queries. Or worse, poking and prodding; all of which would delay their progress and risk their recapture.

Undoubtedly Aramis would consider it a justifiable risk.

“Hmm?”

He thought he made an inquiring noise but was unsure if it was a grunt. The vice-like pressure around his head made him uncaring of any semblance of manners.

“I asked, several times now, if your vision is clear.”

Athos’ mouth moved down without conscious thought. He’d not heard the man. Turned inward with his own distractions he’d not registered any sound.

“No blotted spots? Floating lights?”

In his periphery he caught the motion of Aramis tilting his chin down and peering at Athos to conduct his own examination when Athos didn’t reply.

How Aramis expected to determine what Athos was seeing or what impediments there were on his sight Athos had no inkling. Then again, Aramis could often tell when one of his friends carried an undisclosed injury by his posture. Perhaps there was a tell for sight, and if anyone would be intimately familiar with unsavory influences on a man’s vision from a head injury it was Aramis.

“Let’s try another approach, hmm?”

Athos blinked, aborting a motion to glance at Aramis and instead kept his eyes on tracking the spire. Aramis’ arm tightened, slowly applying the pressure to await Athos’ indication that it caused pain. Athos assumed him bolstered by his lack of irritation and caught Aramis nodding in his periphery.

“Right,” the fingers of Aramis’ left hand shifted to tap Athos’ arm thrown over Aramis’ shoulder, “tap once, please.”

Athos frowned, fixing his eyes on the spire now sinking between the towers as they drew closer. The imposing facade promised a cool refuge, if not an actual asylum from pursuit. Thick stone walls would provide blessed relief from the heat and Athos nearly lurched forward at the thought of the interior temperature of the church.

Recalling childhood stories, he’d half a mind to point out to Aramis that those who claimed sanctuary often needed to admit to their guilt before being granted clemency. They were no knights of old, or even peasants fortunately, but Athos struggled to recall the process for petitioning shelter from judgment within the church. While Richelieu was not the highest ranking clergyman in France, he held a great deal of leverage within the church’s hierarchy. On the secular side of the laws they were accused of murdering an emissary of the king, interfering with the cardinal’s guard, and now – quite likely – would be charged with the killing of the local soldiers. Despite Aramis’ devotion, and familiarity with doctrine, ‘the Red Eminence’ would hold more sway in matters pertaining to any church matters in Amiens.

He moved his fingers as directed, maintaining his pace toward the cathedral.

“Excellent, now that we know you can move them in response to questions: tap twice if you’re experiencing any difficulties with your sight.”

Athos would've rolled his eyes if his entire head didn’t feel like it was trying to push those same eyes forward from within.

“Focus,” he managed.

“Yes, I am, thank – ”

Athos gave a tiny lift of his mouth in spite of the ache in his cheek when Aramis caught himself against the bit of concerned annoyance he was directing at his friend. Once he realized Athos was not ordering him to focus, he shifted to further assess Athos’ state.

“Occasional blurring then?” He paused for a beat, and made a low humming noise. Athos suspected he was monitoring the volume of his voice more out of concern for Athos than out of any worry for pursuit. “Don’t answer. I expect you can make out the cathedral in this light...if not the details...”

The blue-white cast of the full moon was an aid, the soft glow diffusing over the city set the dominating cathedral a focal point. Not wishing to risk a stumble on either of their parts Athos allowed himself to lean a bit more heavily on Aramis, keeping his eyes on the growing expanse of the facade and made a shallow movement with his chin.

“Fair enough, I’ll take the liberty of believing you’ll not be able to discern the magnificent facade in detail, the individual figures, the scripture carved in stone, the splendid…” He trailed off, whether distracted by his own sense of wonder or contemplating their next course of action, and cleared his throat. “Tap once if you can see well enough that I need not concern myself with guiding you each step?”

Athos tapped.

“Clearly recovering some of your strength,” Aramis observed, his voice holding a note of accusation.

Perhaps it had been a bit more forcefully than previous motions. He turned his own wrist, lifting his fingers as he spoke.

“Your shoulder?”

Athos blinked several times in succession, bracing to lever himself upright on Aramis’ uninjured shoulder. He’d believed himself sloping further off kilter until he recalled that the cathedral towers were of two different heights. Certain Aramis could remind him of the reason, and perhaps the years of their construction or completion, he refused to provide the man a distraction from his own injury. Or injuries. With the darkness of their cell, and the relative chaos of their departure Athos had only glimpsed the dried blood flaking near Aramis’ collar when he moved furtively to search for their confiscated clothing and weaponry.

“A scratch,” Aramis brushed his fingers aside before they reached Aramis’ collarbone and captured his wrist with a turn of his own, “the very least of our concerns.” Craning his neck to see over Athos’ head, he glanced about them and kept a watch as they crossed the square in front of the cathedral. “Not the worst of hideouts…”

“I can manage,” Athos offered, before he could be asked, as he felt Aramis’ chest expand against his side.

“One at a time then.”

He tilted as if back on a boat deck in Le Harve, and they swayed together like two bobbing gulls before they stabilized against each other and onto the first step.

“Easy as getting up the stairs after one too many cups...” Aramis’ amusement at the memories and pride at their current success mingled in his declaration.

Athos had enough experience attempting balance on his own. Yet many were the times that Aramis or Porthos had lumbered up the stairs with him – or with him between them – and on enough occasions for coordination between them to require no verbal cues. Anticipating, or feeling the movement of one or the other allowed them to step and counterbalance as if moving through a fencing manual.

“...or when injured…” Athos could recall number of occasions and all manner of combinations in which they’d provided or required assistance to their quarters.

Skills they employed now had been honed by staggering side-by-side, in some cases the wounded men using each other’s leverage to remain standing.

“Too much practice on those accounts. Still, it’s a skill, and many are the times when a man may find himself negotiating a staircase whilst hindered,” Aramis increased their pace across the expanse of stone leading to the last grouping of stairs, “engineering a rescue, fighting off – ”

“Fleeing a lady’s apartments?”

“Or navigating into them,” countered Aramis.

Athos conceded the point with a shared chuckle. He supposed it made little difference whether the man in question was moving up or down the stairs and putting on or removing the clothing hindering his progression.

A squeeze to his side guided him to the final step.

“Even at such an hour…” Aramis’ hand left his arm to wrap around the iron handle, “...should be accessible...”

Finding no resistance other than the weight of the door, Aramis eased the bright colored wood open and glanced over his shoulder to check for pursuers.

The Cathédrale Notre-Dame d’Amiens’ great doors beckoned Athos’ forehead, but as much as he desired to slump forward and collapse onto the cool stone behind the thick wood he found himself mesmerized by the tableau above them as he waited to cross the threshold.

He experienced a dizziness that threatened to tip him backward if not for Aramis’ arm bracing him while he gazed up at the figures lining the portals. Peering at the tympanum’s trumpeting and praying angels a frisson chased the bead of sweat along his spine. Were he less nauseous he might’ve let Aramis know he could, in fact, make out the figures well enough to recognize St. Michael weighing souls. He’d little choice but to trust Aramis’ gamble that they’d find shelter here rather than judgment.

He trusted Aramis implicitly with regards to caring for him, but the man’s determination to look after them often overtook practicality. Absent Porthos and d’Artagnan he’d stake a considerable sum that Aramis would endanger himself before he’d leave Athos exposed in a weakened position.

Pushing the red door open, Aramis shuffled them through sideways before pivoting to ease it closed; the soft noise echoed louder than he anticipated in the hushed interior.

“Tallest in France,” whispered Aramis, keeping his steps as hushed as his tone while he encouraged Athos across the diamond patterns set in the floor.

Opposite colors gave the appearance of being intertwined and were laid out to the left and right, the tiles set into patterns that turned them to create increasingly larger shapes. He made a long blink of his eyes before opening them to fixate on the long row of black tiles down the center of the floor.

Their steps moved them naturally through the middle of the cathedral, and Athos used the dark line like a rope tethering a boat to a dock. His eyes drifted to the gates of the side chapels, there was no certainty for the cathedral to be absent parishioners or pilgrims even at such a late hour.

When his eyes inevitable returned to the floor the dark lines made a ripple effect to Athos’ mind, the dark marble appearing to stretch outward. As if moved forward by invisible thread, the floor slid toward them before the black bled back into angled lines and shapes, never touching but moving around itself before pushing out and then back to rotate like a compass. Or to spin like one.

Having inadvertently taken a step back, he didn’t realize he’d begun to move away; instinctively he sought more solid footing, despite knowing they stood atop marble and tile.

“Best not to gaze at the labyrinth too long, we’re hardly in need of the meditative at present,” Aramis teased, guiding him further down the nave, “better not to look down at all given the patterns.”

Aramis had paused, casting his gaze around the floor as though confirming the evidence of his advisement.

Athos could have dropped to his knees right then, out of exhaustion instead of prayer. He’d moments of sleep, he believed, but they were few based on how lightheaded he felt; he could happily ensconce himself in one of the chapels and wait for the outcome of Aramis’ diplomatic gambit.

Taking the break in movement, imagined as much as their own pace, he closed his eyes before allowing himself to look at the massive pillars they walked between. The thin colonettes around the columns created a shape larger around than any tree trunk Athos had seen.

He followed them upward, eyes tracing to where the colonettes spread out from the central pillar to support the vaulted ceiling. Were he in the prime of health he’d have taken a moment to gain his bearings. With his thoughts attempting to slide from his ears, and his eyes floating about as if they rode a rough current he counted it no fault of his that he tightened his hold on Aramis’ arm.

“Well, I suppose that rules out hiding in the triforium.” Aramis adjusted their hands, tucking his shoulder to bring Athos’ arm further across his chest.

Disoriented from the scale of the church and feeling lessened from his injuries, the unspoken reinforcement assured him. He trusted Aramis to support him more than he would if he’d leaned against the pillars that held up the nearly six stories surrounding them. As for his friend’s suggestion that they hide in the interior gallery he could barely bring his eyes up above the arches to where the gallery windows overlooked the floor. Imagining their positions reversed to such a height had him locking his knees and stiffening his spine against small shakes to his muscles.

“Best not to tense,” Aramis applied a light pressure to his lower back, easing them across the labyrinth and further toward the transept, “locking knees, as you are well aware, is less stabilizing. It’s how I nearly toppled Porthos over those hay bales, remember?”

Athos decided it best not to mention who’d won their bout in the end, but he could admit – would, if he’d had the words – that Aramis had nearly accomplished the move owed to Porthos’ minor slip in judgment. He also declined to mention what – or whom – had caused Porthos to brace in the first place.

Thoughts of toppling and why it was important rattled around in his head, like a musket ball rolling and spinning around a tin plate, but he couldn’t pluck it into focus. There was something he had meant to remember; something he’d marked and told himself he’d need to address. Before he could order the tangle of his thoughts to a single thread to pull and follow, Aramis indicated they needed to continue on.

Moving where Aramis subtly directed, he struggled against the mud in his mind to pull his thoughts free. He wanted to tell Aramis to stop, not to move them toward the wide space between the north and south doors. They already put the main entrance behind them, placing entry points to either side would leave them over exposed. For such a large structure they were afforded minor protection walking through the center; he pushed a bit of weight toward Aramis, attempting to encourage him toward an aisle and the side chapels.

“Leave me – ”

Athos could’ve groaned, preferably growled or possibly shoved, at his dear friend when he interrupted – and protested.

“I’ll do no such – ”

He knew it would be a fool’s errand to even attempt to convince Aramis to leave him entirely, but he’d been thinking to get to a column or a seat where Aramis might leave him to seek the ‘sanctuary’ he’d wished to procure for them.

“A bit late for prayer…”

Having met the annoyed flash of Aramis’ gaze, and with both of them staring at the other, neither he nor Aramis had noted the speaker’s approach.

“But never a time when a man not feel called to do so?” Aramis asked.

Athos wanted to return to glaring at him rather than devise an explanation for the intrigue in which they were entangled. They’d no assurance this man would not feel compelled toward loyalty to ‘His Eminence’ over two unkempt men bearing no proof they were in the employ of the king.

“Perhaps not, we will always be heard, but men must rest and neither of you appear to have been granted much sleep tonight.”

The priest’s measured cadence held a note of caution, but Athos was familiar with how rapidly a man’s thoughts could tilt to suspicion. Distrustful of his own balance he let the arm around Aramis’ shoulders soften, his relaxed muscles a hint to his friend that he could move without worry of Athos toppling over. That Aramis should move. Were there a hint that they were not believed, or were under threat, Athos would support whatever action Aramis took. If necessary they’d add assaulting a clergyman to their charges.

“We’ve come seeking – ”

“More than spiritual succor, I expect.” The priest motioned along his cassock in a line along his own collarbone. “That looks unpleasant.”

Athos curled his fingers under his palm, gathering some of the linen of Aramis’ stolen cloak tight, an indication that he’d pull it loose if needed. His own, tied awkwardly beneath one shoulder hung down his back in deference to the heat. He’d only taken it when Aramis insisted, furious that they were unable to find their own.

“It does sting,” admitted Aramis, adding for Athos’ benefit, “a bit. As you can see, it is my friend who has born the brunt of our misfortunes.”

Wondering at the truth of the statement Athos eased the knot of Aramis’ stolen cloak looser and kept his unencumbered arm hanging over the hand Aramis had around his waist. The arm that wore the bloodied sleeve and that had staunched the cut Aramis now claimed stung ‘a bit’. He wished for better health if only so he could cause the other man’s ears to sting.

Deciding they were better served by Athos concealing the bloodied cuff and the dagger Aramis had pilfered he tried to track the priest’s gaze as it swept over the two of them. Aramis had tucked the ‘borrowed’ weapon into his belt, with his own blade loaned to Athos. Fortunately he’d secured the unused pistol into Athos’ belt, at the small of his back, for ease of access. Given how closely they’d walked Aramis had claimed it would be quickest to retrieve the weapon from behind Athos and the trailing cloak provided a measure of cover without hindering Aramis from retrieving it.

“We are –”

Aramis gave a subtle tap with the toe of his boot to Athos’ own before he could interject, or he presumed that was Aramis’ intent but he must have overestimated the force and managed to tilt with the motion. His boot slid forward along Athos’ and he leaned forward before righting himself with care to both his posture and appearance.

He suspected the younger man was aiming to solicit sympathy while appearing to be more than a mere supplicant. Aramis had his pride after all. Athos was steadily reaching the point where he’d prefer to collapse into a pew or curl up on the cathedral steps – anywhere, save a cell, where he might have a moment’s peace from the ceaseless parade of unpleasantries in his head.

“Forgive me, as you’ve already said: we’ve had little rest. My dear friend is in need of tending and I presumed there to be no better place than here.”

“All are welcome, but,” the priest rubbed the pads of his fingers at the feathery strands of gray and white, in confusion or sympathy to Athos’ unsettling appearance, “do you not believe he’d be better served by a physician? You’ve no supplies that I see…”

Using the hand that had rubbed along his own temple he gestured between the two of them, his eyes once more focusing on the details. What they lacked might be more informative than what little they carried. The cloaks they’d taken from the bell tower were unremarkable, but their lack of weaponry, cloaks, and even coin purses spoke of ill luck or that they were of a lower station than they were attempting to portray. Athos had doubts that the priest would not be inclined to help two peasants, but two murderous thieves – as would be rumored all over the city come morning – was another matter entirely.

Whatever Aramis’ intended suit, he’d do best by them all to make it quickly.

“If some trouble had befallen you,” the older man’s eyes narrowed, the shallow wrinkles around his eyes and mouth becoming more pronounced, “I can call for the guard to aid you.”

Little remained in Athos’ stomach, but what had been roiling about felt a frozen lump, sinking at the suggestion.

“Why trouble them, or anyone, at so late an hour? Surely you have some cloth for bandaging?”

Athos nearly let out a sniff of disbelief, in spite of the tension in the air, at Aramis’ casual suggestion that their injuries were mild.

“Bandages are not all that is required here.” The man’s voice was firm, his face smoothing into a serious mien and he looked first to Athos before watching Aramis and awaiting his response.

“Much is required here and I pray you grant us the grace to hear such requests.”

Dismissing the severity of their injuries – especially his own, which Athos remained concerned with for having not seen their full extent – was only passably acceptable owed to the perilous situation they found themselves in. Reminding himself not to lock his knees, he breathed out and consciously lowered his shoulders, trying not to outwardly display the tension building within him.

Keeping half an ear on the comforting rumble of Aramis’ prudently crafted phrases, he glanced at the altar, and then off to the ambulatory that curved around to the chapels surrounding the altar. The cathedral was massive in scale and yet, aside from the side chapels near the altar, and to either side of where they stood, there were few spaces that were not visible from most standpoints. Even the choir stall provided little privacy from view. The columns were much broader than several men, as were the altarpieces, but within a few steps one’s cover would be rendered useless.

Cathedrals were, by design, meant to instill awe and reverence through their peerless architecture. The scale of this one, given their current circumstances, left Athos feeling diminished, and exposed. Rather than his soul being laid bare, it was his corporeal form that was vulnerable: they were much too open to attack here. Like stepping through mud, his thoughts were sticking as he picked through his assessment and he found himself returning to his initial disapproval of Aramis’ planning.

They stood a few feet in front of the labyrinth, but still a few yards from the open transept. Were they to move forward they’d be within sight of anyone entering from the north or south, and currently they were only visible to any entering from the main sets of doors.

He would've made a sign to Aramis that they should move toward one aisle or the other, rather than standing in the middle of the nave, only yards from the open area near the center section of the cross shape building. Considering the designs on the actual floor, he’d a new appreciation for the consistency of the pattern in Notre-Dame. Pulling his eyes away from the patterned layouts he swallowed, checking again to ensure they were the only men within the cathedral.

His thoughts remained muddled, breaking down and blending, swirled together like a pot on the fire and from one to the next he couldn’t pick free the exact one he wished to speak. Managing a press of the arm still slung over Aramis’ shoulder he willed him to clarify their position; either the priest would aid them or they needed to abandon the cathedral.

Without a promise of sanctuary the imposing stone could turn into a prison rather than granting them protection.

They’d do better attempting to disappear using the normal, daily bustle of the city. A bit further would need to be done to disguise their appearance, and if Athos could convince Aramis to separate he might be able to slip the guard while Aramis sought proof of their innocence, or assistance from Paris.

Separation was unlikely, but he could at least petition for a better plan that this wild gamble for sanctuary.

“Something to confess?” The priest asked them lightly, the question made with a bare movement of his lips before he turned and walked toward the new arrivals clattering at the north portal door.

Athos couldn’t discern if it was a threat or an accusation that he heard in the priest’s tone.

His stunted thoughts had him watching the priest’s back before Aramis was pulling him to the left. Without so much as a whisper Aramis guided them around the pulpit and over to the north aisle, toward the first chapel. When their quick pace caused Aramis to stumble, Athos was at least certain that he’d not entangled their legs, he’d had no time to make any query. Absent time as well as any coherent thoughts on his part, he allowed Aramis to pull him along and did his best not to impede their progress. Thick stone would muffle soft sounds, but they would be heard if he had shouted when the side of his head smacked into Aramis’ shoulder at their abrupt stop. Aramis gave a squeeze of his hand with the arm still wrapped around Athos’ back in apology, but didn’t slow his other arm’s reach for the door of the confessional booth.

In a move that demonstrated his grace in both a duel and a dance, Aramis stepped around and turned Athos while rotating himself and pulling the carved door closed.

The small of Athos’ back settled against the wood and the lack of a pistol butt digging into his spine was his evidence that Aramis had also slipped the weapon free while maneuvering them into the confessional.

He breathed out a ‘thwt’ along with the turn of his head that freed his nose and mouth from the soft mass of curls tickling his face. Shifting a finger’s width to his right and the small lattice window of the booth. His torso remained flush to Aramis’ back, but the move kept his face from being directly behind Aramis’ head.

“Dagger?” Aramis asked, leaning forward to peer through the door or provide Athos the additional space to reach for the weapon.

The movement did little to provide room to maneuver, but he was able to push the heel of his hand to wiggle the blade up to try and get a hold of the handle. He held his breath to gamble on gripping the knife when he shoved it up, and not allowing it to clatter – noticeably – onto the floor. Once he’d closed his fingers around the handle he tilted the weapon to press the pommel into Aramis’ hip.

Aramis nodded in acknowledgment.

“I’ll fire fist,” he whispered. As he spoke he lifted his right shoulder, and given the door hinges were to the left, he’d be able to lever the pistol directly at whomever approached. Depending on who, and how many there were, he could fire through the openings carved into the door, or through it. “Then you.”

He’d be able to push out behind Aramis, while the other man shielded him with his lead. In the best circumstance they would not need to attack, but in the event that it was necessary they’d hinder any interlopers before attempting an escape.

A mild twinge of disappointment that Aramis’ diplomacy had not yielded better results turned his mouth down, before he smirked at the details he’d noted in the outer chapel. The side chapels of this cathedral were near the size of some of the single churches he’d seen out in the country. Nerves, or his wounded mind, drew the wry inquiry from him; if they were about to risk their lives he’d no reason not to bolster their mood.

“Chasity?”

“It was closest,” Aramis whispered over his shoulder, turning his head into profile, and giving as much of a shrug as their confines allowed, “perhaps Agnes will appreciate the irony...”

He hoped the patron saint of chastity and purity would see the humor in Aramis taking refuge in her chapel. Athos put his trust in her also being known for her unwavering faith; arguably a quality Aramis shared, as he fell much short of her other lauded virtues.

He’d no further time to reflect as the voices grew louder in the relative silence of the cathedral. Multiple voices carried over to them, echoing around the columns and carved stone before they could see the figures. The priest had escorted the two arrivals to the cathedral nearer to the center of the transept before stopping; their position left the two men with their backs to the chapel where he and Aramis had rushed.

Leaning forward he was able to view them through the door over Aramis’ shoulder. What he observed made Athos lift two fingers free of the hilt of his blade in order to tangle them in Aramis’ shirt. He gave a sharp tug on the fabric to encourage him against any rash action. Tucked so close together in the priest’s compartment, he could feel the obvious from the tension in ever part of Aramis he was pressed against at the sight of the colorful cloaks.

Cardinal red and Musketeer blue were rather distinct colors and the cloak adorning the man closest to them was one of their own regiment.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 9: OBSESSION

Bruises

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Athos’ jaw ticked in equal parts irritation with himself and with Aramis when the younger man’s muscles flinched under his hand. He’d been holding himself rigid all the while they’d observed the men in conference with the priest and to his credit he’d not so much as uttered a sound when he’d realized it was his hat the ‘musketeer’ was wearing.

Aramis had been particularly irked about his clothing before they’d departed the bell tower. Even under the threat of three more murders being laid at their feet, he’d insisted on cursory searches of the rooms adjacent to where they’d found the guards for the missing articles of clothing. After several moments of the rushed clatters of trunks and cabinet doors thrown open, along with the scrape of chair legs on stone, Aramis had returned without so much as his sash in hand.

Instead of their own cloaks they’d donned some thin linen ones of a gray shade belonging to the men of the city’s guard that Aramis had pulled roughly from their hooks. With a deep frown marring his features he’d tucked his shoulder against Athos’ chest and supported him out of their temporary prison. Before Aramis had reached him Athos had caught sight of his left sleeve, darkened with dried blood from where he’d reached over to staunch the cut to his right shoulder.

While they’d watched the trio of men convened a few yards from their chosen chapel Athos had curled his fingers over Aramis’ side, flattening them to press a warning against movement. The palm of his hand would have done little to prevent his friend should Aramis have wanted to burst from their hiding spot, but he’d hoped it would give him pause.A physical reminder of the tether of responsibility to their mission, as well as a thin hope that he might keep Aramis from bringing trouble upon them.

Enough trouble had found them and he’d prefer a moment to gather their wits. A task he found as useless as marking sand at the ocean’s edge. Within moments his thoughts dispersed like sands shifted from the rush of thin waves on the shoreline. One line of thought kept rushing back to him, foaming up, and trying to break through the pain at the side of his head to push the lost idea into focus. To make him remember.

He let the pads of his fingers fan out, intending to make a light press of them to Aramis’ side before he recalled the jump of muscles from earlier. Then he remembered his irritation, and the whole of his thoughts came rushing back: Aramis was injured.

That reaction was owed to more than the cut to his shoulder, and worse than Athos suspected for him to react to such a light touch to his abdomen.

He could not whisper a word of caution, or inquire after Aramis’ wounds, with the cathedral empty save for the three men clustered a few yards from their borrowed priest’s compartment. There were no others about to buffer the sound of his voice. Without the din of a gathered congregation even a whisper, given the expanse of the nave and the height of the cathedral, would be amplified.

Leaning forward to check the progression of the gathered men, he could feel Aramis’ deep inhalation and the slow, controlled, exhale that Athos recognized was often a sign that he was gathering patience. Neither the guard nor the ‘musketeer’ were known to Athos, and the tension he could sense through the thin layers between them gave no clues as to whether Aramis recognized either man.

The volume of any noise was increased in the near empty cathedral, but it did not allow them to discern what was being said between the men. He knew that lack of ability was not owed to the blow to his head, he’d considered that, but there were a few words he could tell apart when the unknown men raised their voices. A few times the man dressed in Aramis’ doublet had gestured sharply and Athos had picked ‘murderers’ and ‘king’ from the harsh syllables he spoke to the priest.

He’d be ready. Athos was prepared to provide Aramis the means to escape should they be discovered. However, as he watched, his head dipped; he blinked rapidly to keep the cluster of men in focus, but his chin dropped to Aramis’ shoulder. With his eyes closed he felt the angle raise, the minor tension in his friend’s posture to counter the added weight. Athos appreciated the support, the heaviness in his head threatened his entire frame and he resisted allowing himself to press more weight against Aramis.

“The door,” Aramis’ voice was a merge of the words, low and rushed.

Athos hadn’t noted the men’s absence, or the sound of their retreating steps. The echo sounded to their right, the doors on the south side, opposite to where the men had entered. Lifting his chin from Aramis’ shoulder he ducked his head down to the right to peer through the openwork on the door to their hiding place. He saw no sign of the men, but the priest was backing toward the chapel while watching the southern entrance.

Aramis remained tense, and Athos suspected he too harbored doubt that the men had departed. Compressed together he shifted his arm to curl his left hand over Aramis’ thin sleeve. He used the man’s torso to angle himself toward the lattice window. Ducking his head he saw the priest making quick strides toward their side chapel.

The older man’s brow shadowed his eyes and he cast glances back at the transept every few steps. Athos had no method of discerning whether this was to check that the men had left or that the unknown men were there awaiting the priest to reveal the escapees. Whatever their tense discussion had entailed there was no doubt he and Aramis had been central to their debate.

Easing the curl of his fingers to straighten he shifted to press as far back from Aramis as was able to be accomplished in the small space. He took shallow breaths, his shoulders barely lifting with the action. With the wall at his back, and his breathing slowed, he readied himself to follow Aramis out of the compartment.

He’d leave it to his friend to determine what to do with the priest. Given the space of their compartment they might be able to secure him within and make their escape. Provided no guards lay in wait outside the cathedral. Athos expected his proposal of acting as a distraction would be rejected.

Aramis tended to favor sacrificial plans only when he was the one volunteering.

Athos tipped his head close enough to whisper directly next to Aramis’ ear.

“Plan?”

Athos exhaled the word before pressing as far back from Aramis as was able to be accomplished in the small space. The minor tilt pushed him into a state of dizziness, and the pounding at the side of his head from his blood shifting under the skin gave him a hint of the deep bruising at his temple.

“Escape.”

Resisting a roll of his eyes, or a glare, was more for his own sake than for the fact that Aramis would be unable to see the expression. His friend knew him well enough that he’d anticipate it regardless, and would likely come to the same conclusion that the effort did not outweigh the potential harm it could cause Athos. Even had he judged the pain to himself worth the expenditure, he’d do nothing that could hinder Aramis’ progress.

Athos held no illusion that the success of their escape would be entirely dependent on Aramis.

On his next inhalation Aramis leaned back, pressing against Athos in a manner he’d done many times throughout the years. An assurance. For which one of them it was most intended Athos had not entirely sorted before Aramis was reaching for the handle.

Battling a priest with words was a diversion Aramis undertook with eagerness; turning a weapon on one, even in the name of their own safety, would weigh heavily on his friend. Given the choice he’d prefer Aramis confess a selection of his multitude sins rather than the upcoming confrontation. Although Aramis often found disclosing his more pleasurable deviations more satisfying in recollection than a contrite admission.

Athos tensed his neck against another dip of his chin and set his feet as Aramis burst from the confessional. The door swung open in tandem with Aramis’ pistol arcing toward his hip. Still kept low, nonthreatening, providing time for Aramis to make their case for a more peaceful solution; less noise to attract any nearby soldiers. Empty churches were so damnably cavernous that echoes would travel, and given their current tally the less deaths attributed to them the better.

Aramis not having to do more than threaten a priest would be best. Not having to make threats would be ideal. Even Athos would admit that Aramis excelled at persuasion; his charm could prove an effective offense.

Any strategy would be Aramis’ sole discretion as the thrumming under Athos’ skull increased as though bony knuckles knocked the bone from within. Athos staggered forward, determined to support Aramis however he could manage, if only with his presence at his back. With his right shoulder pressed to the open doorway, still swinging from Aramis’ departure, Athos leaned on the wooden structure as he blinked his blurring vision into a rough focus to track Aramis’ progression.

A dark smudge he recognized as the cloud of hair so recently pressed against his nose was bent at an entreating angle. What appeared to be Aramis’ unarmed hand was gesturing. Or it was being held up and motionless, his poor vision might be embellishing the movements. His own fingers caught the lattice work of the wooden door, trailing along the carved wood until they curled roughly to grip against his slipping balance.

The voices were low, or at least he was unable to distinguish words as when the men were there. The murmuring sound of Aramis’ voice was a comfort, and he presumed the sharper, shorter, noises were the interspersed words of the priest.

He swallowed back a groan of frustration, keeping his eyes fixed to the swaying arms of his friend explaining – with likely unneeded dramatics – their defense. Given Aramis’ penchant for flourishes – and overacting if Athos were asked – to his basic movements Athos was undecided if Aramis was moving his arms so broadly or if the two figures he watched were blending one into the other.

It didn’t appear that either man was struggling against the other.

Were any man present to be described as struggling, although his straining and rigid muscles vied against such, it was him. Keeping upright was becoming a challenge and he swallowed down nausea, forcing his eyes from their dip to the floor. The patterns of dark and light shapes, locked into one another with sharp edges, shifted like the swell of an incoming tide.

For the time it took to take a deep breath he debated allowing himself to pitch forward. A collapse to the cold tile, while more in fashion with Aramis’ tactics, was not only more honest to Athos’ capabilities at present, but it might prevent Aramis from his absurd dedication to them both making their escape. With each wince of skin stretched tight with inflammation his contemplated plan was becoming less of a strategy and more of a certainty.

The confessional door creaked with his tightening fingers, an audible testament to the effort he made to keep upright. He trusted Aramis to be laying out a believable case on their behalf, but it did not lessen his desire to provide more support than his presence.

His potentially fading presence.

He knew, with unassailable logic, that the cathedral floor was not moving.

His body, however, did not wish to conform and preferred he attempt to shuffle his boots in counterbalance to what felt like an irregular swelling movement of the ground.

Athos tipped forward, willing his arm to at least prevent his battered face from striking the tile. Rather than his own arm he was caught around his torso by the unyielding, if only slightly shaking, arm of his friend. Having been supported through Parisian streets after hours gripping his cup, or an arm draped about his shoulders steering him toward company after a long ride’s completion, or hugged so frequently by the arms of his brothers, he could identify each of them by such an embrace without ever looking. Aramis’ arm closed tighter as he spoke, his fingertips brushing to check for new injuries likely out of habit than the possibility that Athos had acquired any.

“Forgive us, as I’ve said,” Aramis pulled him closer encouraging him from his slumping posture, and turning his own hip to press Athos against the confessional for support, “he’s unwell.”

“You’ve made quite a few claims this evening,” the priest took measure of Athos in his slouch.

Athos tracked the motion of his head rather than focusing on an expression he couldn’t make out even with the limited distance separating them all. He imagined he appeared as a man hauled from the sea, pinned between Aramis and the dark wood.

“This being the most believable claim,” the elder man continued, his eyes lingering on Athos, “this is no act.”

Wary of the man’s judgment Athos pushed more of his weight against the confessional. He remained within the warm half-circle of Aramis’ arm, but he wanted his friend clear to be free to move should he need.

“I’ve explained which men are playing a part, I’m sorry I’ve little proof other than my word but I assure you if you’ll only – ”

“Come,” the order and explanation were given to Aramis, but the priest’s gaze remained fixed on Athos, “your friend appears as the seaweed dredged up on a bough.”

Athos supposed he might, he certainly felt limp and ill used, clinging to the confessional by the angle of his shoulder. He’d have sagged to the floor already if not for Aramis, who leaned a hair’s width closer as he spoke.

“Mm, I’d prefer that blotchy pallor to appear more green, it would be closer to healing in that case. If you’ll grant him – ”

“I’ll not be in a position to grant anything if those soldiers return, and that musketeer – ”

“While it may sound incredible, that man,” Athos could hear the initial tones of a withheld sneer in Aramis’ voice, clearly affronted by the unknown man wearing his clothing, “is no soldier of the king. Absent our own garments we may not have the insignia, but with your indulgence we can prove – ”

“There’s no need,” a light breath of a chuckle caught Athos’ attention which quickly turned to disbelief, “it is a fine hat after all.”

“Pardon?”

“I was not the celebrant when you escorted a member of our congregation...”

“I…”

The arm supporting him tensed, tightening in an outward show of the pause to his thoughts this new revelation provided Aramis. Athos slid his eyes to observe Aramis’ profile, a tiny downturn of his mouth tugged at his wound and he settled for a flattening of his mouth.

“A prominent member…” prompted the priest, possibly mistaking Aramis’ delayed response for lack of memory.

A light pat of fingertips fluttered against Athos’ ribs.

“Then you know the truth of my claims.”

That their veracity relied upon Aramis’ dalliance amused Athos more than annoyed him. His head ached too much to muster any genuine irritation.

“Agnes…” he mumbled, inclining his head and then wincing.

“No, he escorted – ”

“He’s merely confused, Father,” tipping his head to indicate the chapel, Aramis continued with a firmer pat to Athos’ side before he directed the priest away from revealing the lady’s identity, “and a bit amused at our beloved patroness. We all demonstrate our devotion in a manner most befitting our abilities.”

While his thoughts were forming with greater ease he’d not the reserves to attempt to state: I’d expect she’d prefer you attempt the practice of restraint rather than contemplation.

Aramis gave a quick press of his hand as though he’d gleaned the sentiment from Athos’ wordless huff of exhalation.

“Come, they may yet return with more men.”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Yes, yes, but if you’d remain,” Aramis’ palm cupped the uninjured side of his face, guiding him back level with Aramis’ own face leaned down to peer at his wound, “still, there – much better.”

He took his eyes away from his ministrations, moving his own head to try and recapture Athos’ gaze. Athos blinked, squinting up at him and gathering his thoughts to clear his throat and tell the man he was entirely too close. Looming over him and tilting his head about like a bird was not required to tend his injury.

“Ah, before you exhaust yourself,” Aramis slid the hand supporting his cheek to press two fingers against his mouth, the pad of his catching against Athos’ thin scar, “it’s not necessary to thank me.”

Athos considered biting him, but settled for a glare.

“That would be more convincing if half of your face was not trying to blend in with your eyes. Although, there’s a good deal of purple, and it’s near black over by your ear,” he tilted his head as he observed and listed the colors, nails trailing just a hair’s width above the area he was contemplating, before he quipped in a light voice, “you might consider ducking next time.”

Aramis’ fingers had moved to steady Athos’ chin and even if it wouldn’t bring on dizziness he was too dignified to bite him. He was not, however, above a kick.

“Careful…” Aramis warned gently after tamping down on the hiss he’d let escape him.

With his thoughts still ambling about Athos still knew his body was slower, and he’d hardly aimed the flick of his boot. The sole had barely left the floor and he’d little power behind the motion; it had been merely a token gesture. It should not have caused that pinching of Aramis’ face. He’d not imagined that, as close together as they were he could make out the minuscule bends and peaks of the fine lines around Aramis’ eyes at this distance.

“Athos, you do yourself – and me – no favors by moving. I’ll complete my work much faster if you’d remain still.” He reached without looking to make a selection from the discarded tools where he’d cobbled supplies and they clattered against the small table while he waited for Athos’ compliance.

“You’re hurt,” he could’ve smacked his own palm to his head if it wouldn't cost him too greatly in pain at the bland obviousness of his statement. Except, it wasn’t the cut, was it? There was something else. He remembered noises in the dark cell, and shuffling to the cathedral, there was something – he’d known to remember – something he’d meant to ask after.

“It’s long stopped bleeding, I’ll tend it once you’ve been sorted,” the lines around Aramis’ eyes smoothed, his mouth curving, “which will happen sooner if you cease moving about.”

“That needs cleaning, it was deeper,” Athos frowned as he spoke and Aramis angled his head matching Athos’ own chin dipping down in an attempt to observe the cut, “deeper along the bone.”

Prevented from viewing the injury he glared back up, accepting that it would have less impact than it ever did given Aramis’ self-imposed role of minder. In fairness, he was the less injured party. Aramis winked at him before squinting over at his hairline.

“It was only the one stitch, but if you insist on jerking your head about I’ll have no choice but to reinforce that one.”

“Leave it,” Athos frowned, but quit trying to view Aramis’ collarbone, choosing instead to make a vague motion at his own face, “wrap it and be done with this fussing.”

“Perhaps there’s a mirror among the relics and reliquaries,” Aramis unbent slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder about the sacristy, before fixing his gaze to Athos, “if you could see the state of your face you’d be more amenable to my ‘fussing’ I think.”

Plucking up another piece of folded cloth from the side table they’d dragged next to the thick wooden bench set along the wall, Aramis blotted at the site of the solitary stitch before brushing the hair into order.

“It’s a blessing that priest recognized me, else I’d have had quite the task of convincing him that one with such a bedraggled was indeed a musketeer.”

Athos sniffed out a breath, smirking up at his friend, expecting his meaning would be interpreted.

“No,” Aramis shook his head, but his smile broadened and he reached for the bandaging to re-wrap over the gash, “it’s fortunate that I am so very memorable.”

“He remembered your hat.”

“It’s a fine hat.”

The teasing smile slipped from his features, his expression darkening over the recollected loss.

“A very fine hat, and one that I will see returned to me, along with my weaponry, my clothes, my sash...he was wearing my hat, Athos! Impersonating me, sullying my reputation and – ”

“Precisely what reputation have you in Amiens?”

“Enough of one that I was well remembered.”

Athos kept silent that it was likely the female members of the congregation that had most taken note of him.

“Enough that we’ve been believed and that we should be concerned that someone is accompanying a red guard about Amiens claiming to be me and impersonating a musketeer.” Satisfied with his ministrations Aramis ordered the supplies before he turned to sit beside Athos on the broad wooden bench, a wince pinching his features momentarily. Running a hand through his hair out of habitual gesture of frustration rather than in protest of his missing hat Aramis’ face took on a more serious mien. “Impersonating musketeers, in fact, as it’s near certain another is moving about with your own effects.”

“Another complication. Did you recognize the guard with him?”

“Not as one of the cardinal’s men in Paris, no. He bore the uniform, but perhaps it was as unscrupulously obtained as our own. Or…” Aramis’ mouth twisted in a frown and he leaned more deeply against the tall wooden back of the bench. “Or it’s all been orchestrated by Richelieu?”

“How would he have known that we’d run into his men…” Athos trailed off, while the thrumming in Athos’ head pushing more forcefully at the site of the new stitch.

“If they are his men. Well, that is if they are members of the Red Guard.”

“Spies?”

“Possible.”

“Then why – ”

“Don’t touch,” Aramis had his left wrist in hand before Athos had realized he’d raised it from his lap, “you’ll only loosen the bandaging and irritate the skin further. No need to poke the bruising.”

Athos closed his eyes in acceptance, before a flash of memory tugged him back to focus, and his hand was moving toward Aramis aided by the other man’s own expectation that Athos would pull it to himself. Aramis recovered himself before Athos could brush his shirt aside to view the dark line along his right shoulder.

“I could – ”

“No.” Having countered Athos’ motion, Aramis applied enough pressure to return Athos’ hand to his thigh. “Thank you.”

“You’re injured,” he fought the heavy weight of sleep threatening him, and tried to sift through that fog to what else he had wished to say. He’d known, he remembered there were clear questions he’d meant to ask of Aramis. “I think you - ”

“For a man whose head was nearly cracked apart you’re rather focused on the wrong concerns.”

“I am concerned.” He wanted to claw at his head for the specific evidence for that concern, he knew he’d perceived behavior that had cause for questions. Infuriatingly Aramis’ behavior often provided cause for questions and he also was talented at shifting the focus from himself. This deflection was to be expected, but what had Athos grinding his teeth was his own lack of concentration. He focused on the one fact no blow to the head could ever dispense with. “You are as much my concern as I am yours.”

Aramis’ restless shifting, his adjustment of his shoulders against the smooth wood, ceased and he let out a breath. 

“You’ve no need for concern here.” Aramis assured him, eyes meeting his gaze, before raising his wrist between them and fussing with his stained cuff. “I should ask him to procure a chemise this will be troublesome to get out by morning.”

“At least let me examine the wound.”

“Father Ablay has offered and, no offense meant friend, his hands are a good deal steadier than yours at present.” Aramis leaned closer, tucking against Athos’ side when his head began to list to the right, anticipating it would not be long before Athos would be forced to rest. “Although you’ve lovely ones even if you refuse my efforts to soften them.”

Stiffening his neck, he peered at Aramis for the space of a few breaths, he noted the minute twitch of Aramis’ mustache.

“Are we truly going to debate oil and almond paste while your shoulder remains untreated?”

“Athos, you take abysmal care of your hands, and I shall always despair over any lack of care to yourself.”

Athos took care to raise only his right brow, ensuring the motion wouldn’t tug at Aramis’ needlework.

“Yes, yes,” Aramis’ own carefully maintained hand fluttered in dismissal, “your point is well taken, I am sure Father Ablay shall return any moment to assist me. While I hold you in very high esteem I would not trust you to accurately wrap a bandage at present, much less touch a needle to my skin in your condition,” he clasped Athos’ uninjured shoulder, “but I deeply appreciate your concern. Now, do try and rest? We’ve our next plans to consider.”

“Together,” Athos insisted, blinking rapidly against his lids already succumbing to the temptation of closing, “you’re not to leave. We will decide our next action together.”

“I may slip off to have a look at – ” Aramis tilted his head to view his face at Athos’ noise of protest, “...you can hardly object. Think of it, Athos, the Crown of Paraclet! When else will I have such an opportunity again?”

He motioned to the shelves and cabinets of the sacristy before he smoothed his hand down over Athos’ shoulder, patting at the center of his chest.

“I promise to have returned when you wake. As I said earlier, ‘you will not be free of my escort for some time yet,’ Athos.”

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD

Slurred Words | “I can’t think straight.”

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Athos’ cheek stuck, flattened against the wood and pulled the thin skin under his eye when he tried to lift his head. His neck sent him a clear indication that he’d let it slide into an odd angle, despite Aramis’ borrowed cloak formed into a pillow.

Aramis himself was preoccupied, not yet noticing Athos’ struggle to stand, and he had his back to the bench Athos had used for his rest.

His friend and the priest were stooped over some papers at a long, wood table. Cloths and what appeared to be inkwells and small glass bottles of varied amber and clear liquids were scattered like discarded chess pieces alongside the paper they considered. Powder and coal were lumped beneath a wrist-thick candle, and the light from several others bent and spun as he blinked to focus on the scene.

Athos’ mouth lifted at the sight of the gold crown adorned with enamel and gemstones which he surmised to be the votive crown. Set on a wine-colored velvet pillow it rested further back on the table from the document the pair of men was bent over. The priest traced a finger above the paper while Aramis focused on the document, a crumble of linen in his hand, and said something too low for Athos to recognize.

His fingers groped over the smooth wood, turning bloodless at the tips in his effort to pull himself upright.

As if pulled from sensing Athos contemplating him, Aramis turned before he could straighten.

His eyes were alight with the fervor similar to after a card game won off Porthos. One in which Aramis knew Porthos had employed his considerable skill and tricks, yet Aramis had found an opening to best him.

Athos pressed his lips into a smirk, although from the tilt of Aramis’ it might have been a slope of them instead. His mottled bruising and skin pressed against wood and the rough cloak might’ve further altered his expression.

He swallowed, and after a wince he made an inquiring grunt.

“We…” Aramis gestured between himself and the priest before striding the few steps over to Athos, “…we have uncovered what those guards have been seeking. Tilt your head back.”

Attention deferred from sharing his discovery, Aramis caught Athos’ chin with two fingers and considered him as if he were one of the reliquary’s artifacts.

“Look this way, please…”

Athos glared up at him, more interested in Aramis’ newfound information than tracking his finger’s movement.

“The letter?”

“No,” Aramis winked, crouching further, “that’s my thumb.”

Athos pressed his lips into a firm line.

“That much pressure?” Aramis shook his head, moving his thumb side-to-side, and frowning. “Tempting a headache…”

He arched a brow, blinking against the sting from the cut to his scalp protesting the action.

“Fair, I expect you’ve quite the pain here.”

Holding his thumb still, he raised his left hand to lightly press the edges of the bruising.

“You’ve…”

Athos leaned forwards, nose nearly knocking into one of the many fingers in his sight-line.

“I?” Aramis continued to move the pads of his fingertips lightly against his temple. With his focus on the damage to Athos’ scalp, his right hand held before Athos’ eyes dropped to near chin level. “I think you’d best you follow my instructions, hmm? Which includes following...over here…”

Aramis raised his hand as he spoke, but Athos frowned at the incorrect number of fingers.

“You...there are…” Athos forcefully exhaled. His thoughts were not easily formed into speech, just as his vision would not readily focus on the nearest objects. Or his friend. “...several...of those...or…”

Athos swallowed, pursing his lips against rambling. He took a deep breath and blinked several times.

“Seeing multiple? I’ll take that sound as an affirmation of my guess.” Withdrawing his hand to a further distance than a hair’s width from Athos’ nose he turned his thumb side-on to Athos. 

A reasonable man knew men did not have multiple thumbs on one hand. A man who’d been struck in the head could not count himself surprised at the additions. Athos would’ve preferred to be able to rise and dispense with Aramis’ ministrations entirely, but failing to communicate that he twisted his mouth into a frown of protest.

“Father, I’d like to blame this on his injury, but he’s stubborn as a mule at the best of times.”

Casting what he hoped would be an a pointed look; one that would convey how humorous such an accusation was coming from Aramis he cleared his throat.

“Even if we may be counted as evenly matched, you well know I won’t be dissuaded in this. As I’ve said, I’d like you to follow...”

“Aramis.”

Aramis raised one brow, setting his shoulders and tilting his finger marginally closer.

“Athos?”

Drawing his brows together he flinched before rolling his eyes in frustration. He glanced at Aramis from under his lashes – blinking several times to see only one vision of Aramis’ face – before he conceded and tried to focus on his friend’s hand.

“Hmm.”

Responding in kind with an inquiring noise of his own he waited through a few more shifts of Aramis’ thumb.

“Not ideal...you’ll be tracking no quarry with that gaze…” Aramis straightened, pausing to wait for Athos to focus on him. “Your glare wouldn’t even warn off a stable hand at present.”

“The letter?”

“At least we may count on your determination. Now,” holding out his right arm as he pivoted, he plucked the paper from the priest’s outstretched hand, “we’ve revealed…”

Aramis tripped. He tripped over a plain, smooth floor.

“Aramis.”

“Trifles...trifles…” He waved a dismissive hand, fluttering the paper.

The frown Athos gave him at being quoted one his own dismissals back at him tugged at the bruising along his temple.

“Thank you, Father. I will satisfy his curiosity whilst you make arrangements.”

“Arrange...arrangements?” Not even bothering to watch the priest’s departure Athos fixed Aramis with as best a stare as he could manage with his head threatening to slide from his shoulders.

Given what the two had been engaged in when he woke Athos expected they were not in imminent danger of betrayal. At least not where their pursuers were concerned. Athos held no such optimism that Aramis had devised a more benevolent betrayal.

“Father Ablay has seen the wisdom of my plan.”

“Wisdom.” Athos infused the word with as much dryness as he could muster.

Aramis nodded, even having the audacity to smile as though whatever he’d conceived with the priest was a settled matter.

“Come now, Athos, my plans have often yielded successes.”

Had he not had such a cluttered mind he’d have liked to point out that such plans generally meant chaos, unnecessary theatrics, and all manner of danger before they managed to scrape out a victory.

“We need some manner of a plan, and of the two of us I am clearly the superior – ”

Clearing his throat sounded overly loud to his ears.

“I will spare you a debate of our attributes until a later date as it would be unfair of a gentleman to take advantage of your injury. However, in these circumstances,” Aramis shifted his weight and angled his steps towards the bench previously occupied by Athos’ legs, “I am the superior mind of the two of us.”

Lord help them for that. Given Aramis’ chuckle as he moved to sit Athos’ thoughts were at least easy enough to guess. Rather than try to voice his unease with what he expected would be a plan for Aramis taking action and Athos being safely ensconced he relied on their long history of silent communication. Athos attempted a deep frown but needed to raise his hand to rub ever so cautiously at his throbbing temple.

Aramis merely raised a brow, whether a mockery of Athos’ oft used expression of disapproval or in amusement at Athos’ continual unintended self-harm he didn’t care. Instead he let out a deep sigh and looked to the abandoned crown as Aramis settled down beside him.

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“H’d hurts.”

“Took a bad hit.”

“N’tright.”

“Nope.”

“N’fair.”

“Can’t say that it is.”

“Ch’ted.”

“Wasn’t a fair fight,” Porthos agreed, reaching to dunk another folded cloth into the wash basin next to the chipped pitcher.

“Can’t…not...can’t think...straight…”

“Don’t have to, just let me take care of you, y’only need to rest.

“Drty, notguard guard-guarding guards.”

“They were,” Porthos nodded solemnly.

“Sneaky.” D’Artagnan asserted, nodding to himself as he drew out the vowels.

Wringing out the cloth, he smoothed back the dark strands flopping everywhere and placed the damp fabric carefully over the pinched forehead. “Landed a nasty blow.”

“Dumb, n’lucky.”

Porthos frowned at that, it might have been a lucky moment but he still regretted not being able to prevent the strike. They’d been forced too far apart and his warning had come too late for d’Artagnan to both move and attempt to counter the attack.

“Chickens.”

Porthos couldn’t help chortling at that, before giving a quick apology at d’Artagnan’s hiss. He tossed the old cloth, stained from the slow closing cuts to the pile at his feet and dragged the candle-holder closer. The light threw enough shadow across the younger man’s face to give the illusion of whiskers the boy didn’t have.

“They’re gonna love that bit. Think I’ll leave that t’you to tell ‘em. Aramis’ll be right proud of you.”

“Wish he was – ”

“I know. I know,” Porthos cast his eyes over the bandage on d’Artagnan’s side. The man had slipped from the dark, kept to the shadow of the ship and close to the water before attacking d’Artagnan while he’d been fighting one of the guards. “Never feels right gettin’ sewn up by someone else, too used to ‘im now.”

“How...how d’you know? N’t awake.”

“Been awake plenty of times,” Porthos countered, taking the edge of the covering between his thumb and forefinger to gauge how much it had bled since he’d last checked. “Better not to be, if y’ask me.”

“I should’vetur – ”

“Hey, none of that,” he curved his hand over d’Artagnan’s further hip, preventing any chance he’d disturb the bandages or the wound. As it was the cloth slipped over one eye and Porthos curled his spare hand there after righting it. “Can’t second guess, even Athos couldn’t have parried that one.”

“Wouldn’t, wouldn’t havethought...chickens…”

“No,” Porthos admitted keeping up a soothing pressure with both hands. “Then again, he’s employed some creative diversions over the years. No chickens...yet. You’ll have to be the one to give him some pointers there.”

“Farm.”

Porthos smiled at the declaration, before using the hand over d’Artagnan’s hip to give a light shake.

“Keep awake, surgeon’ll be here soon.”

“Ar’ms.”

“I know, I know. I wish they were here too...”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

Chapter Text

⚜⚜⚜⚜

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Loneliness | *Regret | *Survivor’s Guilt | *Shivering

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“Shh…”

Porthos adjusted the cool cloth spread over d’Artagnan’s forehead. He smoothed his hand over the damp hair, lank strands spreading onto the pillow in odd clumps and swirls. The fine strands were beginning to knot as Porthos worried a small cluster between thumb and forefinger.

“Best y’sleep all this away.”

D’Artagnan flinched without waking, a shiver caused the lightest vibration which Porthos only noticed because his palm was splayed over the young man’s head.

“The harbor master sent for the maréchaussée.” Porthos smoothed back the hair he’d sorted and stroked over d’Artagnan’s forehead once more before settling back into the creaky chair he’d dragged to the bedside. “They’re holdin’ yer attacker and the rest. Agreed t’let me question ‘em once yer settled.”

He swallowed around the words, his own voice gruff from lack of sleep and arguments held at the dock. His warning to d’Artagnan had felt as though he’d inhaled ash, stuck in his throat – thick, and irritating. It had come too late. Not an unfamiliar circumstance, unfortunately, and each of them had more than once called to another when too far away. Logic, and Athos, would firmly ground their feet to finishing the matter before them, but it never stopped the invisible pull to move to aid a friend.

An emotionally driven charge to aid another before eliminating the threat they themselves faced would be folly. They all knew getting injured, or killed, would only risk the chances of the brother they wanted to help.

He’d had to remove his focus from d’Artagnan to secure his opponents, and that warning, in the end, had not proven enough for d’Artangan to counter the movements of the surprise attacker.

They’d known Red Guards would be in Calais, it was as expected as the presence of Durant and Alarie. All that accounted for, the knowledge had not been enough to prevent their altercation, and certainly not the mystery assailant at the dock. That, and the additional Red Guards that had instigated the initial skirmish

They’d been delayed by Athos and Aramis, but not so long that they’d not made Calais several hours after him and d’Artagnan.

“Holdin’ all ships bound for England too,” the young man’s brows pinched together and Porthos curled his hand over the warm skin above d’Artagnan’s brow. “Wasn’t very popular after that was confirmed, but they can’t argue with the king’s orders.”

Feeling another tremble, he moved to grab a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. He chuckled to himself, and shook his head at the same time he shook the blanket over the younger man. Caught in the loneliness of the silence of one friend, while missing his others, he felt a bit of fond memory as he tucked the blanket about d’Artagnan for additional warmth.

“Now don’t go on about watnin’ that and then tearin’ it away,” Porthos advised as he sat back in the chair to keep his watch. “Swear I’m gonna stitch one to his shirtsleeves one of these days…”

He’d never. He’d fetch it back when it was thrown off, settle it over the thin sheets when Aramis was shivering, and even shake it out when it was declared ‘too scratchy.’

“Athos threatened to sit on ‘im once.” Porthos leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Regretted that as soon as Aramis requested he just join him in the bed, and we all know darn well he’d have kicked ‘im out as randomly as he does those blankets.”

Porthos frowned at his silent friend, the younger man had fallen into a deep sleep after the surgeon departed. He never liked having to sit at the bedside of his brothers, waiting, and wondering, and doubting. It was an even worse feeling when he carried some of the weight for their injury. Were Athos or Aramis here they’d tell him it wasn’t his fault, and that his warning could not have come any sooner. It did little to assuage the feelings simmering in his gut: he felt responsible.

The impatient Gascon would bristle at the suggestion that it was Porthos’ responsibility to look after him, his duty to protect him in the altercation at the docks. It would be a fair critique, except they all looked out for each other. Just as Aramis would inevitably feel it his duty to guard Athos when they separated, it fell to Porthos to watch over d’Artagnan. One of the loneliest duties was that of keeping vigil at the bedside of a wounded friend.

He could not release his mind from thoughts that if they’d remained together they wouldn’t have been overwhelmed in the harbor.

‘Then Athos may have been injured, caught up in the fray’ and ‘you don’t take your eyes off the opponent before you to try and counter one yards from you’ filtered into his thoughts in echoes of his friends’ voices.

“Never counted on the emissary...” Porthos dragged a hand down his own face with a heavy sigh.

“Wouldn’t…”

“D’Artagnan?”

When injured Porthos preferred to sleep it off; numb to the pain until it subsided enough to not flinch with every movement. D’Artagnan seemed to resent the very sickbed in which he lay when forced to rest.

“Easy, sit back,” Porthos stretched over to lay his palms on the bare shoulders to prevent the younger man from rising.

On a hiss, d’Artagnan became reacquainted with the injury to his side and Porthos winced along with him.

“Yer gonna pull the stitches…” Porthos admonished, pressing a bit more firmly, “I’ll get another pillow, but you’re stayin’ there.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth moved between a smirk and a frown before he settled back on the flat pillow and waited.

While Porthos tucked the extra pillow behind his head he tucked his chin, lifting the sheets, to view the bandaging.

“No bleed-through…”

“Lucky that,” pulling and turning the chair, Porthos resettled so he could stretch his legs out but d’Artagnan wouldn’t have to strain to see him, “and yer on bed rest until that’s looked at tomorrow.”

“In...a few hours?”

“Little more than that, said he’d be back around noon.”

“And you?”

“Not leavin’ until then.”

“Think I can handle...laying here.”

“Even if y’didn’t just wince movin’ your arm yer not stayin’ here alone, not with any of ‘em still out there.”

“Still?”

“Durant and Alaire are thinkin’ they didn’t act alone, and I’m inclined to believe them…” Porthos rolled his shoulders and brushed his wrist over his yawn. “They’re not splittin’ up and I’m not leaving you alone here. No tellin’ who else might be about and lookin’ for another chance at you.”

“Or you.”

“Maybe, but I’m able to defend myself – ” Porthos held up a hand, a gesture to warn d’Artagnan against moving when he saw the flash in his eyes. “I only mean that right now it’s too risky for any of us t’be alone. You need to rest.”

“I’m not the one yawning.” D’Artagnan remained braced on his elbows a few moments longer before he relaxed the stubborn set of his shoulders and resettled against his doubled pillows.

“Well, I didn’t get a blade jammed down my side, so…” shrugging, Porthos crossed his ankles, and leaned deeper down into his chair, “...of the two of us, seems to me you need the rest more than me.”

“I’m not tired.”

Porthos made a noncomittal noise in his throat around the same moment that d’Artagnan realized how the phrase would sound to Porthos’ ears.

“Alaire and Durant still searching?”

“Lookin’ into a few leads, they had rooms nearby...said they’ll meet us in the morning.”

“Where are – ”

Porthos kept his arms comfortably crossed on his chest but chuckled at the brief tension in d’Artagnan. His muscles locked and released quickly at the mere idea he’d see action come morning, like a hound at the suggestion of a hunt.

“They’re comin’ here,” Porthos clarified, in a manner not as firm as Athos but one that conveyed there would be no discussion of the matter, “before the physician looks you over and then we’ll sort our next moves. Emissary’s still missin’ and yer attacker wasn’t exactly bein’ cooperative...can’t have anyone make for England without those papers, and we still – ”

“Have to find the others first.”

“Something’s in them,” Porthos agreed, there were too many connected events and they needed those documents even if they were meant to be a distraction, “has to be, no reason to go to all this trouble.”

“Not the other papers, I meant we should make for Amiens, see what they’ve found.”

Considering the younger man’s pallor, Porthos figured it was better to divert him until their fellow musketeers arrived. No sense speculating when circumstances, and evidence, could change come morning.

“Much as I’d like to, you’re not going anywhere with yer side ripped open.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth turned down while he raised one eyebrow, distorting his features when he pulled his face in opposite directions.

“It’s a cut,” he protested, motioning with his fingers, but careful – Porthos noted – not to lift the arm and shift his body to disturb the wound, “stitched and bandaged.”

“Newly stitched,” Porthos rolled his shoulders into a stretch and resettling to lean further back, considering d’Artagana with patience and good humor. He still felt a twinge of guilt that the younger man had been hurt, but it was dissolving with each reassertion of the lad’s stubbornness. “You’ve not even sat up fully yet, and that ain’t a challenge to try, but they’re untested and that’s raw skin. Y’forget how often we’ve been reminded not to put tension on mending wounds?”

Friendly, chastising, or with a tinge of threat, Porthos could hear the reminders like notes of a recalled melody. It brought to mind his friend and the immediate sense of responsibility in his absence.

D’Artagnan let out a rush of air that fluttered the fall of his hair over his right brow.

“I can handle his threats,” d’Artagnan said dismissively, his blustery air a tell in itself.

“You? M’savin’ my own hide here.” At d’Artagnan’s eye roll, he continued. “Think he’ll spare me his ranting? You know he gets like a washerwoman who’s just had ‘er dryin’ sheets smudged when – ”

“Maybe if it was you, but he’s hardly – ”

A quick beat of irritation burned through Porthos at the dismissal, and the odd note in d’Artagnan’s tone. They could all be a bit out of sorts with an injury, so he tamped down his own annoyance to address what he suspected.

“Yeah, he gets fussed – and thoughtless – when he’s fixed on one thing, but don’t let that fool you into thinkin’ he’s any less concerned with you.” He unfolded his arms to drop his right hand to pat d’Artagnan’s shin. “You’ll be doin’ me the favor by not rousin’ that flash of temper in him, yeah?”

D’Artagnan made a shuft of his shoulder along with a nod, but didn’t quite settle despite leaning deep into his pillows.

“I doubted myself too,” he offered, waiting for Porthos to meet his eyes before he explained the angle of his thoughts, “I woke up, and a man was dead and I knew I would never...but,” he shook his head as if dispelling the memory, “I knew I hadn’t killed him, but part of me wondered, and for the briefest instant I considered I might’ve.”

“You couldn’t precisely remember what happened?” Porthos gave a wry twist of his mouth, but he hoped the teasing glint in his eye was readable by the younger man.

“I didn’t think you were the type of man who would, but – ”

Porthos took pity, maybe more out of d’Artagnan’s injury than his unease with the past, but he rarely found need to hold a grudge. Certainly didn’t – couldn’t now – after having spent so long in d’Artagnan’s company.

“Think you’d feel the same should similar circumstances occur?”

D’Artagnan took Porthos’ meaning, and he knew without their youngest stating it that they were well past any such doubts.

“Planning to get accused of murder anytime soon?”

Heartened by the teasing Porthos squeezed his lower leg, before crossing his arms again and relaxing into his seat. “Sooner or later one of us is bound to…”

D’Artagnan chuckled quietly, with a renewed excitement in his tone. “If anything I’ll be joining Aramis in redressing your doubters.”

Porthos’ pride at having such dedicated friends dimmed a bit at the thought of the potential consequences of such a vehement defense.

“Best keep on the official side of the law for now; think Aramis has enough to worry about with keepin’ Athos on his feet.”

“He’s probably delivering his own bedside lecture as we speak.”

“Could be,” Porthos shrugged, glancing over to where he’d tucked the other room’s chair under the door handle.

The latched and locked door.

“If their positions were reveresed he’d be pesterin’ Athos for an extra blanket, or a tale, or some honeyed wine.” Porthos winked at him. “Never hurts to try and tug on his protective nature when yer ill.”

“Protective? Athos? Scowling and – ”

“Once he’s past that part…” Porthos waved off d’Artagnan’s next interjection, “...and yeah, dependin’ what put you in the bed that scowl doesn’t fade too quick, but every time…”

Figuring d’Artagnan could do with a bit of cheering, and given that he was unlikely to drop back to sleep immediately he decided he might as well provide them both some entertainment. Having just been reminded of earlier days when tales of their past seemed to remind d’Artagnan that he didn’t share their closeness, one would think such stories would be a poor choice. Porthos has seen the change in him though, when he’d found his own footing with them and he’d wanted to hear of their past not for clues of how to fit in best, but to appreciate the men he’d come to know. His curiosity was born of amusement now and Porthos could find no excuse to indulge him, especially when it would serve to keep him from doing himself further injury.

“You know Aramis is worse when it’s him in a sickbed.” He said it as a statement of fact, as it was hardly in dispute that Aramis could be the absolute worst patient imaginable. “And he never means to be difficult, but he’ll skirt the edge of taking responsibility for that. Not because he doesn’t want to be cooperative, mind you, but since he ‘knows’ this and that about tendin’ wounds and ills – ”

“He thinks he knows his own limitations.”

“Now where’d y’get an idea like that?” Porthos grinned, cracking his neck and changing the ankle he’d crossed over the other, he eased into his description like putting on a well-worn doublet. It wasn’t as though he’d not said similar to Athos, and in front of Aramis, on numerous nights over the years, and he’d even made some of these claims to d’Artagnan once or twice before. “He means well, and the intention’s there – mostly – to follow his own advice, or the physician’s, even the captain’s when it’s been needed, but somehow he forgets, or gets distracted, or – ”

“Bored?”

“Swear half his troubles find him for bein’ left idle too long. Worst is when he’s confined, when he has to be in bed or risk illness or injury worsening, but not so bad that he can’t find the means to push himself. Thinks he has enough in him to ‘stretch his legs’ or ‘only fetch this or that’ but more often than not it’s lead to ‘im collapsed beside the bed until one of us finds him.”

Porthos stopped, and shook his head, remembering one occasion the man had been so dazed, but so delighted they’d come, that he’d invited them to join him there on the floor.

“For a man that can lay still and silent as a crane for over an hour to take a shot, can’t last more’n a minute if he’s got a fever.”

“Blankets?” D’Artagnan smiled, a fondness for the oft cited complaint apparent in his query.

“He’s the worst with ‘em. Would test the patience of even the angels, that’s when I pass him to Athos…”

“Athos?”

“Well, he’s no angel, but he’s patient with him.”

“Patient?”

“As Raphael himself...and, more than you’d think, he can be very patient and attentive, even tells good stories.”

“So Aramis has claimed,” d’Artagnan pressed his lips together but Porthos could tell by the muscles in his cheeks that he stifled a yawn.

“He’s right, both of ‘em are, but they narrate like they fence – Aramis is all flourishes and drama, while Athos is intense and thorough. ‘Cept he’s less likely to indulge unless yer really unwell, and there’s no fakin’ it with him, yeah?”

“Are you claiming Aramis never tried?”

“Oh, he has, plenty of times, but Athos knows. Even knows when Aramis’s wheedlin’ and then makes certain Aramis is aware that he is choosing to indulge him through no design of Aramis’ but his own decision.”

D’Artagnan merely raised a brow.

“Hey, if there’s one lesson I learned early regardin’ those two it’s knowin’ when not to interfere.”

“Especially if there’s a chance of a story?”

“Always,” Porthos agreed, “and now that there’s four of us Aramis has already found one, debated the roles too…”

“Oh?”

Noting another yawn suppressed, Porthos waited a few breaths to see if the younger man would drift to sleep.

“Mmhm, there’s four brothers and they each go out in the world to seek their fortunes...splittin’ up and – ”

“Splitting up…” d’Artagnan’s eyes had closed but he pushed them back open after several tries, “...always leads to trouble…”

“Can’t argue that. Now, Aramis has decided Treville can be the captain of the brothers instead of a ‘poor old father’ and that I can be the oldest...since the oldest becomes a thief – ”

“But – ”

“Have to admit I’d be the most skilled of all of us there.”

“Maybe we can trade?”

“Well it took Aramis a good deal of debating and editing and retellin’ parts to me before he decided which skill he’d ‘give up’ so each of us could fulfill a role. Insisted he could acquire the thief’s skill of being ‘so dexterous that nothing was safe from him, if he once desired to have it’ but that it’d ultimately make the most sense for me to take that one.”

“That does sound like Aramis,” d’Artagnan proclaimed, still keeping his tiredness at bay.

Porthos couldn’t blame him, he knew well the conflict of a restless spirit against an uncooperative set of limbs.

“Now Athos he gave the role of the astronomer, figurin’ he’d take to the gazin’ and studying, and he could be as ‘moody as he wished starin’ at the heavens’ and he’s fairly decent at seeing what’s meant to be hidden. Although Aramis claimed he’s adept enough with his own spyglass, but Athos needed a skill...so…”

Checking on d’Artagnan he was pleased that his eyes were half-lidded and risked a small yawn himself.

“You ought to at least make use of the wall,” d”Artagnan offered. “If you’re not going to sleep, you may as well be more comfortable than in that chair.”

“Can’t argue there, if yer sure?” Waiting on d’Artagnan’s nod he took up a spare blanket and rolled it to place behind his back. He knew taking the spare pillow and advising d’Artagnan to lay down would only renew his determination to theorize on their next course of action. Best to divert him until he succumbed to sleep.

“Is this his own new story? Couldn’t he just add another brother?”

“Why change that one when he’s got the chance to embellish a new one? Now, he’s fairly decided that I’m the thief, and Athos is the astronomer, but he went weeks trying to decid which of you should be the huntsman and which one the tailor...”

“Surely he’s the tailor?”

“Stands to reason since that’s the brother that sews up the eggs and stitches ‘so well that no seam will be visible’...but...the brother that picks up the skill of being a huntsman and on being given his pistol is told: ‘it will never fail you; whatsoever you aim at, you are certain to hit.’ Y’really think Aramis wouldn’t claim that skill? Plus there’s debate over which of them’s the youngest, but seems to be settled it’s the tailor. Think he’s plannin’ to change that though since the huntsman could easily be younger and he’s said since the huntsman ultimately chooses not to use his skill to shoot the dragon to rescue the princess because he might miss – ”

“Wait, there’s...a dragon? And a princess?”

“Yeah, and that ultimately decided the matter – he said he couldn’t believably take the role of huntsman since the huntsman claimed ‘I dare not fire’ on account of that he might’ve hit the princess and not the dragon, so he couldn’t accept that role and he decided the construction of their vessel with his skills would be more fitting.”

“Believable?”

“Yeah, I told him it’d need some work, here, let me start from the beginning...”

Porthos expected d’Artagnan might not remain awake past the introduction of the four ‘sons’ or ‘soldiers’ or ‘brothers,’ but he couldn’t resist the retelling to distract them both from their current troubles.

“There once was a dedicated captain who had four faithful soldiers and he said to them...”

⚜⚜⚜⚜

“You’d do better to rest.”

“M’fine.”

“Oh, that my dear friend is quite debatable,” Aramis said, directing his voice over his shoulder while keeping his eyes trained on the room outside their cupboard.

The box bed was set in the corner of the room and Aramis had left the front half-open, the angle allowing him to view the entry to the small room. They’d displaced two servants of Aramis’ mistress for what remained of the night. It would hardly be practical – or proper, and that was according to Aramis – for them to make use of his lady’s bed in her absence. That and it was on a higher floor, therefore less accessible when their transportation arrived.

Had they been observed making their way here, which had been a considerable risk, or should the house be searched, the closed-bed in the small scullery near the back of the home. A small fire burned in the hearth shared with the kitchen cast and warmed their tiny enclosure despite Aramis keeping one hinged door half-open.

“You should take some rest,” Athos spoke low, his own voice still causing aches within his head.

Aramis shifted, groping for the blankets edge and tugging their borrowed linens closer to his shoulder. They’d abandoned any hope of keeping the maids’ bedclothes clean as they kept their clothing and boots – as well as their weaponry – about them within the bed. On the chance that the guards conducted a search it would facilitate an easier escape. As easy an escape as could be made by two wounded men absent any real means.

“It’s safe enough,” he assured, content that they’d hear any intrusion, but his drifting thoughts still wondered at Aramis’ loosely constructed planning, “you trust that maid?”

“Marthe’s very sweet,” Aramis answered, finally leaning further down on the mattress with a shiver, and a yawn, “she’ll sound an alert.”

Having displaced young Marthe and her companion he wondered at their temperament after being woken at so odd an hour, especially given their absent mistress and the rare chance to extend their sleep. Given the expression on the young woman’s face at finding Aramis, and his ‘desperately wounded friend’ asking entrance and aid, he trusted in Aramis’ charm to win them accommodation more than pity for his state. The cobbled together planning was not the worst Aramis had conceived - not at all, considering some of the nonsensical stunts he had managed to pull success from in the past - but it was hardly a sound, steady path that they would be following. 

The two young women had indeed fussed over his injury and brought the requested towels and boiled water, as well as some heated wine that Aramis plied from them. They had been granted heavier cloaks and their supplies replenished, including weaponry procured from the grand house, but they were by no means safe. 

“You might remain here, there’s – ”

“No.”

Aramis’ sigh would've disguised the next fissure of chill if Athos wasn’t pressed along his back. Rather than debate the well-worn argument of where Aramis might safely leave him, he tossed an arm over Aramis’ side. If nothing else it would serve to prevent a well-meaning abscondment.

“I’m hardly going to abandon you,” Aramis teased, but did settle back. “I can attest that the upstairs rooms are blessedly more warm, and while I might be tempted to softer accommodations I am quite content here.”

“Then, go to sleep.”

“Yes, yes…” Aramis breathed deeply, but shivered again as though the act of drawing air had chilled him.

“I offered – ”

“It wouldn’t make sense.”

The closed-bed was small and arguably cozy, were it not occupied by two men of considerable height attempting to share while wounded and fleeing murder charges with weaponry and supplies tucked within the wooden box.

“I can keep watch.”

“You’re wounded, take some rest.”

“Marthe will alert us, you should rest.”

“I’m fine,” Aramis burrowed against the linens, tucking closer, and the clunk of his boot knocking one corner of the box was loud in the hushed store room, “but I’ve no idea how such small girls manage this chill every night.”

“Perhaps they’re comprised of sterner – ”

“Very amusing, and I would swap places were you not injured.”

“I am capable of – ”

“If needs be I should exit first, besides, I am the better shot.”

“In so small a space it hardly matters.”

The likelihood that any guard would enter from the side-street the small door opened onto was low. Even granted the nature of any search given the status of the woman who owned the home they’d be entering through the main doors of the residence. At which point Marthe and Emée had been instructed to claim they’d let them in under duress. Aramis had made it clear the women were not to help them in any manner, other than to sound an alert to them so they might attempt to flee.

Seeing the attentiveness, and admiration, – not uncommon where his friend was concerned – with which both girls paid his every direction Athos expected they’d contribute in some manner to divert any pursuit. Still, he wished no harm to befall them and they’d left the relative safety of the cathedral in order to spare the priest any association with their escape.

“One man is easier to hide than – ”

“No.”

“It’s not so far a distance, I could – ”

“No.”

“If I were to – ”

“No.”

“Athos,” Aramis half-turned, his hair tickling over Athos’ skin before a rush of breath accompanied the protest, “you can’t claim to know what I was suggesting, you haven’t let me finish. The map – ”

“Any plan,” Athos interrupted, not bothering to argue the point that he could well guess most proposals his friend could conceive, “that involves you acting alone – ”

“Think of it as separate information gathering. I will investigate the map, while you will survey – ”

“No.”

“And thus we return to your plan of obstructing my plans without any suggestions of your own.”

Athos didn’t envy the ache Aramis was undoubtedly causing to his neck from the angle and slid the hand he had at his waist free to push at his shoulder. In removing the hand from the built up warmth under the blankets to encourage his friend to settle back to the mattress, he could admit it was decidedly colder in the space nearer the opening, and where Aramis was closest.

“I have one.”

“Oh?”

“Go to sleep.”

The combination of grumbling and sighing that suggestion drew forth nearly bounced off the close walls of their shared space. Though it was overloud to Athos’ sensitive hearing he was comforted when Aramis finally twisted his head forward and returned to lay on his side.

Saying nothing further he used one arm to place Athos’ back around his side, and used the pistol held with the other to tip the ajar door to half-closed to protect them from both intruders and the chill.

⚜⚜⚜⚜