Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

❧

Not much warmth had built up in the room, despite the afternoon sun reflecting the brightness of the snow through the windows.

Aramis shifted, a great yawn exposing his teeth.

“You’re not yet dismissed, but I’ll take that as a sign nonetheless.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it, Captain,” Porthos assured, grinning down at Aramis.

“No, and considering ‘Aramis’ is wounded you two had best go and look after him. I’ve a few duties that need attending,” Tréville commented, raising the opened packet of letters they’d brought him, “now that I’ve these.”

“Our apologies for the delay.”

“Unforseen, and unavoidable, circumstances,” Tréville acknowledged Athos’ admission, with a glance to the curling and uncurling tail on his desk. “I’ve removed you three from duties until the new year, as I expect Aramis won’t be making an appearance until he’s much recovered.”

~‘I won’t protest the time off, but are we not to leave the garrison?’~ Aramis glanced up at Athos as he thought aloud to him, their shared communication silent but still obvious to the men who knew them as well as their captain and Porthos. ~‘My shoulder isn’t so bad that I must remain in my room for an entire week.’~

“Is there a problem?”

“Aramis is – concerned.” Athos sent a mild frown at the dark furred cat sitting to the left of Tréville’s arm, on his desk, waiting for Athos to communicate. He nodded his head, inclining the soft tipped ears towards the elder man, expecting Athos to elaborate. “That he cannot leave the garrison.”

“He can’t.”

Aramis let out a chirp of protest before he was quelled by a look from Tréville.

“For the immediate future,” he clarified, “unless you wish to fake your injury to the level that would match what the men saw of you this morning.” Relenting at Aramis’ dip of head, he leaned forward on his arms to address the small, black cat. “Given your pallor when you arrived, you can’t return to duty. The men are accustomed to you having to remain abed on occasion. I see no reason why you shouldn’t take advantage of that, but I can make it an order.”

“It would avoid any slips with fakin’ a worse injury than y’have, less questions…”

Aramis’ head swiveled to send an accusatory look at Porthos, amber eyes narrowing at his beloved friend’s seeming betrayal.

Tréville waved the flash of temper off, which Athos had to admit was much less impactful when Aramis was in this form. His passion was clear, albeit diminished by his smaller stature. Although what he lacked in force in this form, he was often granted greater indulgences that none would so easily allow him as a man.

“Besides, there’s no reason ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ cannot leave the garrison,” Tréville began sorting the papers he held, before glancing to the two men before his desk, “should Porthos or Athos take some time away from Aramis’ bedside.”

Mollified, for the moment, Athos could still detect a bit of tension beneath the glossy fur. Aramis held his peace, making no acknowledgment by way of sound or any confirmation to their shared internal speech.

“I am thankful your mission was successful, and that you’ve returned mostly unharmed, but these will see me away until mid-morning tomorrow. You’ve no duties other than what you devise, and to ‘take care’ of Aramis.”

He stood, gesturing at them that they were dismissed to their own pleasures and vices as he began gathering his cloak and hat.

“We’ll see to it none of the men have reason to suspect,” assured Athos, “we plan to keep him company tonight.”

“Food, cards, a gift or two, no reason for anyone to guess he’s not mendin’ in his room.”

~‘Over-indulgence and perhaps drunkenness...general merriment...’~

“A quiet celebration, Captain,” promised Athos.

~‘Should you really be telling lies to our dear Captain Tréville at Christmas, Athos?’~

~As ‘Aramis’ is not well, we will be having a rather quiet evening.’~

Aramis shifted his shoulder and leapt from the desk, taking a moment to bump into Porthos’ boot, circling the muscled calf as the man stood. Athos got up a bit slower, motioning for them both to pass as he lingered to speak with Tréville. A smile softened the shallow lines on his face when Aramis paused and danced about as Porthos pulled open the door to the hallway.

Handing Tréville his gloves from the edge of the desk, he plucked his own from his belt and moved to follow them down the hall. Clustered at the door, Athos tucked his mouth further into his cloak to ward off the worst of the initial rush of cold air.

“Forgot about that? Don’t know how,” Porthos made an exaggerated show of rubbing his arms, eyeing Aramis’ raised paw, “yer own prints are right there.”

There were evenly spaced depressions between the sets of men’s boots from their earlier climb to the captain’s office. The midday sun, or the excitement of returning, had kept enough chill from him that Aramis hadn’t minded taking the steps himself. Now his paw hesitated to touch the cooling flakes that were beginning to crust with the coming night’s lowering temperatures. Before he could give a warble of complaint Porthos chuckled.

“Right, let’s have you up here then,” Porthos bent to scoop him into his arms, taking the added measure of tucking one fold of his cloak around him, “less risk of someone trampling you if I carry you.”

Athos caught Tréville’s mustache twitching at the sight before he sobered and indicated Athos to pass.

“Black fur stands out against the snow, but not when so many men are about. Look at that crowd, hey? Wouldn’t want yer tail stomped on by accident.” Porthos spoke to ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ as though speaking to any other man; and other than Athos and the captain there was no reason for any of the men to suspect the cat understood anything other than the friendly tone. Most had grown used to the sight of Porthos chatting with the black cat that lived in the garrison. “Hope you’ve plenty left, Serge!”

The elder man was in the yard, stirring a cauldron he'd hung from a tripod, another similar pot on his left side. The snow around him was trampled to a murky brown from all the men approaching with cups and bowls throughout the day.

“He should,” remarked Tréville, tilting his head over to Athos before craning over the landing to view the cook, “I purchased what seemed a cartload of spices and fruit.”

The smoke wafted up and the scent of the vin chaud reminded Athos of how little they’d eaten the prior night and this morning. Despite it being Christmas, they’d declined anything beyond a thin porridge from their hosts before departing for Paris. He could smell the apples and cinnamon from the landing, and smiled as Porthos took the remaining steps two at a time, Aramis’ nose turned up to scent the air.

“He claims his recipe goes back to the Romans,” the captain told Athos, joining the group of men milling about the fires and plucking a cup from the long table in the yard. He passed one to Athos before taking one for himself. “May as well warm the throat before setting off.”

“Of course,” Athos’ lips twitched, but he wasn’t about to make further remarks.

The sunlight was a help, but it did little to keep the sting of the air from seeping through cloaks and doublets. Even wool stockings were a poor defense against near knee-high snow. Much of the garrison’s remaining snow was ankle deep or mashed down entirely from the constant flow of men and beasts. However, Athos didn’t even need the cold for a reason to indulge in mulled wine.

“Well, this’s a nice surprise, usually don’t see you when Aramis’s taken to bed.” Serge ladled a portion near to spilling over Porthos’ cup and reached out to scratch ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ between the ears. He gave a sigh, looking to Porthos to commiserate. “Marsac’d come and fetch fer ‘em both, but you’d never see ears nor tail of this one.”

Porthos nodded politely, if a bit stiffly, and Athos stepped over to them while Tréville exchanged well wishes with a few men who’d approached him. He held out his cup as a distraction and caught Aramis bumping the top of his head into Porthos’ jaw in his periphery.

“He’s quite fond of Aramis, but now that he’s moved rooms ‘Le Maître chat’ seems to have a penchant for exploring.”

“Or bein’ with you two. Don’t think I haven’t noticed he follows you around more than I see ‘im with Aramis these days.”

Athos kept silent, glad that Serge had not put together that no one ever saw the small black cat with Aramis. All the better that they assumed the feline remained in his room with him whenever he was unwell and they never noticed that Aramis and the cat never appeared together.

“Well, s’nice he’s taken to us as well as Aramis. Never a good sign when an animal doesn’t like a man…”

“Watch ‘im or he’ll be nose deep in yer cup.”

Porthos gave a loud laugh upon seeing ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ rather far into the heated wine, and lapping up another sip before he licked at his muzzle. Serge topped off Porthos’ cup and patted the cat’s head.

“That’s all for now, for you ‘Monsieur’ but you two let me know when yer bringing some to Aramis and I’ll fix you a pot of wine and stew to put on the fire in his room.”

“He was sound asleep last I checked, we pushed hard to get back before noon.” Porthos explained after draining the last of his spiced wine, gesturing with the empty vessel while tucking his cloak tighter around Aramis. “Best leave ‘im sleep fer a few hours, we’ll wake ‘im fer an early dinner. Plenty of food by the looks of it.”

Serge nodded, pointing the ladle at the common room behind him.

“Plenty more inside, I’ve got another cauldron going since yesterday in the hearth, and there’s all the left over meat from last night’s meal I’ll be puttin’ out for this evening. Fruits, cheeses, salted meats, even those oranges yer merchant sent with the cart. Must’ve cost the captain a good bit.”

“Merchant?”

“Got friends who can get some of the rarer goods,” Porthos winked at Athos.

“And I held back some of them rarer fruits and the like for you three, I’ll slice one of those oranges fer yer wine later. And I’ll be leaving a whole spread of the remaining feast out in there for any who’re staying in the garrison tonight.”

“I expect many will be continuing their revelry about the city.”

Athos knew Aramis would’ve planned for the three of them to indulge in celebrations about the city had he not been injured. Although he was more recovered than a man of typical healing might be, he was still wounded – and he needed to maintain the ruse of the injury. Porthos and he would have to ‘visit’ Aramis regardless of where ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ might choose to venture throughout the next week.

“Those not assigned to the palace, or on guard here.” Captain Tréville interrupted his thoughts, finally having worked through the throng of men to request a bit of wine for himself.

Few men would be in the garrison as those with duties would be assigned to the Louvre, and the rest would be roving about the city knowing assignments would be light for the next few days. Their regiment, barring any emergency, would have a well-earned rest until after New Year’s. Raising his glass Tréville stepped back to view and address those gathered. Serge motioned to Porthos to add a bit to his cup, and Athos passed an empty one to the man to fill for himself.

“To les bonnes nouvelles, gentlemen!”

Cries of agreement and wishes of joy filled the yard and many pressed in to clink their cups, or throw arms around each other.

Athos felt a tug of the ‘rope’ of magic that tethered him and Aramis. Looking over he saw ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ bracing a paw on the arm that held him and pushing from the cloak to press his whiskers into Porthos’ cheek. The larger man threw his other arm around Athos before Aramis could give a pull of his own.

❧

Chapter Text

❧

“So where is it we’re goin’ again?”

“Saint Germain des Prés,” Athos confirmed, catching Aramis’ ears moving with the motion of his nod.

He’d tucked his nose down into Porthos’ cloak and was nearly burrowed inside the man’s doublet. His eyes flicked to Athos, a hint of doubt in them for having asked his friends to accompany him out into the city after such little rest the previous evening. Aramis had made the request shortly after Tréville departed and while he might’ve ventured on his own he’d been specific in wanting Athos and Porthos to accompany him.

“Then why did we go to Notre Dame if we weren’t goin’ in?”

Athos had no answer for that, he only knew that Aramis had wished for them to go along with him to church. Initially he’d wanted to go to the cathedral, but once they were on the Île de la Cité he’d decided he wished a different location.

~‘Smaller, more intimate...’~

Aramis’ voice floated into his mind, but before he could respond to Aramis’ explanation he'd made a suggestion.

~‘We could return to the garrison, if he wishes.’~

“It’s not much further,” assured Athos, knowing that Porthos wouldn’t deny Aramis his desire to visit this church before they returned to his room, “no more than a quarter of an hour’s walk once we are on the Left Bank.”

“S’that all?” Porthos huffed, but there was no genuine accusation in the gentle complaint.

Aramis made a small sound from the bundled wool of Porthos’ cloak.

“You well know I’d walk straight on to Orléans if y’asked,” Porthos told him, speaking toward the ducked head, with gentle puffs of air visible in the lowering sunlight, “but I just don’t see why we needed to walk down to this church when we’ve ones much closer to the garrison.”

“And considering which of us dislikes this weather most…”

Athos couldn’t prevent the idle thought spoken aloud, and like Porthos he couldn’t help the observation. Aramis could not have walked on his own had he wished to, the drifts were near to his own knees on some streets.

~‘ It’s the oldest, and I ... something about it, compelled me to choose this one. ’~

“Impressive ceiling, that it?”

Porthos bent his head, tucking his chin between the two ears left uncovered to the elements. In return Aramis made a noise of affirmation in response to Porthos’ question. Athos guessed Aramis had shown him an image of the interior of the church.

“Wow.”

Porthos stopped abruptly on the sidewalk of the Pont Neuf, with only a few yards remaining Athos had to turn back to return to their side. He’d been to the Saint Germain des Prés before and, while beautiful, he would not have anticipated such a reaction from Porthos.

“You’ve never seen it?” Arhos asked, placing his glove on Porthos’ shoulder to encourage him to keep moving.

The Seine beneath them added a sharpness to the cold air surrounding them. He found the thick snow and frigid air less of a burden so long as they kept moving. Rather than keep walking Porthos shook his head, not in denial of Athos’ direction he suspected, to clear the images Aramis was showing him.

“The view of Paris from the…” he glanced down at Aramis, “the top? One of the towers? At Notre Dame.” He turned to Athos, before he returned to tuck his chin against the space between Aramis’ ears. “Turns out ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ climbed up the tower, several times given the different skies. It’s...incredible.”

Aramis gave a pleased purr.

“Okay, okay, we’re going to the other one...that ceiling looks nice.”

“If you stop distracting him we’ll arrive sooner, Aramis.”

~‘I wanted to show him the difference. One day we’ll go up there together, but today there will be too many people. Anywhere in the cathedral. Too many crowds. This church won’t have near the amount of people at this time.’~

~‘Or in this weather .’~

~‘I suppose this was a bit impulsive.’~

~‘ You? ’~

~‘ It’s only... ’~

~‘That we missed midnight mass?’~Athos asked as softly as he had ever been able to through their connection.

~‘After everything, Athos...I need – ’~

~‘ I know. Porthos does too. ’~

Athos expected the other man knew it was significant to Aramis. Even if he’d missed the official masses, it was still Christmas and if Aramis wished to bring them to a church this day it was little burden to them. However, he did want Aramis to sleep. His other form might be ‘protected’ wherever it was, but he was awake and here. From what they’d observed Aramis only inhabited one of the forms at a time, and he could not be endlessly awake.

~‘ But, after this, you are going to rest.’ ~

~‘I thought we were going to eat.’ ~

~‘You can sleep while it’s being gathered. ’~

~‘Serge promised more wine. You wouldn’t want that to grow cold, would you ? ’~

~‘We’ll put it on the hearth . ’~

~‘I’m not that tired, truly. ’~

~‘Yet, we’ve observed that resting both forms may aid you in healing faster.’~

~‘ We’ve still gifts to exchange. ’~

~‘There are still many hours left in the evening, you can spare some.’~

~‘I heal better with your presence.’~

Athos was tempted to proclaim that Aramis claimed he felt better in his presence. However, he’d experienced the warmth or the magic or the sense of calm after Aramis had been wounded when he’d been nearer to him, or held him. If there was the slightest chance being near to Aramis would hasten his healing then Athos would not deny him.

~‘ The rest will help you most.’~

~‘ I don’t know that I can sleep.’~

~‘ I’ll sit by the bed. You’ ll make the attempt.’~

~‘ If you insist...’~

The words were spoken in the same tone as all his others, but they sounded to Athos a note plucked wrong on a harpsichord.

Aramis yawned, a wide stretch that showed his pointed teeth and turned his eyes to half moon shapes.

For a brief moment his stomach tensed, gripped with doubt, the tiny shadow of it that he carried, always, at the edge of his mind that he’d repeat past mistakes. Mistakes, if he were kind, but it had been abuse and it had never been him that had done it. He’d vowed never to behave so shamefully, to be so cruel – so inhumane.

He would persuade, he’d often admonish, and even berate Aramis, but he’d never force his will on him.

That he could was a fact, but it had never tempted him.

It never would.

The few times since their bonding when Aramis he and had clashed on their opinions he’d been firm but he’d not drawn on the power he could sense like a thick fog between them. He could cut through it, he’d kn0wn it from the first instance he’d sensed the thrumming power they shared. The same instinct had been obvious with regards to the control he could take. That he could strike out, tear into Aramis’ flesh with the ‘hook’ of his own will, and pull Aramis from his own autonomy like a fish on a line unsettled him.

He swallowed against a the burning mix of anger and nausea.

~‘Stop.’~ Aramis’ own order was firm, but he’d not infused anything into the word but concern, before his lilting voice pushed carefully into Athos’ mind. ~‘I ignore the signs of my body as I sometimes do sound advice. I look forward to you two keeping me company; I’m sure you’ll keep each other from terrible boredom as you guard my sleep.’~

“What’re you two simmerin’ over? Been too quiet since we left the bridge, and it’s not the calm kind of quiet, yeah?”

At the rumble of Porthos’ voice Athos noted that they had progressed more than halfway down the Rue Dauphine. It was a short walk from here, perhaps another five minutes. As he turned he noted Aramis wriggling through the wool folds and rubbing the side of his neck into Porthos’ own. Athos would’ve smiled but he needed to brace against a slip on an icy patch as Aramis unexpectedly launched himself at Athos.

Righting himself against an overbalance, he straightened and began tugging his shifted clothing back into place. The built up warmth had dispersed and was all the more noticeable owed to the warm fur from Porthos’ hold that was now pushing against him.

“Was that expressly necessary?”

~‘Yes .’~

Athos frowned, giving a shudder against the flow of air that raised bumps on his skin. Aramis purred in response.

“What’s he sayin’?”

~‘Care to explain that your ridiculousness has necessitated me risking life and limb in this cold?’~ Aramis complained, shoving those limbs about Athos’ doublet to tuck firmly against him.

He nosed at the thick wool when Athos was apparently not moving fast enough to satisfy him. The fabric snagged, momentarily, as it caught on a claw trying to yank the cloak closer.

“Easy, y’wouldn’t be so cold if y’hadn’t decided we all needed to rotate,” Porthos was smiling as he shook his head but he was rapidly adjusting his own clothing to stave off the rush of air the sudden exposure Aramis had caused.

“He claims it was necessary.”

“Oh…‘necessary’…” Porthos teased, reaching out to cup the top of the furry head, he thick glove brushing under Athos’ chin. “Makes about as much sense of half the stuff he does.”

~‘You both adore me,’~ insisted Aramis, with a brush of his cold nose to the space between Athos’ scarf and collar.

Athos frowned at the tiny shock, but he tightened his hold nonetheless.

“Guessin’ that’s it?” Porthos gestured ahead to the towers highlighted golden by the winter sun.

Athos nodded, and watched Porthos get that distant look of unfocused eyes that he would whenever Aramis showed him an image or memory.

“Blue and gold...looks like the one in Sainte-Chapelle.”

He assumed Aramis had shared an image of the royal chapel with Porthos, based on his pause and nod as though considering something Athos could not see.

“Inspired by it,” Athos confirmed, moving to replace the fold of his cloak slipping underneath Aramis’ face. “Created during one of the rebuilds, but it remains the oldest church in the city.”

~‘Over a thousand years .’~

Aramis’ voice in his mind was a hush.

Nodding, unnecessarily, Athos continued. “Since the 6^th century. Norseman sacked it twice.” Porthos was studying the exterior walls, craning his neck to examine the snow capped towers, the hue of the winter sun highlighting their peaks. “A Roman temple was near this site, their road ran parallel to the Seine. Aramis tells me he has visited their newest order.”

~‘Particularly devoted to academics, their manuscripts are beautiful . They’ve texts from all over, and some are...of a more ‘mysterious’ nature.’~

“Is that why – ”

~‘At a future time, perhaps, but not today . ’~

“Why what?” Porthos asked.

“There are some manuscripts here that hold a particular interest. Aramis has been granted view of some and been negotiating access others. Some of the monks have favored his inquisitiveness.”

“If it’s as old as yer sayin’ I’d imagine they’ve managed to have secured some ‘interesting’ writings. Or...talismans…” He whispered the last, before mulling over his thoughts. “Think the Romans left any or those and the Northmen might have stole ‘em?”

“Burned them more like,” Athos began, but then thought better of the idea. “Although some might have held an interest to the more discerning among them...if there were any.”

~‘Entirely possible. There’s much in the world we know nothing of, and much that is as misunderstood as has been lost. But today is for celebrating, and that includes our own bond as much as anything else.’~

“Les bonnes nouvelles, and our bonds.”

“With food, gifts, and most importantly a warm fire to come,” Porthos added, leading them through the walls of the abbey.

Upon passing through the church doors, Aramis bumped his head under Athos’ chin and leapt to the floor. He trotted up the nave while Porthos lingered with his head titled back, studying the ceiling he’d been shown earlier. The blue and gold of the vaulted ceiling was near identical to the style of the royal chapel. Athos moved over to the aisle, walking to the arch next to the pew Aramis had chosen.

Waiting for Porthos to locate him, and the end puff of tail poking over the bench, he motioned for Porthos to take the other side before he moved to sit. Aramis rotated his head to watch the others coming to bracket him before he made a pleased noise and bowed his head. The bench creaked as he and Porthos settled to either side of the small cat, and Athos glanced down to note his front paws crossed one on top of the other.

Removing his gloves, he clasped his own in his lap as Porthos tugged at his own. He smiled when Aramis’ tail slipped over to wrap around Porthos’ wrist, meeting the larger man’s eyes with a smirk before he was distracted with a tug to his arm. Porthos quirked a brow, but his cheek dimpled when Athos demonstrated the bit of resistance the invisible ‘rope’ of Aramis’ hold around his own wrist.

Aramis’ guess had been correct and there were few in the small, colorful church in the late afternoon. The stained glass combined with the orange-hued light from the lowering sun cast various cuts of light and glowing rays around them. Dust and candle smoke swirling in the hush as they both watched Aramis, before they turned to their own thoughts.

With Porthos sat closer to the center aisle, he straightened as a well-dressed man looked down at Aramis as he walked past. Athos tipped his own head with an expression that warned off any comment on the feline nestled between them. If Aramis sensed any of the silent communication he didn’t alter his posture. The round-tipped pointy ears remained bowed and Aramis’ soft purrs vibrated through the loose hold where he’d encircled Athos’ wrist.

The invisible ‘rope’ that connected them was a tangible representation of their actual bond; a permanent bond considering it was necessary to tether Aramis to their world. Seeing the blade driven into Aramis’ shoulder became more than witnessing an injury to a friend – it was palpable. The bond made him more alert to Aramis’ physical and emotional presence. He’d an awareness of the other man, as well as a responsibility.

Aramis would claim they had a duty to each other, but the unwritten contract heavily tilted in Athos’ favor. Were he of a mind to exploit there bond Aramis possessed little means to defend against him. Athos could live out the remainder of his days never dabbling into the practice of magic, but Aramis would fade without the protection of their bond. At least, that was the known understanding they both had; little was known about where, precisely, Aramis’ unused shape went when he inhabited the other form.

Regardless of the mysteries left to unravel and the potential dangers in uncovering more of the prohibited knowledge they would not stop exploring. Despite the dangers, the depth of the relationships he’d been granted were worth every threat, and every risk.

Athos was grateful he’d met them both.

He’d have been just as content to express that over mulled wine in the garrison than sitting in a drafty church. However, Aramis had spoken daily of how they’d spend their first Christmas since All Saints’ Day. For nearly two months Athos had felt a tingle of joy vibrating through him any time Aramis made mention of the holiday. He expected Porthos might’ve preferred to be ensconced in Aramis’ room already, but he also knew Porthos would go with Aramis wherever he wished. As would he.

Having enough slack in his ‘tether’ he glanced at Porthos before he moved his hand. Just as he set his palm along Aramis’ curved spine, Porthos’ larger hand settled atop his own.

❧

Chapter Text

❧

Aramis rolled over to burrow further into his mattress. Regardless of form, he was a creature made for warmer climates; winter was his least favorite season. Though he often thought the golden light, the orange tinted glow of the sunsets in winter were beautiful he’d sacrifice the vision for milder climate. He caught the scent of cooked meats, and spice mulled wine, before he turned his nose into the mattress, the tip chilled quickly in such weather.

His new room was convenient for both the ease of access in either form, and the privilege of a small hearth. An immense benefit of the room, and worth taking the smaller sized space to possess such a luxury. He heard the scrape of the poker on the stone, and the muffled din of men still gathered in the yard, but he was in no rush to open his eyes.

~‘Wine and Serge’s meal?’~

“A verifiable feast.”

“He awake?” The crackle of the fire sounded with Porthos’ question and he could distinguish his poker being returned to the hook.

“Luxuriating.”

~‘You wished me to rest, don’t complain that I am excelling at the assignment.’~

He curled tighter against his pillow and wriggled further under the bedclothes, tucking his chin and breathing into the warmth of the piled bed linens.

“C’mon then, you’ll fit more food in you in yer other form.”

~‘I’ll freeze.’~

“It’s your own fault,” admonished Athos, but he could hear the teasing lightness in his tone, “there must be some manner for keeping your clothes on your person when you exchange forms.”

~‘I’ve not discovered one yet.’~

“From your antics it’s not clear you’ve applied yourself all that often to the task.”

Porthos’ deep chuckle filled the space, and Aramis felt the mattress dip from his weight settling at the end. Both Athos and Porthos had taken to keeping an empty sack in their saddle bags for the purpose of stowing Aramis’ belongings in the event his feline form made an appearance in an inconvenient location. Given the large amount of the man’s accessories it was arguable that everywhere the man chose to swap forms was an inconvenience.

“I put yer clothes by the fire, should be plenty heated by now.”

Aramis allowed his eyes to slit open, blinking to adjust to the soft glow of the hearth. Athos sat in a chair, a glass of what he assumed was Serge’s wine in his hand; the fire highlighted his profile and he looked over when he sensed Aramis watching him. He made a show of stretching. Sending his back legs down the bed he reached out of the blankets with his forelegs and splayed his paws far enough to extend his claws.

He startled at Porthos grabbing his back foot through the blanket with a tapping pinch.

“Get some sleep?”

He gave a nod before sliding his lower legs back up, remaining on his side and letting his eyes take in the other chair stacked with covered items. A small crate set alongside the chair legs held their ‘combined’ gift to Athos, and to the side of the hearth near Athos was a table piled with covered bowls and a large basket. There were plates set with half eaten bread, remnants of a gravy, and even the shells of some nuts his friends had consumed. Within the fireplace was a small cauldron, whisps of steam curling up from the edges, and another was set on the floor, covered and remaining heated from the proximity.

His leathers hung on the wall, his hat and weaponry gently placed on the trunk in the corner, and all his affects were arranged with care about his room from their earlier dump to the floor after his quick transformation on their arrival back to Paris. The lighter cotton braies and chemise were carefully set out to absorb some of the warmth; unfortunately he’d lose a good deal of the heat built up beneath the bed linens to retrieve them.

“Are you able to summon your other form?”

He warbled a noncommittal sound and shrugged his shoulder against the top sheet. Lifting his face from the warmth of the bed he yawned again, but didn’t move.

~‘Too cold.’~

“Only for a moment,” Athos smirked, understanding perfectly that Aramis’ objection had more to do with his unwillingness than any inability, “and Porthos did you the courtesy of warming them.”

“Few steps and yer there.”

“You are able to transform? If you’re not healed enough…”

“He’s plenty healed, you saw ‘im yerself this morning. Skin’s more at risk of prickling into tiny bumps than bleeding.” There was no annoyance in Porthos’ voice, and his accusation was good natured, used to Aramis’ dislike of the colder weather.

Aramis let out a small mew, but otherwise didn’t protest. He sensed no resistance to retrieving his other form; the exchange had been more arduous in the early hours of dawn. The wound had not been healed when they left their shelter, but it aided them in the ruse that he carried the same injury they’d arrived with seeking a respite. At least that was his argument to Athos when he’d stumbled into his room on their arrival. Athos had been gracious enough not to remind him that he’d overworked himself to return to Paris; that, and Aramis had pointed out that it was Christmas.

Porthos also had not been in favor of pushing as hard as they had to return to the city. He supposed that had partly led to Porthos’ agreement with Tréville that he should take some time to heal. Wherever his form went when he did not inhabit it, he knew it aided him to be there. He also knew that he healed more quickly now that he was bonded with Athos.

That was not to say it was immediate, after nearly a day he could sense that while not entirely recovered from the wound, it was significantly better than the initial injury and the exchange of forms would be easier. Admittedly enough heat had built up within the small space for that to also be tolerable. Considering how much he’d been looking forward to Christmas with the two men who mattered most to him in the world, he could endure a bit of a chill.

That did not mean he would go about it graciously or gracefully.

His whiskers bent when he pulled his head over the bed clothes as he felt Porthos rise from the bed with a put upon sigh.

“Here, I’ll fetch ‘em for you.”

Retrieving the warmed linens he lay Aramis’ chemise over his arm and held the braies out toward the bed while he took the few steps back to where Aramis remained ensconced.

“Longer y’wait,” Porthos said with more sympathy than teasing, “quicker they’re gonna lose the heat.”

~‘I hate you both.’~

“Nah, you adore us.”

Both Athos and Aramis swung their faces to Porthos who merely shrugged and continued to hold Aramis’ small clothes out for him.

“What? He was glarin’ at you like y’told him he’s gotta walk through the yard barefoot,” Porthos said without turning from Aramis, “and then you’re lookin’ to me like these are snakes rather than yer own clothes. Not difficult to guess what yer sayin’ to him.”

With a less than intimidating growl of vexation, Aramis reached with his mind to that place that felt to him between sleeping and waking. Once begun he could force himself back to his feline shape, but he sunk into the transformation and allowed himself to reach for the nebulous space he retrieved the unused shape from. He sniffed in annoyance as much as a tickle to his nose from the residual smoke scent of his switch.

“Gettin’ cold,” warned Porthos.

“You might’ve waited until after I’d switched to bring them,” Aramis said without opening his eyes.

Sinking down until he felt his hair scrape along the pillow he wiggled his toes beneath the covers and debated whether the chill to his exposed shoulders was sufficient evidence that he should not throw off the covers to retrieve his warmed clothes. Ultimately he’d have to put them on, sleeping unclothed was only bearable in the warmer months or when he’d another to share the bed with. Presently it was reminding him how rapidly the chill would penetrate his bed linens.

“It will become more difficult the longer you delay.”

He refused to waste the effort to glare at Athos. Dragging himself up to a sit he snatched his braies and looked between them and the blanket. He gave consideration to attempting to put them on while in bed and if that would take longer than throwing off the covers to hop into them. Stepping from the bed would provide the added torture of his bare feet to the flagstone.

“My cloak’s on the floor.”

If he were a more sentimental man Aramis’ eyes might’ve stung at Porthos’ words as he looked up and stared back at his grinning face.

“Told you.”

Rather than confirming that he did adore his friends, Aramis took a fortifying breath and tossed the bed linens aside. Bare toes met thick wool instead of frigid stone and he hopped from one to the other foot to yank his braies up his legs. He caught sight of Athos bending to the covered cauldron, and had he not been so chilled through he would’ve noted the cup in his hand before he’d unbent.

“Wait a moment,” Athos told Porthos, before he could give Aramis his chemise. He spoke again before Aramis could frown, or loudly protest. “Let me see.”

Athos curled his fingers over his shoulder, pressing the cup of hot wine into Aramis’ hand while laying his own palm above Aramis’ heart and over the expanse of skin they’d tended less than one full day past. The damaged skin was bruised, but there was no redness surrounding the wound or sign of infection. The blade had punctured deep, but there were few signs that it had nearly pushed through to his back. There remained a shallow wound, although it did not bleed or appear to require stitching.

Gathering heat tingled along the bare skin, and so quick was the change in temperature that Aramis had nearly pulled back in astonishment.

He watched Athos’ brow furrow, before the older man glanced over at him, a steady calm reflected in his eyes. Aramis’ shoulder sloped, the surprise having drawn it near his ear, but he relaxed with the other man’s assurance as much as his ministrations.

“Amazing,” whispered Porthos.

Aramis smiled over at him, a flush moving through him – likely owed to Athos’ tending – but partly in pleasure that Porthos so easily accepted the liberal use of Athos’ powers. Now that he’d seen the benefits of the bond between them and often suggested or pushed Athos to attempt feats of magic as readily as Aramis did.

Sensing a shift in Athos’ power, like knowing the change in weight when pouring a pitcher signaled the contents neared its end without looking, Aramis took hold of Athos’ wrist. He didn’t lift his hand immediately, instead Athos slid his palm to cup Aramis’ upper arm and studied the unbandaged skin.

“It’s not gone,” Athos told him before he’d the chance to look down.

“No, but there’s no need to endanger your own health on my behalf,” warned Aramis. He could measure the balance to some extent. “Before you disagree, I am able to sense these matters, and you do look a bit paler than usual.”

“Sort of greyish,” observed Porthos.

Thus far Aramis had noticed Athos’ own ability drew on Aramis’ and the more he accessed, the more Aramis needed to pull from the source. Or what he considered the source. Marsac’s use of magic had always exhausted him whether forced or not, but with Athos it seemed more that he pulled up the full bucket and Athos made use of the contents. Which might have made Aramis the well. He remained uncertain, but there were few to ask about the foundations of how familiars and practitioners worked.

It was enough for him that he and Athos had bonded, and that Porthos carried a part of his stone. Magic had found a way, and he knew he was in no danger of fading, even after a blade into his shoulder.

“Precisely. I’m in no peril, much of the damage was healed while I was in the feline shape.”

“Doesn’t even look to need stitches, yer only gonna need to bandage it so none of the men get suspicious.”

Aramis nodded, tilting his head to view the motley colored skin before he raised his head. Curiosity turning his attention back to Athos.

“How did...how did you know to do that?”

“How were you able to heal me on the road?” Athos countered.

Aramis merely raised his glass in acknowledgment, he’d drawn on abilities he’d been unsure he’d even had. All he’d known when Athos had been shot was that he needed to heal him no matter the cost to himself or how he’d managed the attempt. As with then, Athos had not been able to completely reverse the damage, but he’d sealed the wound enough that it would presumably need no more than cleansing and poultices. Any other measures would be for show for the men.

“Here,” Athos took the chemise from Porthos, moving his hands to put the collar to rights before offering it opened before Aramis, “before your body catches up to how cold you are.”

“I’m not,” Aramis began, but as if the reminder broke the spell he could feel a dulled sense of the chill as one could when sitting near a window in winter knowing that touching the panes would bring a shock of cold. “Perhaps you need to learn how to alter the temperature of a room next.”

“I believe it would take a considerable amount of power to make it suitable for the conditions you require.”

Aramis shrugged and ducked his head to slip through the chemise’s opening; he passed the warm cup between hands to get his arms into the sleeves. Having successfully navigated the billowing arms of his shirt he eyed his trunk, debating how much effort he wished to make.

“Porthos? Hand me that?” Athos motioned for a large, square shaped lump.

Taking a sip of the mulled wine – Serge had indeed added the promised, dried orange slices – he watched over the rim as Athos accepted the sheet wrapped bundle. A rough length of rope tied around it securing all sides from slipping free. He raised a brow, mustache quirking up and happily placed his cup on his bedside table to examine the gift.

“Shall I guess?”

“M’sittin’ back down fer this,” except Porthos bent to fill a cup of mulled wine for himself before retaking his seat at the foot of Aramis’ bed.

Athos held the bundle with both arms, allowing Aramis to poke and prod at it. The square shape was large and more of a rectangle when he viewed it from the top. It was soft, plush, and its form depressed when he pressed against the thin sheet.

“Did you get me a new cloak?” Aramis wondered, bending forward a bit to sniff at the bundle. With Athos holding the item, or items, he’d no idea of the weight and considered a new possibility. “Is it several blankets wrapping a more delicate gift?”

Athos raised a brow at him, and Porthos leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, waiting.

“Would you open it already?”

“Wise advice,” Athos added, lifting the sheet wrapped parcel higher, “we’ve several to open yet.”

“And plenty to eat besides.”

Aramis needed no further convincing from his friends and pulled on the knotted rope. Athos aided him by turning and maneuvering the cloth so Aramis could unbind the sheet before tugging it free. His hands sunk into the soft fabric, a deep color he might compare to the ceiling of the very church they’d sat beneath earlier. He stroked the top layer, unbelieving of how soft it was.

“Not a cloak?”

Athos shook his head and the large swathe of fabric out, using the momentum to bring the fabric around Aramis’ shoulders like the cloak he was denying it to be.

“Although you could wear it as one should you wish…”

Aramis reached up, stroking and practically pawing the richly colored wool.

“It’s the softest blanket I’ve ever felt.”

“Looks plenty warm too,” Porthos eyed the fabric, reaching a hand down to rub an end between his fingers, “and plush.”

“It’s very fine,” Aramis added, not wishing to question the cost of such a luxurious feeling wool. “Thank you, Athos.”

“He’s still gonna complain of the cold to no end, y’know that right?”

“Ah, but now I shall expound upon all the ways I may employ its use: on my bed, about my shoulders, brought to either of your rooms on late evenings, but...perhaps not the common area, I’d not wish so lovely a piece to be misplaced.”

Tucking it tighter around himself he moved over to the bed, deciding he could keep his upper body wrapped within the soft folds while getting back under the bed clothes.

Athos bent to retrieve what Aramis expected was a refill of his cup as he nodded his thanks at Porthos for lifting the bed linens for him to slide beneath. Arranging his legs behind Porthos’ back he ordered the blankets to provide him the greatest amount of warmth. His fingers kept straying to his gift, running the pads against the soft fibers.

“Florentine, dyed by one of their best guild members,” Athos explained, “these are also from the Arte della Lana.”

“So there was a smaller gift wrapped within,” Aramis clasped the woolen stockings, as soft as the blanket, in both hands.

“That’s Athos, all sorts of hidden…” Porthos caught himself, not wanting to edge into the secrets they’d all kept in their earlier acquaintance, before smiling broadly at Athos, “...talents.”

“A man of great talent,” Aramis agreed, “and generosity.”

Athos waved off the compliments, retaking his seat and taking a long sip of the mulled wine. Rather than tease the man, Aramis took the moment to bend and twist his legs, merrily drawing the stockings over his calves.

“I give it an hour, and he’ll be complainin’ he’s too hot, you wait,” Porthos assured Athos.

“Never,” protested Aramis, and he puffed up his pillow to sit back against the headboard. “Now, who will be next? Or shall we eat?”

“No reason we can’t do both, but may as well give you this...seein’ as you already got the other present.”

Porthos reached to retrieve a similarly wrapped bundle, but much smaller in size than the thick blanket. Much thinner as well, and the fabric within – Aramis was certain it was fabric – by the manner it bent and moved. It glided beneath the rough, cotton cloth in which it was encased.

“Now, don’t go expectin’ this sort of luxury every year; ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ needs to be credited with at least half the cost.”

“Porthos...what…” Aramis was too curious and too excited to wait, he pulled the coarse twine loose, and as with Athos’ gift, his fingers encountered soft fabric. Only this time there was a sheen, a cream colored, soft, fluttering fabric. “Is this...silk?”

Porthos nodded, biting at the corner of his lip and appearing caught between pride and worry that his choice was not well-received.

“Silk! Porthos it’s too – ”

“Told you, at least half the cost is owed to yer help at cards.”

Aramis slid the fabric between his fingers, disbelieving of the garment. He’d silk stockings, of course, but such a chemise – for a man of his station? His humble origins, and his secret had never been a cause of shame for him, but he remained aware of them nonetheless. Soldiers did not wear silk, but musketeers were not common soldiers. Such a delicately spun chemise? The ownership of silk wouldn’t necessarily find a man in his position afoul of any sumptuary laws, and he’d never been one to support those. They were part of the King’s household, but he would have to take care in where and when he wore the fine chemise, such a gift deserved to be prized. He’d an appreciation of fashion, and he believed an eye for such matters, so he could come up with no reason to refuse the gift. Nor did he wish to do so.

“Before you say another word, you’ve no cause fer concern on the cost. Black was out of my ability, but cream doesn’t require near as much. Besides our winnings, I’ve certain connections to trade; it wasn’t a hardship.”

“The same procurer of Serge’s cart?”

With rare spices, and dried fruits, and difficult, out of season – ”

Porthos nodded at Athos, before adding over Aramis’ list: “I came by it all legally and fairly. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Athos nodded, taking up his cup and another sip.

“Some matters are best left unquestioned, yes?” Aramis queried, nodding and admiring the slippery fabric. “I trust your judgment in them.”

Aramis didn’t want to cast any aspersions, and refused to believe any that could be conceived. Given Porthos’ connections to the Court of Miracles, and their recent discovery of the methods and manners of trade the current ‘king’ participated in, Aramis expected Porthos had made some bargain for the silk.

“It’s lovely,” Aramis stated quietly, plucking at the cuffs and noting the embroidery work, “truly, you’ve both outdone my offerings several times over. I may have to send ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ out to secure additional pieces come morning.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Athos said, reaching down to retrieve a small packet, “we’d the means and we could think of no better use.”

Before he could pass the item, which Aramis assumed was for Porthos, shouts and boots echoed along the hall outside of his room. Within the span of a few breaths, which he spent wondering if there were some urgent matter at the palace, or they were under attack, a rapid knocking came at the door, and then the shutters.

“Open up!”

“Aramis? We know you’re awake!”

“Athos? Porthos?”

“You said the lad heard them.”

“It’s what he said.”

“Athos, open the door?”

“They’re in there, he must be awake by now!”

Athos set the package onto the bedside table, along with his cup but Porthos rose to grab for the door handle before the pounding knocks could sound again.

“What’s all this racket? Got a wounded man in here.”

“That’s why we’re here,” called one of the men.

Aramis was unable to place a face to the voice, but he recognized it well enough.

Porthos let the door swing open, yet crossed his arms as he observed the men in the hallway. Aramis could hear others, but Girard stepped into the room edging in with an arm’s length between him and Porthos. Dubois remained in the doorway, having pushed the other man ahead; subtly nominating him to explain the disturbance.

“Something the matter?” Athos asked in a flat voice, but his tone implied a finite amount of patience.

“No, no,” Girard protested, but gained confidence upon seeing Aramis sitting up, appearing flush and happy rather than bearing the pale countenance of their arrival. “Nothing of the sort. Only that, a number of us are departing and before we disperse to revel and celebrate we thought Aramis – all of you really,” he looked to Athos and then smiled over at Porthos, straightening his shoulders, “would appreciate a bit of an extended celebration.”

“From the looks of the room, you’re getting on well,” Dubois added.

“Yes, but we’ve a rather different entertainment planned…” Girard looked to Aramis, the question in his eyes and his expression made it clear that he’d accept whatever Aramis decided. Likely knowing his two friends would acquiesce to their wounded man.

“I, for one, am curious.” Aramis shrugged, taking care to move only his ‘uninjured shoulder, and subtly checking that Athos’ present remained covering any portion of his shoulder that was expected to be deeply wounded.

Girard moved further into Aramis’ quarters, motioning those in the hall to crowd in the doorway. Poirier edged into the room, brave enough to stand next to Porthos.

“Ahem,” Girard motioned toward the window, “if you would? The shutters?”

“What do you mean ‘the shutters’ – it’s freezin’ out there; he’s recovering!”

“Looks to me that is well bundled up,” Poirier nodded at the stack of bed linens and the deep blue blanket Aramis had cloaked himself with.

“Whatever they’ve planned I’m sure it’s well meant, Porthos.”

“You can always slam them closed if you object.”

“That go fer the door too, Girard?” Porthos grumbled, but bent to unlatch the shutters before he retook his seat on the end of the bed. “I’m expectin’ something impressive…”

“It will be...something…” Poirier offered.

Aramis brought his hand up, bringing the soft wool closer to his face and tucking his nose against it at the first rush of outside air. Within moments he was met with the bright glow of candles and a lantern set on his windowsill. More men crowded the window-frame and beyond them he could see some had stood on the long benches in the yard, Serge’s fires still burned and the old cook was among those stood in the yard. A few of the men held candles, some lanterns, and others were clustered near the braziers.

Shouts of well wishes and greetings immediately filled the space before Travers called for attention from the yard. Snickers and rushed whispering filled the silence, and in the lull of whatever was brewing Athos stood and donned his cloak. Wrapping himself against the night air he stepped closer to the bed to lean on the wall, providing an excuse for the extra portion of his cloak to drape behind and around Aramis.

~‘ T hank you . ’~

~‘ You’ve only to tell me and we’ll send them off . ’~

~‘ I confess to exceeding curiosity. ’~

Allowing his gaze to move along the assembled men, Aramis gave them his full attention.

“Ready? And…‘Nesciens mater virgo virum’...”

Of all the possibilities of entertainment, or challenges, or performances, Aramis had been anticipating it had not been for the gathered men to become a choir. Well, a chorus of voices, for they made a rather unpracticed choir. There were overly loud voices, notes that were not in tune, high-pitches that seemed closer to caterwauling than singing, including some incorrect words and all manner of off-timing. Some of the men were surprising in their rich sounding voices, Poirier’s was softer than expected, and Girard’s sweeter. It didn’t matter to Aramis, for having missed the choirs of Notre Dame at the midnight mass, he found he was more delighted by this rough assembly of men.

He smiled as they sang Nesciens Mater, and hummed along, at points nodding to some of the men who met his gaze and even laughing when one of the stable hands hit a surprisingly high note quite accurately. For a song meant to be sung in the round and at different pitches it was, in fact, not as poor a performance as one may have expected.

“Impressed?” Girard asked Porthos, stepping closer to the seated musketeer when they’d finished.

“Suppose you could use that word,” Porthos grinned at him, turning to grin at the men leaning in the window. “Have to say I’m not certain that all was Latin, and I’m not disappointed not to know all those words.”

“Believe me, I don’t ever need to hear them all sing of ‘breasts filled by heaven’ after tonight,” Aramis assured, but turned to smile at the men within his immediate view, “but an admirable rendition, gentlemen, and very much appreciated.” Aramis touched the blanket over his heart and gave them his thanks again before dipping his head. “Although let it be known you’ve all selected the right path in life by becoming musketeers…”

Chuckles and laughter, mixed with some jeers and protests followed before Travers called out for order once again.

“We’ll leave you in peace soon enough, but that’s not our best one…”

Aramis nodded for them to proceed, touching his shoulder but signaling to Athos and Porthos to pay him no mind. He didn’t want the to cut the men’s merriment too soon, but he’d do them no favors by appearing to be unaffected when he was meant to be convalescing. In spite of the sharp chill on his cheeks hr wouldn’t have stopped them for a moment as the gathered men became more lively during their performance of Gaudete.

Some of the men clapped and kept time, while others swayed and a few even swung round each other. Aramis felt more at home in the garrison than he had in all the previous years he’d lived among them. None had ever been cold and he’d never meant to hold himself apart, but there had always been a slight distance. An unspoken ‘Aramis is a bit different’ that he’d felt left him separate; not out of unkindness, but a known factor to account for where he was concerned. Tonight there was a lightness to them all, a sense of joy and a lack of any imposed restraints or formalities.

He clapped along with Porthos’ bellowing laugh when Serge took one of the solo parts and his cheeks hurt more from the width of his smile than the temperature by the time they’d concluded their carol.

“Right, we’ll leave you in peace,” Travers told them, stepping to the window-frame to place a hand on Aramis’ good shoulder. “See you’re not abed too long, and you all enjoy the evening.”

Athos reached to clasp his hand before the older man nodded to Porthos and motioned to the musketeers in the room to exit. Poirier leaned down to Porthos giving the broad shoulder a squeeze and winking to Aramis.

“Impressive?”

“Impressive,” Porthos agreed.

Poirier clapped him on the shoulder before turning to depart with the other men. A few continued on with their ‘singing’ and others cheered and called out further good wishes; most of the remaining men began to disperse or make ready to depart the garrison. Athos nodded to some of the passing men as he leaned across to secure the shutters.

❧

Chapter Text

❧

“Well, that was quite the diversion.”

“Sure yer okay?”

“I would not complain if you were to stoke the fire,” Aramis suggested and thanked Porthos as he moved to fulfill the request.

As he straightened from his crouch, Athos handed him the packet he’d left on the side table while they listened to a good number of musketeers attempting to sing. Porthos began to open the package as he sat on the edge of the bed, finding several color pieces of cloth wrapped around a smaller block shape within a pouch. To Aramis’ eye the cloth was shiny and patterned, and also silk if he was not mistaken. The colors were vivid, owed to the smaller size and meticulously dyed.

“Gentlemen, I did not purchase either of you silk,” teased Aramis.

“Already told you that’s not a concern,” Porthos told him gently, while unfurling the first of the two fabrics. “Now this is ‘impressive’…” Holding one near to his face he asked after their opinions.

Aramis could not decide which he preferred of the two Athos had chosen, and took one up from the bed once Porthos had set it down. They were similar to the one Porthos already owned, a solid burgundy satin that had stains that were evident of its long use and loved status. Letting the slippery fabric slide through his fingers he imagined Porthos striding through the yard with this trailing from beneath his hat. As soon as he formed the image he pushed the thought to Porthos.

“Can’t say it doesn’t suit me,” Porthos’ cheek displayed a small depression and he ducked his head to look at the small rectangular shape that was within a brocaded pouch. He ran his fingers along the drawstring pouch glancing over at Athos before pulling at the gathered fabric. “Bet good coin I know what’s in here.”

“I believe the goal is to win coin with what’s in there.”

As Athos finished speaking Porthos withdrew a brightly colored deck of cards; he splayed a few for Aramis to note the hand painting on the pasteboard.

“It’s a fine deck…”

“Preferably one we’ll use. ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ is always so fond of joining us at cards, and as these bear no markings or bends…”

“Fair enough, and no marks on them to memorize, but once they’re scuffed they might be better suited for use with the guards.”

Porthos’ deck he used to gamble had enough unique markings he could identify any card you asked of him despite them being laid face-side down. Some were marginally discolored, and early on Aramis wondered if they’d not been made from the same wood block, if Porthos had merged two or more decks to make a more distinct set of markings for himself. He’d sat atop enough tables while Porthos played that he could discern at least a quarter of the cards himself.

“There’s some time yet before Aramis will need a new silk chemise.”

Aramis felt the edges of his eyes crease thinking of the memories, more pleased to recall the times he sat between his friends as they played. There was no denying that he took a great deal of pleasure in aiding Porthos’ gambling with the cardinal’s men, but there was greater joy in a low stakes game with his friends. Bolstered by the remembered diversions, he slipped a hand free of his beautiful new blanket to motion to Athos.

“Would you mind retrieving the muslin wrapped package beneath my bed?”

Unused to feeling inadequate, Aramis worried his lip for a moment as Athos lifted the long, flat package. He’d placed Porthos’ gift between two small boards that he’d taken from the stables and wound the plain muslin over the entire stack. Within was a pouch he’d sewn to protect the gift, and for Porthos to use to carry or travel with the item.

“The bag as well?”

“Yes,” he nodded his thanks to Athos, before addressing Porthos, “but open the long package first.”

Aramis reached to take the burlap bag from Athos to hold while Porthos accepted the larger item from Athos. The contents of the bag were smaller, and could provide him a clue as to the larger item by allowing him to handle the bag. He wondered if his gift should have been more luxurious. They were paid well, however, and they did have much to celebrate. Porthos and he had put considerable effort and coin into Athos’ present, which was not to say Porthos’ was by any means underwhelming. While not silk, or Florentine wool, he’d had the gift custom made.

Porthos tended toward more ornate items; he’d been admiring a black chemise with elaborate embroidery the other month, and a broad,embroidered sash with gold leaves and vines. Aramis had thought to purchase one of them for him, but when the idea had taken him for the gift he’d selected he’d deemed it perfect. He’d been more inclined to accompany and advise Porthos in the purchase of a new garment, or adornment, or even ostrich feathers for his hat. Part of the joy would come from watching the delight on Porthos’ face at trying and making his selections.

“It’s perfect.”

“You didn’t open it,” Athos said blandly, retaking his seat.

“Don’t need to,” Porthos stated, and turned to Aramis.

If he were unused to feeling inadequate, he was well used to Porthos’ varied expressions. His tensing shoulders eased under the force of the assuring gaze. The man who’d placed his cloak on the floor so Aramis’ bare feet wouldn’t feel the chill was not about to scoff at his gift.

“Course if this is just planks of wood, I’ll be makin’ more than a brush based on a cat’s tongue.”

“Maybe that’s the plan? A gift that benefits you both,” suggested Athos, eyeing them each in turn over his cup.

“Meanin’ he gives me the materials and I do all the work?” Porthos laughed, reaching his left back to poke at Aramis’ leg through the blankets.

“This will benefit Athos and I, as well,” Aramis explained as Porthos began unwinding the fabric.

“Where’s the…” Porthos curved his torso, bending down and raising the wood as it clattered. The gift separating the two planks slid against them until a pole-like end stuck out. “That a handle?”

Aramis motioned for Porthos to pull it free.

“I expect I had the same thought as Athos when thinking of the enjoyment we’ve had at games.”

Porthos had separated the planks and held the racket up, turning it to see the edge of the frame.

“It’s crafted by Jean Dajon, heapprenticed withhis father – he’s a reputation for durable rackets – and a number of the men I’ve played at the indoor courts recommended his work. He made it to your measurements, and it should suit you better than Athos’ or mine. I did promise we would play at the courts in the city.”

“Perhaps a bit more practice, first?”

“Now that I’ve my own I can play y’both at the same time.”

“That confident, are you?” Athos wondered.

“We’ll have plenty to practice with,” Aramis said, offering him the burlap bag.

“Balls?”

Athos sniffed into his cup, hiding his smirk with another sip, but his eyes betrayed his mirth as he watched Porthos smile and heft the bag.

“Told you it’d be perfect.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, and looked to Athos.

“That leaves only our gifts to you.”

Athos shrugged at Aramis, but his eyes slid to the crate by the door that had a paper with Aramis’ script atop.

“We combined our resources, once we realized we’d be using similar channels to acquire our gifts.”

Porthos chuckled in agreement with Aramis’ explanation and rose to lift the crate over to Athos’ chair.

“Composed together as well? ‘For our dearest Athos, whether you prefer to indulge on your own, share with your friends, or pour a bit extra for a feline who requires no cup, we wish you excellent health and much enjoyment of these. Yours with great affection, Aramis and Porthos.’ I take it these were acquired by the same means as Serge’s cart and your chemise?”

“It would appear Porthos imported a substantial portion of a merchant’s ship,” Aramis winked, waving at Athos to remove the cover, “and our selections were sourced from several regions. A great deal of thought was spent on deciding where, and which…”

He declined to mention how great an amount of money was spent on them. Porthos’ connections were a great benefit, and the ‘king’ of the Court did have a fondness for Aramis. In fact, that had been Aramis’ negotiation – that Alois could make a considerable profit if he were to sell some of their selections. Procuring each with their sale in mind, much of their import was funded by proprietors about Paris who’d committed to the prices Alois had set. The profit went to the ‘king’ but the bounty went to him and Porthos. The adjustment in price for their sale, allowed Porthos and Aramis’ ‘price to be offset. Which resulted in being able to purchase several bottles of each.

His broad smile was met by Porthos’ own grin, both of them proud of their selections and hopeful Athos would be pleased. Removing the top for Athos, and stepping behind his seat, Porthos placed a hand on the chair-back. Aramis leaned over as well, bracing carefully on his bed with the arm connected to his injured shoulder, and gesturing with the other as Athos lifted the fist bottle.

“A Sylvaner wine, from Alsace, we’re assured it’sdry with a hint of spice,” Aramis watched the small lift of Athos’ lip before he waved his hand at the bottle next to the empty space where Athos had removed the one he held. “That next one is aSercial, from Madeira, and with that we selected an Osoye from Azóia,” Aramis paused the inventory, basking in the pleased surprise plain on Athos’ face, before making a grand gesture toward the crate at his feet, “and that last one...the ‘sanguis Jovis’: a Sangiovese.”

“The ‘blood of Jupiter’ and another excellent choice, you spoil me gentlemen.”

“The other bottles are stowed, we can move ‘em later.”

“That ‘which cheers God and men’ and,” Aramis levered back to lean against the headboard, adjusting his soft blanket to cocoon him again, “we believed you’d appreciate the variety and made our selections accordingly.”

“Can’t say we’d turn down a taste ourselves,” Porthos added, giving a squeeze to Athos’ shoulder, bending to clear the discarded sheets and ropes and cloths.

“It will be my pleasure, and preference,to share them with you, but first, we’ve another gift.”

Aramis looked to Porthos, who’d risen and held a clump of the mingled fabric and the thickest rope from Aramis’ blanket trailing out like a limp tail. He appeared as confused as Aramis.

“Captain Tréville,” Athos said, pulling a small parcel from his doublet.

“What is it?”

“I’ve no idea,” he extended his arm and gave the paper wrapped packet to Aramis. “He gave it to me before his departure this afternoon.”

The wax seal atop the folded paper was the Tréville family crest rather than the insignia of the Musketeers. Aramis turned the parchment in his hands, noting the dark markings he could discern as writing on the other side of the paper.

Aramis made a considering noise, lifting the package to determine if either of his friends wished to open the gift.

“Are you certain it was not for you, Athos?”

“He claimed it was for all of us.”

“Hmm.”

“Go on then, no sense waitin’ until he returns,” Porthos encouraged before he turned to Athos, “I’d guess he’s not expectin’ us to either.”

At Athos’ agreement Aramis slid a fingernail beneath the seal, lifting the triangles of parchment that had been folded in and around the contents. He could see the edges of Tréville’s ink strokes but didn’t focus on the words. Instead his eyes were drawn to the simple, fawn colored, leather pouch. The style was unremarkable, and there no tooling or detail work. The rope retained its braid, no stray fibers or bends in the cord. An additional leather thong worked through the openings and could be wrapped over a belt.

“Any coins in that?”

Aramis shook his head, knowing it had felt light but making the motion of weighing it in his had regardless.

“Empty,” he confirmed, setting it near his thigh atop the bedclothes before spreading the paper over his lap. “He’s addressed this to us all: ‘It is my hope, as Aramis so often seems to lose track of certain items, that this will aid you three.’”

“An empty purse? How’s that meant to help with you losin’ anything?”

Aramis frowned, and he shrugged looking from Porthos to Athos and then the small drawstring pouch, before continuing to read the note.

“‘Modest in appearance it should attract little attention regardless of which of you chooses to take charge of this. This pouch took years to procure, but it should keep safe precisely what you mean – and need – for it to hold. Yours Faithfully, Tréville.’ He offers no further explanation.”

“Years? Looks common enough,” Porthos observed.

Aramis hooked his first finger into the semi-open pouch and pulled it closer, lifting it to inspect when the pad of his pointer encountered a soft fabric.

“It’s lined,” Aramis said, tipping the bag over, “but otherwise unremarkable. Well made, and the stitching is…” he trailed off, poking at the pouch, “he says this will ‘aid us all’?”

“He told me it would include a replenishment from his friend.”

“The one that gives you two those herbs?”

Aramis nodded, sparing a thought to the sympathetic man and hoping he also was with his family. His efforts had contributed to Aramis’ bond with Athos, and he’d likelyassisted Tréville for years. It was possible he sourced this leather bag as well. A loyal friend to the captain and a benevolent aid to him and Athos, Aramis hoped the man was safe.

“Perhaps they were loose and fell out without his notice?”

“I don’t believe so, Athos.” Aramis slid three fingers within the pouch feeling the seams, and pushing to confirm the edges. “Tréville told you of this, and the packet was already sealed?”

At Athos’ nod, Aramis set aside the letter and smoothed the small bag flat on the blanket. He cupped his hands over the leather and focused on the size and shape of the vials. Imagining the glass, cool from the icy air, and the long, smooth surface of them. Picturing the herbs, their leaves crumbled into coarse shapes; the rough, dried edges ready to be ground to powder. His fingers tingled but nothing changed, all he felt was the supple leather.

“Try again,” Athos encouraged, “I believe your instinct is correct.”

Words easily uttered, but he would be a hypocrite to dismiss all the times he’d prompted Athos; willing him to try at making use of his powers. Perhaps the diminished response of his abilities was owed to this form. He’d found himself less able to draw on the reservoir as a man, and that in his feline form the abilities came to him more easily.

It was possibly owed to his smaller size, the scale of him lessened and therefore the power increased. Or, he stood closer to the earth. Who was to say. He wondered if that was why familiars were often smaller creatures, but then he’d heard tell of men who exchanged themselves with bears or wolves. Not for the first time, he wondered if there were a fated meaning behind a familiar's form.

“Aramis.”

Athos’ hand on his shoulder pressed more firmly, and Porthos’ palm added weight and heat where it curved over his shin atop the bed-linens. Shifting his gaze between them, he clasped his hands and shrugged, not asking them to confirm how many times they’d called his name. He’d not even sensed Athos’ approach.

“You really believe there’s somethin’ to this then?”

“I don’t doubt the captain’s word,” explained Athos, and the certainty in his voice left Aramis feeling a twinge of unease. Like the odd flutter of his stomach, from the disappointment at – on the very rare occasion it occurred – missing a mark. “Nor do I doubt Aramis’ abilities, there is most certainly something to this. It’s more than simple leather and cord.”

“Would explain why he’s claimin’ it took so long to find.”

“It would,” agreed Aramis, bolstered by the belief and Tréville’s gift.

If the captain had searched for this, and he had specifically noted the length of time, it was something he’d looked for before Porthos or Athos were in the regiment. The simple pouch was an item he believed Aramis would benefit from, so it had to be magical in nature. That also meant it was likely banned and all of them, now that they were three, would be at risk from this object. He expected it would not be a dangerous piece, or Tréville would have waited to present the gift when he returned from his duties. Tréville had no powers himself, but he’d years of experience aiding practitioners and connections to sources he’d not even disclosed to Aramis. This item he trusted Aramis would be able to use, regardless of the practitioner he was bonded with.

He considered making a swap of his forms, but ultimately decided it would draw more effort than it might be worth. Unlacing his fingers he ran them over the outer seams, fingering the leather and envisioning a larger piece, first a saddle-bag and then a trunk. He thought of the hazy space in his mind when he reached for his other form, and the fraction of time before dreaming and waking when the tether to consciousness felt as thin as a thread. There was a place where his body resided when he let his human form exchange with that of the feline shape; there was an entire expanse of nothingness – somewhere – or a realm he’d no definition for that could also account for this tiny object.

Hushed cries of astonishment and his name had him blinking his eyes back open, before he sensed the firm resistance beneath his hand.

The pouch was no longer flat.

❧

Chapter Text

❧

“Well, go on,” Porthos motioned with his hand, his entire upper body leaning closer with anticipation.

For his own part, Athos had kept his fingertips on Aramis’ shoulder, but he stepped side-on to him, gazing down at the top of Aramis’ hands. Hands that could feel what they’d described earlier, the shape of vials; the exact shape of the type he used to store and carry his reserve of the transformative herbs. Flexing his fingers he gave a wiggle of them, nerves alight from the exertion, and shifted to pull at the gathered fabric.

The puffed pouch, expanded now that he laid his eyes on the shape, clearly contained two long objects the full length of the leather. He grasped the stoppered ends, unsurprised but disbelieving that he held them, within the fingers of his left hand and pulled them halfway from the pouch. Staring down at them, he glanced at Athos who only gave a small shake of his head; he’d no explanation.

Removing them entirely he held them up to peer at the small, bits of dried plants in the firelight.

“They appear to be redistille and sinestille, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t uncork them to confirm.”

Athos’ huff was the unsurprising answer for him, but it was Porthos who leaned further over his legs and bent his head close to the pouch.

“Put ‘em back.”

“What?”

“Porthos they’re no danger to him, or us.”

“I know that.” Porthos shook his head, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture before directing it back to the pouch. “Put ‘em back in, or try to.”

Aramis raised a brow, glancing up at Athos who wore an expression that mirrored Aramis’ confusion. They knew Porthos had no doubts regarding either of them, but on occasion he still harbored some hesitation where magic was employed. Both of them respected if Porthos wished to keep his participation, or even understanding of their abilities, limited; however, he well knew the importance of the herbs to Aramis. Still, Aramis could conceive of no reason to deny him the request. He’d no need for the vials currently and if Porthos had no wish to look at them he could stow them out of sight for the moment.

He slid the vials back into the pouch.

“See?”

Before he could cinch the bag Porthos had asked his question and Aramis looked at his expectant face before sending another confused glance at Athos.

“Take ‘em out,” Porthos gestured again, more excited than impatient, and not bothered by their lack of understanding.

Aramis obeyed and pulled them free.

“Lay ‘em on top.”

“Oh, I see.”

~‘See what?’~ Aramis thought.

“Look,” Athos directed.

Porthos nodded at him, nudging the air with his nose by way of encouragement to look down. Preparing to tell them they’d both had too much mulled wine and that he’d not imbibed nearly enough, he was reconsidering the idea immediately. How much had he drunk?

“They’re, well they’re – ”

“Longer.” Athos supplied.

“Too long,” confirmed Porthos, raising to a sit and crossing his arms. “There is something to this gift.”

Aramis blinked again, tilting his head to corroborate that it was no trick of the firelight, or that Serge’s drink was not more potent than any of them realized. When the vials failed to shrink and the pouch did not elongate, Aramis frowned. Before either of his friends could speculate, he snatched the two vials by their stoppered ends, clinking them together and stuck them back into the bag.

As far into the bag as they could go, as far as they should be able to reach. Where, based on what they all observed, about a thumb’s width of the ends should be sticking out above the top. Pushing them further down, Aramis could feel he’d a grip of both of them, and he kept moving his hand until his nails scraped the bottom seam.

He still felt the rounded necks of the vials.

“Where’d they go?”

“They’re in my hand.”

“Yer in the bag to yer knuckles, that’s not possible.”

“Yet, I feel them.” Keeping them pinched between his fingers he slowly rotated the pouch, raising it above his own face so the other’s might observe that his fingers were pressed to the edge and there was no sign of the items’ shapes. “I’ve a hold of them both.”

When all of them had an eye on the upturned end he plucked it off with his right hand and displayed the vials. Frowning and curious, he replaced the pouch covering the vials again and pushed the bottom seam flush with the tips of his fingers with his other palm. It was the most disorienting feeling to be tapping the leather with his palm, the satin lining pressing against his fingertips, and feeling the vials, but seeing nothing where they should be.

“Let them go.”

Aramis squinted up at Athos, but didn’t voice his query. If they all needed to see the vials drop out of the bag to prove what Aramis felt, and what they all saw, then so be it. He opened his fingers and let them spread withing the pouch, but neither vial dropped down to the bed. Neither vial was between his fingers.

Lifting the bag away from his hand revealed his left hand to be empty. He lifted the pouch higher, peering up, and pushed the sides to see within.

“Nothing,” he confirmed.

“May I?”

Athos took the righted pouch from Aramis and reached inside, his index and thumb moving back and forth along the seam of the bag.

“Anything?” Porthos asked.

“It’s empty.”

Athos made the assertion, but continued to run his fingers along the interior of the bag. Moving his hands, he pushed his thumbs against the worn leather and turned the bag inside out to expose the deep gold, satin lining. The lined portion was newer than the bag itself which appeared more worn but well-crafted. Returning the pouch to its correct orientation Athos moved to hand the captain’s gift back to Aramis, but paused with it held over Aramis’ outstretched hand. Before any of them could speak, Athos withdrew a vial.

“Now that, is impressive.”

Aramis couldn’t help but grin at the assertion. He accepted the bag back from Athos, and turned it upside down, giving it a shake. Nothing emerged. He shook it, and again nothing fell out. Righting the pouch he pushed two fingers inside and with much less thought and effort than had been required earlier he withdrew the other vial.

“He did say...to help…” Aramis’ mind delved back to the note, pulling and turning his thoughts like a waterwheel. “To help with…‘losing track’ of items, mine specifically...which might be a reference to – ”

“How often y’lose yer clothing?”

“No,” Aramis waggled his brows, “but I admit it is inconvenient to have my personal effects displaced.”

“Inconvenient,” mused Athos in a tone that conveyed a mild exasperation regarding the more unfortunate result of Aramis’ transformations.

“For which I feel immeasurable gratitude that you both take such care to prevent their loss. Yet, with this...it’s possible...well, it might be possible to place larger items in this...don’t you agree?”

“Yer clothes?”

“I’d prefer we test my theory on something less precious but, yes. I think this could serve such a purpose.”

“Not only to conceal something such as herbs of ‘questionable legality’ but your weaponry and clothing at the inopportune times a change of form is required.”

Aramis was intrigued by the possibility. Porthos too, clearly, as he rose to retrieve an item to test.

“Not my hat,” Aramis ordered.

“Nor the wine.”

“All of the gifts are forbidden as part of this trial,” Aramis declared, and once he’d received their agreement he nodded. “Your emptied cup, Porthos. It’s larger than the pouch, but solid, and if it is to be ‘lost’ by accident there are plenty more. Here.”

Aramis passed the pouch to Athos, who handed it to Porthos and the larger man made to place the cup into the opening. It only crumpled the leather, pushing at the folds, and not fitting easily. Porthos worked the pouch opening wider along the cord, but once the cup’s rim cleared the opening the base of the metal cup stuck out from the unyielding bag. He raised the pouch aloft, ducking his head beneath it, to see where its edges bulged beneath the leather, but didn’t ‘sink’ into the bag as the other items had.

“Hmm,” Aramis frowned, but before he could speak Porthos gave the semi-concealed cup and pouch to Athos.

“Might not work when it’s me,” he made a small shrug of his shoulder, and retook his seat at the end of Aramis’ bed, one large palm fell heavy on the blankets over Aramis’ ankle.

Waiting to meet his gaze Aramis gave a small shrug of his own, and a smile of bemusement, even though he suspected that Porthos was correct. Some aspects of magic, such as the influence of a practitioner over a familiar, set a taut line of unease across Porthos’ shoulders. Other times, he’d be curious about how Athos and Aramis ‘spoke’ to each other, and how he’d been able to sometimes ‘see’ what Aramis sent to him, even memories of places Aramis had been. Aramis had asked him to keep the other piece of his stone, but he didn’t push beyond that for Porthos to explore any connection he might have or be able to achieve.

All Aramis wanted was for Porthos to remain part of the bond they’d all created, magical or not.

Drawn by a motion in the corner of his eye while he’d been musing, he turned to watch Athos pull the cup halfway up, but not completely from the pouch, and tilted it to gauge the space. Holding the bottom portion with all of the fingers of his right hand he began to lower it by the base before he withdrew his fingers and used just the pads to push. As with the vial, the item soon disappeared from view and its shape was no longer discernible from the outside. He squeezed the sides of the pouch within his hand, and the leather crumpled in as if it were empty. Which, watching Athos turn it over and shake it toward the floor, it was.

He tossed the pouch over to Aramis, and it landed with the same flat appearance as an empty glove. To anyone who’d not witnessed them attempting to fit the cup it would merely appear a plain, empty, pouch.

“Amazing,” Aramis proclaimed, tapping along the leather before he picked it up with both hands and pulled the ties open fully.

Before Aramis could reach for the stem of Porthos’ wine cup, there was a sharp rapping noise. He called a greeting, signaling to Porthos he could open the door. Serge leaned heavily against the door-frame, motioning the stable-hands behind him to carry in trays laden with portions of duck, roasted chicken, brawn in a pale, cinnamon scented sauce, and what looked to be a bowl of honey, egg, and almond potage. Aramis caught sight of candied fruits, stewed apples, and puffed dough and jellies when young Denys lifted the cloth over the tray he carried to provide him a peek.

“I believed we were making do with the bounty over by Athos,” Aramis commented, he’d seen the breads, and cheeses, the cured meats with small piles of dates and pistachios when he’d first awakened.

He’d been looking forward to sampling some of what had been provided to the garrison; Athos and Porthos having brought – and eaten by the looks of the plates – a decent portion to his room already. They’d all contributed to the Serge’s ‘coffer’ in the upcoming days to Christmas, but regiment’s seasonal bountifulness had been much bolstered by a sizable contribution from their captain.

The three men were privately aware that Tréville had come into a considerable amount of money from what would be publicly disclosed as one owed to him by Richelieu. The interpretation was likely to be a lost wager, or a debt paid to their captain over a matter of honor. In a way, it had been. Tréville had negotiated the payment after their confrontation, and Marsac’s subsequent death.

He’d left Richelieu no space to maneuver, not with the story they’d devised to explain all events cleanly and with no party taking blame. Richelieu had allowed the three of them to be presented as the heroes of the tale once all was ‘explained’ to the king. Most importantly Aramis and Athos’ bond was protected, with not a hint of the magic employed that evening to ever become known. While the cardinal had a fair amount of blackmail material, Tréville’s leverage was greater and he’d exploited that for their gain.

A large sum had been secured for Aramis, with both Porthos and Athos refusing the allotments Tréville offered them in favor of the entirety being given to him. Making a joke over his own near demise, to disguise the unease he felt at the amount serving as some sort of compensation – or worse, a benefit from the former musketeer’s death – he’d accepted the full portion. The concession he’d asked of Tréville was that the Musketeer’s captain hold the amount until he had determined what he intended to do with it all.

“What’re you doing with that?” Serge asked him, leaning against the frame and keeping half an eye on his assistants, before noting the small pouch in Aramis’ hands.

“Captain’s gift,” Aramis titled the pouch side to side to show it to the cook.

“Guess ‘e didn’t have much left after plannin’ all this,” Serge chortled, bending to pick up a small ceramic bowl from an overturned crate his assistants had brought to serve as an extra table. “Speakin’ of gifts, where’s that cat of yours?”

Aramis shrugged as his friends looked to him, and Athos and Porthos deferred to his explanation.

“About.” Aramis placed the pouch on the side table, reaching to accept the bowl on behalf of ‘Monsieur Charbonneau.’ The smooth ceramic still retained some heat, and he smiled to observe the milk dotted with small flecks and honey. “Is that...did you bring him honeycomb?”

“Had some extra, figured he’d enjoy workin’ his teeth on a piece of that.”

Aramis poked a finger at the thick piece of honeycomb stuck into the warmed milk, the honey and cinnamon shifting with the motion. It looked delicious and he brought it higher to waft the scent closer.

“Hey, now that’s for him.”

Porthos coughed to cover his laughter and Athos brought another glass of wine to mask his own amusement.

“Of course,” Aramis nodded, placing his hand solemnly over his heart and using the other to place the bowl on his bedside table. He accepted a folded napkin from Athos to cover the small bowl. “You have my word that will go directly to him.”

“You spoil him,” Athos warned the cook.

“You’ve no place to talk, I saw him swaddled up in yer cloak when you came back to the garrison earlier.” Serge waggled a finger at Athos and Porthos’ laughter couldn’t be covered at the gesture. “And you, givin’ him bits and pieces off yer plate at every meal he shows up for, and the lads claimin’ I give y’extra on account of yer size until they see I’m feedin’ two of you off one plate!”

“Come now, Serge,” Aramis’ tone was indulgent, feeling his own smile crinkling the skin at the edges of his eyes, “our ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ hardly eats a full ration.”

“Accepts plenty from you three, and don’t think I haven’t seen him sneakin’ his own. Caught him more than once in the pantry, helpin’ himself, and don’t try and tell me you ain’t seen how he lingers on market days.”

Nearly everyone in the regiment had witnessed the sometimes grumpy cook waving his spoon at the cat, while admonishing him or questioning where a certain ingredient had gone. Each man would also be hard pressed to claim not to have seen the cook slip the feline a portion of stew, or a slice of apple he’d cut to size for him.

“And yet you let him,” Aramis held up a hand to forestall any protest, continuing his testimony on behalf of the garrison’s resident feline. “Before you misremember, I can assure you I have seen you passing him cuts of pork and shredded chicken while you work.”

“You just see to it he gets that,” Serge said, but made no further argument.

“I promise it shall reach the intended, and handsome, feline.”

“Ought to be grateful,” grumbled Serge.

“I’ve no doubt that he will be,” Aramis smiled at Serge’s gruff demeanor, knowing how well he liked the cat visiting his kitchen, “and I’ll see to it he enjoys the added present as well.”

Aramis expected he’d have to make a deliberate appearance with the cleaned and mangled honeycomb in the next few days. Which would result in endless comments from Athos and Porthos, no doubt, but it would be worth the teasing. Serge did treat the little cat quite well. The more time he’d spent in his feline shape the more convinced he became of how a man treated an animal that served him no purpose revealed his nature.

“Be sure you warm that for him.” Serge warned, checking the work of his helpers before motioning them from the room. “If you’re wantin’ more, Pierre is on watch; there’ll be a good amount over the fire and in the common room.”

“Considering what we had, and what you brought…” Porthos looked around the room, patting Serge on the arm, “I think we’re more than taken care of, includin’ any four-legged visitors.”

“You’ve our thanks for your efforts.”

“And our wishes for a restful evening,” Aramis patted the napkin covered milk, “I’ll see that he gets this.”

Serge grumbled a bit more, and Aramis disguised his amusement by picking up his wine and taking another sip. The small collection of delectable offerings at his bedside table had increased between Athos and Serge’s assistants such thatit was already tempting him. All three of them traded glances, silent except for picking up some of the newer plates, while they listened for the steps to fade. A few more good wishes for the holiday or for sleep sounded, muffled in the yard, before the last few revelers dispersed from the garrison.

“Careful, yer teeth aren’t the right shape fer that.”

Aramis’ eyes connected with Porthos’ although he didn’t pull the honeycomb from his mouth. He took care not to depress the wax comb, but continued poking his tongue into the hexagons to gather up the honey. Swallowing around the thick liquid, he took a sip of the sweetened milk, before holding the still dripping comb over the small bowl.

“No teeth marks, I’m saving that for a visit of monsieur le chat to Serge,” Aramis winked, and lifted the honeycomb a bit higher. “Did you want some?”

“Nah, he sliced some on top of the reblochon,” Porthos reached to show the plate of cut cheese and honey, with almond slivers and the slices of honeycomb atop the thick bed of honey.

“The fanciest of feasts, the most precious of gifts,” Aramis tipped the bowl, finishing the cinnamon and honey infused milk, “and the best of friends. I’d say it was worth our return today.”

“Only risking your health…”

“I was healed enough,” Aramis commented, poking out his tongue to catch an excess droplet of honey before dabbing at his mustache with the tips of his fingers. “Not the most pleasant of rides, I admit, but I was in no danger – ”

“Wasn’t true when y’got that. I’m all fer whatever it is that you two manage fer healing, but you weren’t exactly looking ‘hale and hearty’ this morning.”

Aramis waved away the concern, moving his hands to resettle his warm – and beautiful – new blanket about his shoulders.

“A convincing portrayal for the men.”

“And as you can hardly claim an injury that waylaid us and then parade about the garrison, you’ll have sufficient time to recover.”

Aramis frowned over at Athos, despite his partial agreement with the words. It would be necessary to remain abed, but it would not be so intolerable as it had been in previous years. He’d never again be locked in a horrid, spelled, box and if he were confined to his room he’d be visited rather than trapped. The limitations on his movements, and behavior, now remained based on protecting himself and his bonded practitioner, but he was able to participate in decisions rather than be subjugated.

Athos’ advisement could, at times, edge into a tension between them, but he’d make his case to Aramis, together they’d negotiate the best course. Even if Tréville were to impose a restriction on him, the order would be one which Aramis could – eventually – see the logic behind. A captain invested in the welfare of his soldier, rather than a practitioner controlling him.

When he’d been required to limit his shifting after their confrontation with Richelieu he’d found a new enjoyment in his feline shape. Without the constant pressure from Marsac to keep their abilities hidden he’d more opportunities to shift. Transformations required less effort since bonding with Athos and he’d found himself taking more opportunities to change forms.

There were times, such as this afternoon, when he was keenly aware of Athos’ concern over his own influence, but in binding to him he’d not tethered Aramis, but provided him greater freedom.

“Think y’got it all.”

“Hmm?”

Porthos motioned to his own beard, scratching at his chin and grinning at Athos.

“Might need to carve ‘im a new comb and brush next year, he grooms himself as often as ‘Monsieur Charbonneau’ – maybe more often…”

“A gentleman must take care, Porthos,” Aramis hadn’t been aware he’d been combing his fingers against his jaw as he thought, and he tilted his chin to better display the dark hair in discussion, “grooming holds as much importance to a man as a cat. Exhibiting health, strength, maturity – ”

Athos’ clearing of throat was not unexpected and Aramis turned to better display his meticulously cared for beard.

“Virility,” Aramis preened, deliberately stroking the end of his beard, his serious expression ruined when a he couldn’t prevent a wide smile dominating his features.

“Hand over the cup,” Porthos motioned with his whole hand, “I need a drink.”

Athos took the pouch and lifted the requested item, filling it to near spilling over before handing it to Porthos.

“What shall we try next?”

Aramis rubbed his palms together before turning them to grip the folds of his soft, wool blanket in mock defense at Athos’ arched brow.

“How about the baeckeoffe,” Porthos suggested, moving to one of the small tables set near the fire, “Serge was particularly proud of it this afternoon.”

“Yes, he served with a man from Alsace. He claims he taught him a family recipe.”

Aramis smiled in recollection of that bit being shared as Serge sliced potatoes and told the cat seated in the sunlight of his friend. How he’d learned the recipe, as well as some of his knowledge of slow cooking dishes and their convenience. Especially for a garrison full of men. Aramis had only been seeking a spot to nap in peace, and from Marsac’s interference, but the warm patch of sunlight provided the perfect perch to be entertained by the gruff man’s easy storytelling.

“He visited Alsace, a few times,” he’d learned Serge had grown up away from Paris, “in fact his recollections have inspired me to make my own visit to Christkindelsmärik and – ”

“Christkind what?”

Aramis chuckled, accepting a hot bowl from Athos and not at all caring of the heat against his palms.

“Christkindelsmärik, it’s a Christmas market in Strasbourg, it must be around fifty years or so that they’ve held it…” Aramis recalled Serge’s softer speech when he spoke of the stalls and the scent of the mulled wine, the people crowding about and how much gingerbread he’d consumed. “Serge claims his mulled wine recipe is Roman in origin, but I’ve a feeling he learned it there. I’d very much like to visit.”

“We should,” Porthos stated.

“Tréville claimed its origin to me this afternoon.”

“The Christkindealsmerink?”

“Christkindelsmärik,” Aramis supplied, knowing Porthos would want to pronounce it correctly, with not the least of reasons being for when he boasted of their visit.

“The mulled wine recipe,” Athos gently agitated his cup, “I was skeptical when the captain said it, as was he, but it could be Roman. The cathedral sits on what was once Argentoratum, it’s possible his recipe is derived from some form of their own.”

Aramis’ mouth dropped open to credit Serge’s boasting rather than the settlement, but then he closed it given the possibilities they’d seen with his own abilities. The existence of more like him than he’d realized, and the idea of how much had been driven away and relegated to artifacts and speculation like the ancient legions of Rome.

“Time reshapes all men’s recollections, why not let the man hold his belief?”

“He does so enjoy regaling us with the telling.” Aramis could not deny that, most of the men were well aware of Serge’s claim and he did make an excellent vin chaud. “How generous of you Athos, given how prone you are to the sensibile path and reasoning.”

“My inclination to believe in the exceptional has grown of late,” Athos conceded with a tilt of his cup toward him and Porthos, “and I’ve great admiration for the Romans,” Athos stated before another sip.

“Another reason to visit, and I’ve never seen the cathedral there. We’ll have to make a plan of this.”

“Could ask yer man at Saint Germain des Prés what sort of records they have there.”

“Doubtful he’d know much, or that he’d tell me of the kind we’d wish to peruse…” Aramis thought aloud, wondering at all that might be uncovered from repositories that had been forbidden to him, even the attempt at asking, while bound to another. “Certainly worth exploring.”

“There’s much to examine.”

“First let’s eat, yeah?” Porthos ladled a good portion of the stew onto a plate, encouraging the two of them to quit chatting for the moment.

“What?” Aramis asked after swallowing around a large spoonful of carrots, onions, and beef.

“I didn’t say anything.” Athos turned to him, but made no further move to eat.

“Did you…” Aramis squinted at Athos, setting his spoon carefully into his bowl and the entirety of it onto his lap. He spared a glance away from Athos to take care not to allow any edge of his new blanket’s edges to be at risk of slipping into the mixture. Then he waited a moment, attempting to phrase how to ask if Athos had considered a thought strongly enough for Aramis to glean a sense of the musing. “Was there anything else on your mind?”

“Besides dinner and tryin’ to get yer hat in that pouch?”

“We are not making a test with my hat,” Aramis blinked at his raised hand, the one he’d forgotten was empty of the spoon he was attempting to point and admonish with. “We’ll try a bed sheet.”

“First.”

“There’s quite a long list I can devise before we attempt any of my own clothing, Porthos.”

Porthos chuckled winking at Aramis before, digging his own spoon back into his dinner with a warning to Athos that his own would grow cold.

“Athos?”

At Athos’ frown Aramis thought he might’ve imagined the whisp of sensation he’d felt, a frisson of something that he’d interpreted incorrectly. Since bonding with the man he’d found it easier to speculate on his moods, and he believed he’d some skill at it before they’d been bound, but Athos could be quite mercurial for a man so prone to being outwardly inexpressive.

“There was one more item,” he glanced to Porthos first, and then fixed Aramis with a look he recognized as one that he’d given when attempting to persuade Aramis not to set his expectations to high heights, or hopes. “It’s not a Christmas present. I’d been intending to give this to you sooner.”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Porthos leaned back adjusting his shoulders on the wall and taking care not to crush Aramis’ shins.

“Yes, and given my exceptional blanket,” he stroked the section over his left shoulder for effect, “I’ll not be disappointed with any other offering, considering my great bounty already.”

Athos said nothing, and his face was impassive as he withdrew a small packet similar to the one from Tréville and bearing a waxen seal as well. Aramis noted the wax as Athos extended his arm to offer it to him. He noted first that the packet was smaller, and weightier than Tréville’s, and then that the marking was neither the regiment’s nor their captain’s crest.

“My family’s crest.”

“Ah.”

It was a poor response for the implication and the importance of whatever Athos had deemed an item worth offering to him. Gifting to him. Neither of his friends commented, even as his finger traced along the wax seal for what had to be a longer span of time than was polite to remain without comment. Both of his friends, however, kept from urging him or saying anything to fill the silence.

“Too small for a blade,” Aramis hefted the puffed packet tilting it and pushing slightly on the edges until the crinkled in, “did you put some musketballs in here for a joke?”

Athos shook his head, but otherwise made no remark or any sign of amusement at Aramis’ teasing query. He forewent making any comment that he’d been the one opening all the mysterious packets for the evening, but innately he knew that he could neither pass it to Porthos or ask Athos to reveal the contents.

Separating the wax from the thick paper, he unfolded the top layer to a lump of several layers of muslin wrapping that he could now press closer against the shape within. Based on what he guessed the object to be he could not imagine why Athos had chosen to clump and wrap the fabric around it, other than to disguise the item from being guessed.

As he unwound the cloth, he could not imagine why it would need to be disguised except to protect it from puncturing through the paper. He’d no idea what it would open, and would need Athos to explain what his intended gift was meant to reveal. The key was old, that much he could tell from the shape of the iron and the three circles making up the bow of the key. His thumb traced over the ridges of the collar, warming the metal in his hand. It was unremarkable insofar as keys went, save for its age, but noble houses often contained items from decades if not centuries past.

He wanted to break the tension he could sense tingling along his nerves with a question if it was the key to Athos’ heart or some inquiry about breaking his defenses. Instead the weight of the key felt a feather compared to what he was beginning to suspect.

“We were required to keep the means for defense, a duty of all the nobility. Many of which, as you know, had some affiliation or other with practitioners. Perhaps a few of their origins are owed to it.” Athos paused, gesturing to the key. “It’s been passed from father to firstborn, along with any possessions of importance to the house and the treasures therein. That particular key grants access to the arms, but it also fits another room. One that holds items I’d dismissed as being of any need.”

“Any...need?”

“Family heirlooms that were to be protected, but unused.”

“But the purges?”

“We were exempted from turning all materials over, based on agreements reached. I also believe my family might have been disinclined to have cooperated. That’s what I’ve remembered, or I suspect. I’d some discussions on the matter when I was younger, but you’ll understand it was not as pressing a concern back then.”

“Your family’s…archive of...magic?”

“Talismans, spells, records, potions, for all I know...”

“Could be a whole trove of stuff to help you,” encouraged Porthos.

“Us,” Aramis said, quietly. “All of us.”

“I can think of no better man to take charge of such a collection.”

“I,” Aramis swallowed back a reply to Athos that he was not entirely a man, but the magnitude of the gift he was being offered held him back from making light of the moment. “Athos, thank you.”

He’d meant to convey his appreciation for more than the opportunity this would provide him. Them. To express his gratitude for everything that had happened, and that had led them to be bound and for the three of them to be together. Rather than words, he could sense Athos took his meaning with an answering vibration he felt course through him.

“We’re going to,” Aramis paused, curling his fingers over the key before looking from Porthos to Athos and back to the key. “I don’t know what we’ll uncover, but we’re going to do this together.”

His path was entwined with Athos’ now and he was as bound to Porthos as he was to Athos. Chance, or fate, or magic had aligned their paths and Aramis had no intention to separate.

All their paths, forged into one; a journey that they’d set about together.

❧