Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

D’Artagnan remembers his father told him once a long time ago, when d’Artagnan was still a boy, that there are few things in this world worth dying for. Not for money or power or land, not glory or honor because those are worth very little to the ones you leave behind. He told him that if you must die, then die for something you believe in, die for something greater then you, die for love. But then his father died in the mud and the rain for nothing at all, died in his arms and d’Artagnan thought there was nothing left to live for. Then his father died and where there once was a boy filled with hope and light there is only revenge and a devil burning inside his soul that he is afraid sometimes will consume him.

He meets Athos though, and Aramis and Porthos and Constance and they tame the demons in him, banish them from his heart. And on the nights when they cannot be banished and again he burns they sit with him and they are not afraid. He meets them and he realizes that his father was wrong. There are some things worth dying for in this world, and some things that are worth living for too.

He clings to this makeshift broken family he’s found, clings to his friends to keep him afloat in a sea of loss and grief he sometimes fears he will drown in. They’re caught in a strange dance, the four of them, and d’Artagnan doesn’t know the rules but every step brings him closer to something and he’s reaching out for it with both hands. They’re close, Aramis and Porthos and Athos, in a way that can only come from shared tragedy, from trials faced and survived together, from years of time spent in each other’s company. They’re close in a way that sometimes d’Artagnan feels he cannot touch, cannot understand, they share a bond he cannot hope to compete with. It aches a little sometimes, that knowing, but they do not turn him away or close him out, never intentionally. They open their arms and draw him into their circle and d’Artagnan feels he’s found a home there. He's still trying to find his place however, find his footing. The other’s roles are obvious. Athos is the brains, logical, calculating, calm but also hiding a deep fierce love. Aramis is the spirit, with his grand gestures and romantic notions and his gentle healing hands. Porthos, Porthos is the heart of the group, with his kindness and warmth and passion and undying loyalty. D’Artagnan, however, he doesn’t know how he fits yet. Doesn’t know what his purpose is among them. He tries his best though, to be what they need of him, whatever that might be.

It’s not always perfect. They fight sometimes, and they make mistakes and hurt each other in bloody, intimate ways as only brothers can. And there are times when d’Artagnan cannot help but feel alone, when they have strange silent conversations where no words are spoken but he can feel their weight heavy in the air anyways, conversations he can neither hope to understand nor be invited to share in. But on those days he has Constance, on those days he goes to her and she holds him and in her arms he finds peace. It isn't perfect, few things in life are as he's discovered, but it’s enough. And he’s not perfect either, in many ways. He’s not the best shot, his swordsmanship while decent most certainly leaves something to be desired, and still too often he thinks with his heart and not his head. He’s not perfect, but he has a lot to give and he’s more then willing to give it. He’s not perfect, but he wants, wants so badly and so much that it scares him sometimes.

So the days stretch, he gains his commission and loses Constance only to win her back and lose her again, and the world turns and turns. D’Artagnan is young and ambitious and driven and it seems, in these hazy heady days, like it will last forever. And even though they are soldiers and death clings to them like a woman’s perfume he thinks it cannot touch them, thinks it will never wrap it’s cold fingers around their hearts and still their beating. For all that they hurt and bleed it is never more then that, never more then blood, never more then a wound Aramis will heal with his clever hands. They are inseparable, unstoppable, and in his mind they will live forever as they are now. He doesn’t realize how wrong he is, and like all those who believe themselves invincible, eventually, he falls. Eventually, he learns. And life is not a kind teacher.

It all starts when Treville calls them into his office one early autumn morning. There is a letter, to be delivered from the King to a nobleman in Reims, maybe three days ride from Paris.

“It should be a simple mission, nothing of undue importance is contained. Simply some matters of funding for a new battleship in the King’s navy. I don’t foresee any trouble.” Treville says. That, of course, should have been the first sign. Nothing is ever simple, or easy, not for them and to say that is too invite trouble. “Recent events have been… difficult. For all of you. This should be a well deserved rest. And if you’re a couple of days late back, well, there are always unexpected circumstances. I will not send out the search parties." And Treville gives them wink, so subtle as to be almost invisible, lips quirking into the hint of a smile. Athos nods, takes the letter from his outstretched hand, tucks it into the lining of his doublet. As they turn to file out the door Treville calls out after them, voice suddenly serious.

“Be careful, out there. Nothing should happen and yet... simply, be careful.” It’s Athos turn to smile, that little half smile of his, just a slight tug at the edges of his mouth. His voice when he replies is quiet, more of a murmur.

“Aren’t we always?”

They set off for Reims that morning, wasting no time on delay. D’Artagnan for his part is excited, it’s the first opportunity they’ve had in a long while to travel beyond the city limits and he itches to get on his horse and ride. He feels restless, something strange boiling in his blood and driving him half mad. There’s a kind of nervous energy that’s built up in him since things came to a head with Milady and the Cardinal, an anticipation for something he does not understand, and he’s glad for the chance to get away from the familiarity of the city for a few days. Away from Constance and the ugly hole she’d torn in his heart. He does not blame her for it, does not resent her, for she would not be the woman he fell in love with if she did not give up her own happiness to save someone so undeserving of her care, but it aches in a way d’Artagnan would rather forget. Aches like the memory of a brand pressed against bare skin, like a wound not yet healed over. So it is with a smile on his face and an enthusiastic disposition that he saddles his horse and packs his saddlebags for the trip. Porthos seems to sense his impatience to leave the walls of Paris, grinning impishly at him from across the stables,

“You seem a little too eager escape my friend, leavin’ behind some broken hearts?” Something in d’Artagnan smarts at that, and he looks down at his saddles for a second. Maybe he is, but his own heart is just as broken as the one he seeks to escape. Shaking away the thought of the look in Constance’s eyes as she said goodbye, the smile on her face marred with tears. He forces a grin onto his face and looks up and locks away the grief somewhere deep inside of him.

“At least I’ve had hearts to break, how’s your love life been looking lately Porthos?” Porthos glares mumbling something about respect for your elders under his breath and d’Artagnan laughs, and it’s a real one, despite the pain behind it. Aramis voices sounds behind them,

“Now now, play nice. We have a week of travel ahead of us, let’s not pick fights already.” D’Artagnan raises an eyebrow at him and smirks impetuously.

“I’m not picking a fight Aramis, just stating a fact. Our Porthos here hasn’t been doing well with the ladies lately,” Turning to his friend he continues, looking positively devilish, “Losing your touch, Porthos? Perhaps in your old age you have begun to leave your lovers unsatisfied?”

Porthos lets out a low growl and with a swiftness that belays his size makes his way around his horse and before d’Artagnan has time to run he scoops him up like he weighs nothing. Aramis for his part does not engage, simply leans against the door of an empty stall and watches with no small hint of amusement at the scene unfolding before him.

It’s at that opportune moment Athos walks into the stable with a sweep of bright blue cloak, and stops short at the scene he finds. D’Artagnan is slung over Porthos’ shoulder like a sack of potatoes, older man poised to dump his burden into a pile of hay while Aramis stands by with a wide grin plastered across his face. He just sighs, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off an impending headache.

“I don’t want to know.” And when they all stay frozen and unmoving, he says in a long suffering tone,

“Porthos, can you please release d’Artagnan so we can continue with our assignation?” Sheepishly Porthos lowers d’Artagnan into the hay, dropping him the last few inches. D’Artagnan lands with a muffled thud and after a moment sits up, grin on his face, as he picks stalks of hay out of his hair. Looking up at Porthos he assumes a wounded expression, 

“Well that wasn’t very kind of you.” Porthos just snickers, and turns back to his horse.

“I do believe you deserved it, my young friend.” Aramis comments, pushing himself off the stall door and walking over to offer d’Artagnan a hand up. He accepts and Aramis pulls him to his feet, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Haven’t you ever been taught to let sleeping bears lie?” Athos coughs lightly, watching the exchange with a slightly amused expression.

“Not to interrupt this beautiful scene of brotherly bonding but would it pain you terribly to depart? We are wasting daylight, I’d rather not have to spend the night on the road and the nearest inn is a days ride."

Suitably chastised they gather the last of their supplies and mount up, maneuvering their horses out the gates of the garrison and onto crowded city streets. As they ride further from the center of Paris, farther from Constance and the Cardinal and all the plotting and scheming and exhausting superficiality d’Artagnan has come to expect from this city he feels his heart grow lighter. He loves it here, deeply and fiercely, and it is now the only place he could ever call home but sometimes he misses the simplicity of his farm in Gascony. Misses the days when his biggest concerns were whether or not the turnips were coming in well, or if Henriette from down the road liked him back. Misses the feeling of bringing life into the world with his hands instead of ending them. Shaking his head he dispels the thoughts. It does no good to cast his mind back, that place is gone now. Burnt to nothing by a mad, greedy man, and his childhood is nothing more but ashes on the breeze. It is better not to think of it, there are few things of his life before the musketeers that are not painful to remember. Taking a deep breath of chilly autumn air he kicks lightly at his horse, urging it forward towards his friend’s mounts. Turning his face east towards Reims he lets the morning sun wash against his face and smiles. This will be good for them, for all of them.

Chapter Text

The journey is miserable. As soon as they left Paris dark clouds loomed dark and swollen in the distance, d’Artagnan had taken one look at them and sighed knowing what they would bring and shattering all hopes of a pleasant ride. Although the rain does not come the first day less then an hour after they rise on the second morning of their mission it begins to pour, a cold frigid rain that cuts through their wool and leather coverings and makes its way straight to the bone. There’s a sharp wind blowing from the north-east, which only serves to whip the icy water under the brims of their wide caps directly into their faces and the cold drops sting against bare skin. D’Artagnan doesn’t even have that small protection and soon his hair is plastered against his forehead, forcing him to squint to see through the heavy sheets of rain. The swift pace of the horses kicks up dirt from the road and soon they are all covered in mud and shivering in the saddle. Even Athos, ever inscrutable and laconic looks miserable, hunched deep into his saddle with his hat pulled down over his face. Porthos is less subtle in his displeasure with the situation and when they slow their pace to descend a steep hill he lets loose a string of expletives that would make even Captain Treville raise an eyebrow. Cursing the weather, the wind, the road, the idiot noble for making his home in Reims, and anything else he can think of. D’Artagnan and Aramis exchange amused glances behind his back as he complains loudly and fervently and rather eloquently. With a little wink to d’Artagnan Aramis gives the flanks of his mount a light kick and pulls even with Porthos.

“I would think one of Paris’s greatest musketeers could survive a little ill weather with less complaint!” Porthos shoots him a glare, tempered by the slight quirk of his lips.

“There are many things I can survive, Aramis, but there are things wet which should not be! And this damn wind, it will be the death of me." He spits back. They’re still bickering light heartedly when Athos gestures back at them to stop with a raised hand and they all draw to a halt behind his horse, suddenly serious. 

“What is it, Athos?” D’Artagnan asks, taking in the look of focus on his friend's face. Athos is silent for a moment, scanning their surroundings, before he shakes his head.

“It’s…it’s nothing. We should find a place to stop soon and rest the horses.”

“And perhaps take a bite to eat as well?” Asks Porthos in a hopeful tone. Aramis reaches out across the space between them to lightly shove at Porthos’ side.

“Don’t worry my friend, there will be time to fill your stomach.”

Before Porthos can reply Athos kicks at his mount and starts forward again and they all follow, sighing at the unforgiving pace. They ride for maybe an hour more and the rain never shows a sign of relenting, if anything it seems to pour even harder. Eventually they come across a small clearing against a thick copse of trees whose branches offer mild protection against the deluge. Athos again signals a halt and they all slip off of their horses, leading them into the clearing. After securing their mounts Porthos goes about trying to find wood not yet soaked by the torrential rain. Returning with an armful of smaller sticks and grass he and Aramis set to starting a fire. Through some miracle it catches on only the second try, embers glowing bright and red against the dull brown of the clearing floor. The wood Porthos found is damp and smokes heavily as it burns, stinging at d’Artagnan’s eyes and making them water and he blinks away the tears as his vision blurs.

Porthos and Aramis busy themselves tending to the fire and left with no tasks to complete d’Artagnan’s eyes wander to Athos. He’s standing by his horse at the edge of the clearing, one hand distractedly running along the beasts neck and eyes sharp. The same focused look from before is still painted on his face and he seems to be searching for something in the forest, whole body alert and tense. Leaving his friends to their ministrations d’Artagnan makes his way over to the older musketeer.

“What is it, Athos? You have been on edge since first we stopped.” Athos takes a moment to reply, eyes scanning the trees around them.

“I do not know. Something is wrong.” His voice is tight, and there’s an edge of worry to it. D’Artagnan can see nothing to cause concern but he trusts his friend and so he too sharpens his senses and examines his surroundings with a discerning eye. At first he can sense nothing unusual, the steady beat of rain against the canopy of branches above them, the faint sound of Porthos and Aramis conversing behind them, the taste of wood smoke in his mouth, but there is a sense of wrongness that pervades it all. Athos turns too him,

“Do you hear it?” And d’Artagnan hears nothing, nothing at all, and he realizes that’s what’s bothering him. Beyond the noise of the rain and their companions the forest is absent of all sound. There is no bird song, no squirrels in the trees, none of the natural ambient noise one would expect and the silence sends a shiver down d’Artagnan’s spine. He looks to Athos and their eyes meet, an understanding passes between them as both of their hands stray to the hilts of their swords.

In the end it is the wind that Porthos had complained so bitterly about only a short while earlier that gives them warning. Even in the relative protection of the trees it still blows and it carries with it the sound of the quiet rasp of metal drawn against metal as a sword exits it’s sheath, the click of a trigger being pulled. Beside him Athos cries out once, the word echoing loud and harsh in d’Artagnan’s ears,

“AMBUSH!”

It’s all he manages to get out before the first musket ball whistles past d’Artagnan’s ear before digging itself into the trunk of a tree just behind him, close enough to send a spray of bark and splinters into his face. He dives to the side, away from where the projectile flew, drawing his sword as he dodges. There’s the sound of another musket firing and he pushes himself quickly to his feet as men begin to scurry forward from the tree lines. He’s vaguely aware of Porthos charging forward with a roar, Athos and Aramis close behind him but before he can join them there is a flash of silver in the corner of his eye and he raises his sword just in time to avoid being sliced in half and his attention is forced away from his friends.

The man he’s facing is not unskilled, his weathered face cool and determined as they exchange blows. It’s clear he’s had some training in the sword, and he presses d’Artagnan away from where his friends fight towards the edge of the clearing where their horses are tethered. The ground is muddy and slick beneath their feet, only lending to the difficulty of the fight and d’Artagnan has to keep flicking his wet hair out of his eyes. At one point his foot slips on a patch of mud and he falls to the side, landing heavily on his knees with a thud that jars his teeth. As it turns out it’s a blessing in disguise, his opponent’s blade swings a wide arc through where he was standing just a second ago. The man stumbles forward, over balanced by the sweeping movement, exposing himself in the process and d’Artagnan scrambles hurriedly to his feet, bringing his sword down through the man’s back. He collapses forward with a short gasp that dies in in his throat and does not move again. Taking a second to catch his breath d’Artagnan turns towards his friends. It’s a grim sight that meets him, each of the other musketeers is engaged by at least two men, all of them looking hard pressed by their opponents. Athos dispatches one of his attackers with a swift flick of his blade and turns to see d’Artagnan standing alone by the horses. Blocking a heavy downswing with his sword he calls out, eyes wide and serious.

“Take the letter and go! The mission cannot fail!” There’s a bleeding cut on his shoulder, not deep but long, and d’Artagnan can see his arm trembling under the weight of the other mans sword. He calls out once more, short and sharp, “Go!”

Then he’s absorbed back into the fray. D’Artagnan hesitates, looks to the horses. He knows the letter is tucked safely into Athos’ saddlebags, knows if he goes now he would probably have enough of a head start on their attackers to escape, knows he has a duty to king and country. But even as he starts to move towards Athos’ mount a cry from Porthos draws his attention; whether it is of pain or anger he cannot tell but in that instant it makes his decision for him. For there are many things d’Artagnan knows now, he knows of duty and grief and obedience, knows what he should do, he also knows he cannot abandon his friends, not when they need him. Knows he cannot survive holding another body close to him in the rain and the mud. Turning away from the horses he runs towards the fight, letting a fierce yell tear itself from his throat and as he runs he remembers his father’s words, that there are not many things worth dying for. But then again, some things are.

A man hears his cry and peels away from Aramis; spinning to face him, snarl on his lips. Their swords meet with a deafening clang that sends hard reverberations running down d’Artagnan’s arm and into his shoulder. Pulling back he circles his opponent, carefully sizing him up. The man is larger then him by a few inches and more then a few pounds and wears a surly, bitter look on his face. The only advantage d’Artagnan has on his side is his slight frame and greater speed and he uses them to the best of his ability. Darting forward and then back again with quick jabs, spinning to avoid the powerful but slow strikes of the other man’s sword. It is not the more aggressive, offensive, strategy d’Artagnan would normally adopt but he’s not stupid and he knows that in a head on confrontation with the other swordsman he would lose.

Eventually his opponent begins to tire, his parries growing weaker and attacks sloppier and slower. D’Artagnan is tiring too though, the other man’s blade coming closer and closer to finding it’s mark with each swing and his own sword grows heavy in his hand, sweat mixing with rain as it drips down his forehead. Reaching up he wipes it out of his eyes, breath coming in sharp pants. He knows that if he is to prevail he must end this soon or he will end up as dead as the man he left behind him in the mud. Luckily, he sees an opening, and when the larger man thrusts at him he leans back just enough that the blade whistles mere inches from his chest. While his opponent is still recovering from the swing he darts forward, sword locking with the other blade and pushing out the man’s arm and leaving his chest open. Drawing his main gauche he slashes up and across his opponents throat, sharp blade easily slicing through skin and cartilage. A horrible gurgling noise escapes from his lips, his free hand reaching up to the deep cut in his neck as if he can hold the edges of torn flesh together. Slowly he staggers backward and topples to the ground blood bubbling from his opened neck and d’Artagnan is torn between grim satisfaction and horror.

The lull in the fight does not last long however, as call comes from behind him, his name, and the voice is tinged with fear. Only a moment later d'Artagnan hears a sound behind him, the crunch of a twig underfoot and he turns on his heel, muscles tensing. As he moves his eyes meet Athos’s, the other man still locked in the fray, and there is something panicked, something horrified to his gaze. D'Artagnan doesn’t realize why until he completes his turn and finds himself spinning directly onto the end of a sword.

Chapter Text

From the moment the tip of the blade breaks his skin the world seems to slow, seconds dragging painfully slow. There is a man holding the sword, a boy really, who can’t be more then a few years older than d’Artagnan, but his expression is cold and hard and there’s a scar stretching down his cheek and through his lip that mars a face that could beautiful. D’Artagnan stares at him for a second, a surprised huff of air escaping his lips, before looking downwards. It's strange to see a sword disappear into his leathers, hilt only a few inches from his stomach and he imagines if he were to turn he would see it sticking out of the back of him, running him through like a captured insect. In a blind detached panic his hands wrap around the blade, feebly attempting to pull it out. The cold metal bites into his skin and he sees red start to trickle down the silvered steel but it seems distant and far away. Being stabbed doesn’t hurt as much as d’Artagnan thought it would, and he supposes he’s thankful for that. Vaguely he hears the sound of Athos calling to him, but it echoes disjointed and quiet in his ears and he can’t seem to put meaning to the words. He wishes he could hear him better, wishes he could reply, but his lips are numb and he can’t seem to find his voice. 

It hurts, though, when the boy pulls the sword out. Hurts like a lick of fire across his skin as the sharp blade slices through the flesh of d’Artagnan’s palm and he can’t help the cry that tears itself from his lips unbidden, his own sword tumbling from his suddenly limp grasp.

With nothing to hold him up his legs crumple and fold beneath him, falling first to his knees and then slumping forward till his face is pressed into the dirt. He can’t move, arms and legs like iron weights weighing him down, down, down, into the muck and the mire and blearily d’Artagnan wonders if the earth is trying to swallow him whole. He doesn’t mind so much if it is, he’s suddenly very tired and the ground is comfortable beneath him. He feels blood seeping through his shirt and leathers, spilling into the mud like so much spilt wine.

There’s a foot in his stomach then, roughly digging into his side and rolling him onto his back, and he follows the movement, compliant, no will left in him to resist. He can see the sky now, grey and somber through the branches of the trees above him. It’s still raining and the drops that make it through the foliage land on his face and run down his cheeks like tears, carving trails through the dirt and grime caked there. Or maybe he is crying. The thought doesn’t bring him shame, though in the past it would have. It seems silly now, to be ashamed of tears. Silly to be ashamed at all.

Suddenly a dark shape fills his vision, blocking the trees and sky and rain from his sight. It’s the boy again; that same cold look on his face, and his scar stands out pale and angry against tanned skin. D’Artagnan wonders what happened to make him hard like that, glad it’s never happened to him despite all the reasons the world has given him to be bitter. The boy raises his sword high above his head, tip of the blade pointed towards d’Artagnan’s heart and he realizes now he’s going to die, here in the rain and the mud, his blood seeping into the ground. His father died in the rain on a day like this one, and so will he. It seems strangely appropriate, and he almost smiles at the thought.

He is not so much afraid; he has made his peace with God in the past and does not fear what is to come. Anyways, he will have Aramis to pray for his eternal soul. He does not believe he is going to Heaven, if there is one, he’s killed far too much for that and he is unrepentant of the deaths on his hands but there’s no fear in the thought of Hell. He’s sad though, sad because he had finally found a place in life. Because he had found a family when he thought he had lost his, because he had found love, and found a purpose. That’s all slipping away now, like blood mixed with brandy washed down a gutter after a night of hard rain. It's slipping away and d’Artagnan can’t bring himself to hold on. He wonders if he’ll see his father again, wonders if he’ll have one last chance to ask for forgiveness.

The blade starts to descend, and d’Artagnan doesn’t close his eyes, just watches it fall. His father’s voice rings in his ears there are few things in this world worth dying for, but there are some things that are and d’Artagnan made his choice a long time ago. All that’s left to do now is fall, and that’s not so hard at all. He remembers how confident he had been, in himself, in his friends. Confident they would never fall prey to the fate he had seen and inflicted so many times.Taking a last deep breath he tastes the clean scent of rain on his tongue mixed with the heavy copper of blood and earth. Letting his eyes drift shut, he waits.

His wait is interrupted by the loud report of a musket and his eyes fly open in time to see the boy above him disappear in a spray of blood and bone. He’s too numb to feel shocked; instead there’s just a muted sense of surprise that struggles its way to the surface of his consciousness. With great effort he rolls his head up till he sees Aramis standing behind him, smoking pistol in hand and a desperate look on his face. The battle is not finished however, Aramis soon turns back to engage another man and d’Artagnan lets his eyes drift forward again. That simple movement takes the last of his energy though and his head lolls limply to the side. There’s blood mixing with the mud around him, too much blood, and d’Artagnan thinks that Aramis has not saved his life, only kept him from death’s embrace a little longer. There’s only so much blood a man can lose and still live, he knows this from experience. He’d always thought dying would hurt more, but now it’s just a long slow fade into nothing, like falling asleep after too much wine. It's gentler than he imagined it would be.

After a few moments he dully notices the sounds of the fight behind him have disappeared and wonders if he’s starting to lose his hearing, but then his name sharp and loud echoes in his ears and he realizes that the battle is over, now he must wait to see who won.

For a second time that day a figure looms in his field of view but as he blinks the sweat and rain out of his eyes it is not a strange man with death in his eyes, but Aramis, who stumbles to his knees beside him, hands falling to the hole in his side and chasing away the numbness with agony that is blinding in it’s intensity. He bites his lip hard enough to tear skin and swallows the scream that builds in his throat. Aramis is saying something, words blurred and unclear but d’Artagnan catches the tail end of the sentence,

“-I need my bag!” Aramis looks down, smiling slightly when he sees d’Artagnan staring up at him. As he speaks he pulls the scarf from around his neck, gently lifting d’Artagnan up and pressing the cloth to the bleeding wound in his back before settling him down again. “Well now, I must say I’ve seen you looking better my friend.”

Aramis’ words are light in tone but his voice is tight and worried. There’s a cut along his eyebrow and it drips scarlet down his cheekbone, the bloody streaks morbidly reminiscent of tears. The image is strangely unsettling and d’Artagnan shivers violently, body shaking beneath Aramis’ hands. He’s saved from having to answer by the arrival of Porthos carrying Aramis’ saddlebag, Athos following close behind him. Soon they are all gathered around him, knees in the mud and matching expressions of concern coloring their faces. Aramis opens his bags, pulling out a small flask of spirits. Turning to Porthos he says,

“I have to clean the wounds. You must hold him, this will be painful and if he thrashes he could worsen the injury.” Porthos nods, face grim, and moves till he’s behind d’Artagnan, threading his arms through d’Artagnan’s armpits and lifting up him till he’s half laying on Porthos’ lap. Muzzily he looks down at Aramis who’s busy uncorking the bottle and he has enough clarity of mind to realize what’s happening and that it will not be pleasant. Unconsciously he tenses slightly, preparing himself for the pain. He feels a hand rest on his arm and he tilts his head to find Athos crouched next to him. When he sees d’Artagnan’s looking at him he gives the younger man's arm a squeeze. D’Artagnan takes a little comfort in the steadiness in the other musketeer’s eyes, but despite the calm veneer he can see that Athos’ lips are pressed together tight enough to turn the edges white and there are lines of stress creased around his eyes. It makes him afraid that Athos is afraid and he shudders again. Athos’s grip tightens a little.

Aramis finishes his preparations and turns to d’Artagnan, bottle in one hand.

“Are you ready?” He asks, and d’Artagnan isn’t, but he nods anyways. Aramis nods back, and then without preamble tilts the flask and pours the spirits onto the wound. For a second d’Artagnan’s vision goes black with the pain, back arching off the ground in a desperate attempt to escape as he thrashes like a man possessed. There’s a hoarse screaming ringing in his ears and it takes a moment to realize that he’s the one yelling. He can feel Porthos’ arms straining against his, holding him steady, and Athos’ fingers are an iron grip on his arm. Through it all he can hear Aramis’ voice, gentle and reassuring, coaching him through the burning in his side. Finally it recedes and d’Artagnan is left panting and exhausted, limp in Porthos’ grasp. He hears someone ask if he’s alright but he can’t muster the strength to answer. Aramis’ speaks again, “We need to turn him, I must clean the other wound as well.”

Then there are hands grasping his doublet and shoulders, shifting him over till he’s face down in Porthos’ lap and he lets them, too drained to resist. There’s a brief pause, Aramis puts a bracing hand on his shoulder, he can hear Athos whispering in his ear to breathe and then the agony comes again. This time it’s too much for his exhausted body and he feels himself slowly slipping away. The last thing he hears is Aramis’ voice in his ear,

“Rest, my friend, you’ll need it.”

And then there is only darkness. 

Chapter Text

D’Artagnan awakes some time later, minutes or hours he cannot tell. It’s still light out but the rain has ceased to fall and he can just see the sun starting to emerge from behind the clouds. At some point he’d been moved and now he lies upon a cloak near the fire, and there are heavy linen bandages wrapped around his stomach. He’s alone and for a moment he panics, looking around as much as he’s able before his eyes find his friends. They stand clustered near him, debating something. Porthos’ voice is the first he hears.

“We should turn back. Paris is less then two days ride, one if we push the horses.”

Aramis replies, voice tight with worry. “He will not survive a days journey, Porthos. He has lost too much blood and god only knows what kind of infection will set in.”

Athos chimes in, voice quiet.“Can you not just stitch him up here?” Aramis shakes his head, long curls of hair shedding drops of water that shimmer like jewels in the pale sunlight.

“I dare not, this place is nothing but mud and dirt and the risk that some will enter the wound as I stitch is too great. I need somewhere clean and dry.” They are quiet for a moment, obviously contemplating their next course of action. Finally Athos broaches the silence,

“The village that we were going to spend the night in is barely half a days ride from here, and it brings us closer to Reims as well. There will be an inn there.” Aramis chews at his lip, indecision obvious on his face.

“I do not know…I do not know if he will make it.” They all fall silent at that, and d’Artagnan chooses this moment to speak. His voice is rough and barely above a whisper but it carries in the quiet clearing.

“I will make it.” They all turn at that, jumping a little at the sound of his voice. Aramis pushes past the other two and hurries towards him, kneeling beside him and gently placing a hand to his forehead. It’s not until he feels Aramis’s skin against his that d’Artagnan realizes how cold he is and he shivers, shaking under the heat of Aramis’ palm. 

“How do you feel?” Aramis asks and d’Artagnan shrugs, or comes as close as he can to the gesture.

“Like I’ve been run through with a sword.” Aramis cracks a tense smile at that, and looks up towards the others.

“At least he is well enough to make jokes.” D’Artagnan feels more then hears Porthos’ deep, rumbling, laugh and he manages a wan grin. Aramis turns back to him, face serious again.

“Are you sure, d’Artagnan? It will not be an easy journey.”

D’Artagnan just nods weakly, “I’m sure. You must deliver the letter.”

Aramis shakes his head, frustration visible on his handsome features. “We will, D’Artagnan, but our priority is making sure you are alive to see it delivered.”

Athos cuts in then, voice flat and even and steady. “Can you make the journey?"

It’s a question and a command all at once and d’Artagnan could never find it within himself to lie to him.

“I’m sure.”

Athos nods once and in it there is faith that makes d’Artagnan want to cry, then turns to Aramis, “We must trust the boy, if he says he can do it he can. We head for the village.”Aramis looks like he’s about to protest but d’Artagnan gently shakes his head and so he bites his tongue and sighs, nodding, but he’s clearly dissatisfied.

“Very well.”

As Athos and Porthos make ready to leave, packing the saddlebags and putting out the fire Aramis stays by his side, checking his bandages. D’Artagnan reaches a shaking hand up, resting it against Aramis’ neck and leaving a bloody smear as he pulls him closer.

“It is alright, if you cannot save me. There are some things…some things worth dying for.” Aramis’ face closes off, something d’Artagnan cannot recognize burning deep in his eyes. Pausing in his fussing Aramis grasps d’Artagnan’s hand in his own, holding it tight, unmindful of the slick blood that coats it. His voice is low but intense, filled to overflowing with emotion.

“Do not say such things, it would not be alright if I cannot save you. Not for an instant. But it matters not, because you will survive this. You are too stubborn not to.” D’Artagnan cannot help but smile at the ferocity in his friend’s eyes and so he nods slightly, even if he does not believe Aramis’ words. Because what is there in this world to believe in if not his friends.

Aramis insists on riding with d’Artagnan, so Porthos leads his horse over to where d’Artagnan is lying. Aramis mounts first, and then Athos and Porthos carefully lift d’Artagnan and maneuver him in front of Aramis. It’s a painful affair, despite their best efforts to be gentle and he has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. By the time he’s solidly on the horse he’s soaked in sweat and shivering, and they still have half a days hard ride to go. At the thought d’Artagnan can’t help but groan a little, and he lets his head fall back against Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis looks down, worry knitting his eyebrows together.

“D’Artagnan…” Aramis says softly, breathe whispering in d’Artagnan’s ear. D’Artagnan just shakes his head.

“I’m alright.”

Aramis sighs, but there is affection in it. “You will be the death of me some day, you know. You and your damn Gascon pigheadedness. If the pain grows too great tell me, there is no shame in rest.”

D’Artagnan nods, although he has no intention of calling a halt to their ride. Athos pulls up beside them, hat pulled low over his eyes and throwing his face into shadow.

“Ready?” D’Artagnan dips his chin, and with a slight nod in return Athos kicks his horse into movement and starts off down the road. Aramis follows, one hand pressed to the wound in d’Artagnan’s stomach while the other holds the reigns steady and Porthos takes up the rear. Leaving the bodies and the blood behind in the little clearing they set out for the village. 

The ride is misery, Aramis does his best to keep to the smoothest parts of the road but the path is rough and each thump of the horse’s hooves against the compact dirt sends waves of discomfort rippling up d’Artagnan’s spine. He sleeps through much of it, slipping in and out of consciousness as the trees thin and give way to rolling fields and the sun begins to fall behind the far hills.

As they ride the world grows foggy and indistinct, color seeping from the scenery as his vision blurs and fades. The only consistency is Aramis’ hand pressed against his side and the feel of his chest warm and solid against d’Artagnan’s back. At one point they slow, Aramis leaning forward and drawing his hand out from inside d’Artagnan’s doublet briefly. The other man shifts behind him and he feels vibrations run through his back as Aramis speaks, the words sounding long and drawn out.

“He’s already bled through his bandages.”

His voice is grim and d’Artagnan wishes to offer a word of comfort but he falls back into sleep before he can.

D’Artagnan does not even realize they’ve arrived at the village until Aramis pulls his horse to stop in front of an inn. He hears him calling out to Athos and Porthos, but he cannot make out the words, his ears feeling as though they’ve been filled with cotton. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Porthos slip off of his horse and disappear inside.Then there are strong hands reaching up and gripping his shoulders, helping him slide from the horse. He lets Athos wrap his arm over his shoulder as Aramis dismounts and quickly takes a position at his other side. Together they hold d’Artagnan between them, half supporting him half carrying him as they make their way into the building and up a flight of stairs. The first step sends a jolt of pain through the fog that clouds his mind and he can’t help but let out a groan.

“We are almost there, d’Artagnan, almost there. Just hold on a few moments longer.”

Aramis’ voice rings in d’Artagnan’s ear and he clings to the words as they make their way up the stairs, clings to them as they maneuver their way through a cramped doorway and lay him gently on a small bed. Clings to them as Porthos enters the room with a pot of boiling water, a stack of bandages and a bottle of brandy. His father’s voice comes unbidden to his mind, echoing from years in the past and mixing with Aramis’ plea and they bounce against the walls of his skull till d’Artagnan cannot make out the words and all he can hear is hold on. And he will hold on until there is nothing left to hold on to because there are some things worth dying for, but there are some worth living for too. Suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear. It’s hard to distinguish the words being spoken to him from the ones in his head but after a moment he realizes that Aramis is talking. Shaking himself he tries to focus on the present.

“I have to clean your wounds again, d’Artagnan and then I will stitch them up so you do not bleed to death on us.”

Aramis stops speaking and d’Artagnan realizes he’s waiting for a response. He licks his lips but they are dry and he does not trust his voice so he just nods in acknowledgement. He’s still cold, despite that fire going in the back of the room, his fingers and toes feel numb, as though they do not belong to him, and he shivers again. Aramis squeezes his shoulder and disappears from his view. When he returns he’s holding the brandy in his hand and d’Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut knowing what is to come. The cool glass of the bottle’s rim is pressed against his lips and he swallows, feeling the liquor burn against his throat and stomach. He has not prayed in a long time (not since his father died) but when he feels heavy hands press his shoulders to the bed he prays. Let's his mouth form the prayers he remembers from his childhood, recites hail mary and the nicene creed, and though he hasn’t spoken them in years they fall from his lips worn and familiar. The words of the Vulgate and Douay-Rheims spring to mind unbidden.

“Dimitte mihi, quoniam peccavi." His friends had teased him, asking why he bothered to put the words of a dead language in his mouth, but something about them had always rung beautiful in his ears. Something sad about the way that all those who had spoken them were long dead and buried, their bones turned to ash and dust. "Si confiteamur pecccata nostra fidelis est et iustus ut remittat nobis peccate et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate.”

They fall from his mouth like a string of pearls, breaking and scattering across the ground. He holds onto a truth in them that he once believed in, like a memory faded and worn around the edges but still there. And when the brandy pours from the bottle like liquid fire and burns his flesh to cinders he does not stop, cries them out until he has no breath and the words lose their meaning, speaks them until finally, mercifully, darkness comes. 

When he wakes it is dark, small room lit only by the low red glow of the fireplace in the back of the room and a few candles. Aramis is sitting in a chair by the small table in the center of the room, fingers splayed over his eyes and a pinched look on his face. There are bloody rags piled on the table and d’Artagnan shivers at the sight of them. Porthos is sitting on the bed opposite his and Athos stands in the corner, arms crossed and face as unreadable as ever but shoulders tense and eyes sunken. Aramis lifts his head from his hands, and for the first time since d’Artagnan was injured he look unsure, uncertainty etched into every line of his face and beneath the doubt there is grief, shadowed and hollow.

“I…I do not know if he will live through the night. The wound is severe and he has lost much blood.”

His voice is dry and cracked as the creek-bed by d’Artagnan’s farm the summer of a harsh drought and he wants to tell him it’s alright, that he’s not afraid of death, but his tongue is heavy and he cannot force his mouth to open so instead he drifts back to sleep. 

Chapter Text

D’Artagnan’s return to consciousness is slow and murky. For a long while he lingers somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. The first time he drifts into a strange half-consciousness there is a hand on his cheek, drawing a cool cloth under his hair and wiping away the sweat that gathers there. The second time he hears a voice in his ear, reciting the words to a hymn, and he can hear the rattle of a rosary as they pray. The third time he can feel someone grip his hand tight and press it to their forehead like it is enough to hold him here, tight curled hair scratching at the tips of his fingers. So d’Artagnan drifts halfway between life and death, between his friends and something else. And finally, when he has drifted enough, he wakes. 

The first thing he sees is Athos sitting beside him, feet resting on the edge of the bedframe. His arms are crossed like he can keep the world at bay; chin resting on his chest and eyes closed. Aramis is lying on the other bed in the room, fast asleep, and Porthos is nowhere to be found. When Athos hears d’Artagnan rasp his name his head jerks up with an almost audible crack. He smiles a little, a tired smile, when he sees d’Artagnan’s open eyes and leans forward, legs falling from the bed with a heavy thud.

“You’re awake.” His voice is rough and ragged as cloth worn through to nothing. D’Artagnan nods, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the window.

“It seems so.” The words catch in his throat, mouth dry and muzzy and every breath scratches. Athos stands and walks to the table and when he returns he’s holding a cup of water in his hands. Helping d’Artagnan to sit up a little he tips the cup back, pouring a small amount into d’Artagnan’s mouth before laying him back down again. He’s disgusted by his weakness, feeling betrayed by his own body and embarrassed that he must be taken care of like a helpless child. It is not in is nature to be so dependent on others and he looks the other way as Athos lowers him down, embarrassed by his frailty. Something pulls in his side as he shifts to sit up a little on his own and a sharp gasp escapes his mouth before he can quiet himself. Aramis bolts upright on the other side of the room, blankets falling in a heap from his shoulders. His hair is a mess and there’s still a smudge of mud or dirt across one cheek but the blood has been cleaned from his face and his eyes are sharp and alert, sweeping across the room to land on d’Artagnan. The tension on his face softens a little when he sees that d’Artagnan is awake and he rises from the cot, making his way across the room to d’Artagnan’s side.

“Careful now, can’t have you tearing those stitches I worked so hard on.” He says, his voice gentle and slightly teasing. Without taking his eyes from d’Artagnan he addresses Athos.

“I thought I told you to raise me if he woke.” His voice carries the same tone but there is something sharp beneath the veneer of calm.

Athos sighs. “He just regained consciousness, Aramis. I was going to wake you but you’ve barely slept, I thought you could use a few more minutes.”

At Athos’ words d’Artagnan looks and sees how truly tired his friends seem. There are dark smudges underneath their eyes, and their faces are lined with exhaustion and concern. Hesitantly, a little scared of the answer, he asks, “How long was I asleep?”

“A day and a half.” Athos replies shortly. D’Artagnan lets a soft breath whistle out from between his teeth,

“That’s not so long is it?”

Aramis looks away, a shadow passing across his face. “We were… we were afraid you might not ever wake for a time.”

For a second silence hangs heavy in the small room and d’Artagnan remembers the brittle sound of Aramis’ voice in his brief moment of consciousness, I do not know if he will survive the night, remembers the uncertainty in it. After a beat though Aramis looks up, face once again smooth and assured, no traces of doubt visible.

“Wake you did however, like I said you’re too damn stubborn not too.”

Athos snorts at that and Aramis shoots him a playful glare before turning back to his patient, “How’s the pain?”

D’Artagnan shrugs carefully. “I feel fine.” The words veracity are belayed by the slight tremble in his voice and once again d’Artagnan curses his treacherous body. Aramis shakes his head, hands pulling the blankets down from d’Artagnan’s bare chest and checking on the thick bandages wrapped around his midsection.

“D’Artagnan, a man ran you through with his sword less then two days past. Nobody expects you too be fine, or even alive to be honest. Tell me the honestly so I can help you.” D’Artagnan sees the truth in his words and sighs, looking down.

“It…it is manageable.” It is not a lie, the wound hurts, throbbing like a creature in an of itself but although it is painful he can manage it. Aramis’ eyes soften at his answer, and he finishes his inspection and pulls the blankets back up over d’Artagnan.

“I’ll find you something to dull the pain.” D’Artagnan nods his thanks, asking quietly for more water. Aramis fetches it for him and he drinks, as Athos and Aramis watch him intently. D’Artagnan is suddenly uncomfortable, feeling two pairs of eyes burning into him so he changes the topic.

“Where is Porthos?” He asks, setting aside the cup.

“He was driving us mad with his pacing so we sent him out to wear holes in the floor somewhere else.” As Aramis says this he stands, stretching out his back and neck and yawning. “Since I can now be certain you will not slip away between breaths I think I will go fetch our friend. And maybe scrounge up something to eat as well, I’m starving. Athos, look after our invalid for me.”

Athos nods, leaning back in his chair as he watches Aramis disappear out the door of their room and down the stairs. D’Artagnan examines his friend’s face weary face, tries to unravel the emotions he sees there. There is the expected concern and exhaustion, but hidden beneath that there is something else, something he cannot name and for some reason it frightens him. For a long time after Aramis leaves Athos does not speak, simply sits in his chair, arms once again crossed in front of his chest and face brooding. Eventually the quiet becomes too much and so he asks 

“What is it, Athos?” His voice is small and almost childlike and he hates the weakness in it. Athos starts at his question, hooded eyes darting up to meet d’Artagnan’s and he thinks he sees a flash of fear in them but its gone before he can be sure. In any case Athos does not reply, simply stands and begins to pace, feet beating out a tight loop in the cramped space. D’Artagnan watches him, tamping down the questions he feels rising in his throat. Finally Athos stops, turning to face d’Artagnan and there is something fierce burning in his eyes.

“I told you to take that letter and go and yet you stayed.” His voice is harsh, and d’Artagnan gapes at him, taken aback by his words.

“Surely you cannot be angry at me for staying to fight with you! I could not abandon you to your deaths, it would…” And d’Artagnan trails off there, because he’s not sure what it would do. Break him, perhaps. Destroy him, change him, wound him deeply certainly. All he knows is if he had left them in that clearing he would not have been able to live with himself, duty bound or not. He does not say that though, simply repeats himself, voice quiet. “I could not do it, Athos.”

“You must understand by now that the King’s will takes precedence over everything, even our lives! We are musketeers, d’Artagnan, we live and we die for the greater good. Our lives our not our own, they do not belong to us. Or to you.” Athos’ voice rises as he speaks, there’s a desperation that tinges his words and d’Artagnan’s starting to understand that this isn’t about anger or duty or even d’Artagnan in the end. When Athos finally finishes something in him deflates, the anger fading from his voice to be replaced with desolation. He collapses back into the chair by d’Artagnan’s bed like a puppet whose string have been cut, head falling into his hands. When he finally looks up there is grief in his eyes. “Forgive me, d’Artagnan. I am not angry with you… simply afraid. I…we… truly thought we’d lost you for a time, I react badly to fear. I should not take it out on you, what you did was honorable. Reckless and ill advised, but honorable.”

His voice is so quiet d’Artagnan can barely hear him, and he smiles at the older mans words. Pushing himself up painfully on one elbow he reaches out he rests a hand on Athos’ shoulders. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Aramis and Porthos find them like that, pushing open the door and bringing with them the smell of fresh bread and grass and sunlight and carrying a tray of food. Aramis stops short in the doorway, Porthos nearly running into the back of him at the abrupt halt, and raises an eyebrow. “Are we interrupting something?”

D’Artagnan finally lets his hand drop from Athos shoulder, smiling. “No. Just…clearing the air.”

Aramis looks like he wants to inquire further but before he can he is pushed to the side by Porthos. The large man barrels his way into the room, falling onto d’Artagnan’s bedside and pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Never do that to us ‘gain, d’Artagnan.” Porthos whispers the words in his ear and d’Artagnan feels his heart swell at the emotion he hears there. He lets Porthos hold him close for a second longer before he speaks up, breath wheezing out of crushed lungs and squeaks,

“Porthos, I can’t breathe.” Porthos pulls back immediately with a chagrined look on his face.

“I’m sorry lad, was I hurtin’ you?" D’Artagnan shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest but Aramis has already arrived and he gently admonishes Porthos.

“Now now, I just finished pulling him back from the brink of death. Don’t go and ruin all my hard work just yet.”

Porthos looks up, hurt look on his face. “I was just showin’ my affection for the boy!”

Aramis smirks, “And a display of affection from you is enough to kill a healthy man, my friend, let alone an injured one.”

Porthos grumbles something unintelligible and turns away from Aramis, and d’Artagnan laughs even though it hurts a little when he does and he feels that maybe everything will be alright.  

Chapter Text

It is decided that Porthos and Athos will deliver the letter, as Reims is less then a days ride from the village. Aramis will stay with d’Artagnan to aid his recovery and then when the others return they will all ride back to Paris together. 

During the time that Porthos and Athos are gone d’Artagnan sleeps often, resting and mending. Whenever he wakes though Aramis is there, sitting by his bed, sharpening his sword at the table, or mixing herbs to help numb the pain of the wound. His presence unassuming and undemanding and yet comforting in its constancy and the simple companionship it offers. He says nothing when d’Artagnan grows frustrated with his inability to stand by himself, says nothing when he cries out in his sleep even though d’Artagnan knows there is now way he did not hear, he simply offers a soft smile and gentle hands.

It is a strange thing, to feel so trapped in his own body. All his life d’Artagnan has been strong, first from long days in the fields beside his father that hardened his muscles and gave sharp angles to the boyish curves of his face, and later from his months spent sparring and wrestling in the courtyard of the garrison that had honed that raw power into a weapon. Always he has had control of himself, has had his own two hands to trust and now he does not have even that and it leaves him feeling vulnerable and exposed. Aramis seems to sense that and leaves the subject untouched, quietly assisting d’Artagnan when he cannot do something by himself but making no mention of it otherwise.

He finally takes action after a particularly frustrated d’Artagnan sends a cup flying across the room, trailing drops of water as it arcs through the air to collide with the opposite wall and rolls to a stop a few feet from where Aramis is standing. He doesn’t say anything, just patiently stands and retrieves the cup before setting it on the table and returning to his seat by d’Artagnan’s side. He crosses his arms and sits silently for a while and d’Artagnan looks away, suddenly ashamed of himself. He’s acting like a brat, he knows, and he doesn’t understand why Aramis is being so patient with him. He’s startled by Aramis starting to speak, tone light and conversational.

“Once, many years ago, I took a musket ball to the leg during a border skirmish near Tréves.”

D’Artagnan looks back to Aramis, confused as to why he’s suddenly decided to tell bring up the past unannounced. Aramis just continues on, undeterred by d’Artagnan’s questioning gaze. “It was a flesh wound, but one that kept me off my feet and from my duties for nearly two months. During that time I was… I was not very pleasant company.” He pauses then, wincing good naturedly at his own remembered actions. When he continues his words are more somber, “It was…difficult for me to not be able to do the things I normally could. It was difficult for me to be still and sit away from the action. I was unpleasant because I was angry, and I was angry because I was afraid.”

Aramis sighs then, a gentle exhale of air, and d’Artagnan sits quiet and attentive. Of all of them Aramis is among the most willing to regale d’Artagnan with stories of the past, of battles won and tales of danger and friendship and heroism and d’Artagnan sits rapt and listens to them all, but he does not speak of this past like this. Not this personally or intimately or plainly and it is rare that d’Artagnan sees this side of his friend. Despite his seemingly open manner and quick tongue Aramis is perhaps the most closely guarded of them all, more so then even Athos, his true feelings hidden beneath layers of mirth and pretense and slippery deflections. Athos, for all his brooding and desperately held secrets wears his heart on his sleeve if you know where to look. If something is bothering Athos you will know, he cannot hide it, no matter how hard he tries. Aramis is trickier, his secrets are not hidden behind long silences and drunken nights and barely concealed rage. Aramis’ are hidden in the gentle curve of a woman’s back, the scars d’Artagnan sometimes catches glimpses of that he will not talk about, or the way his eyes go dark and flat when he sees snow. They are hidden in a smile that never quite reaches his eyes and that makes them all the more difficult to know, all the more dangerous. And so on the rare occasions Aramis does open up d’Artagnan listens without question. Serious, Aramis continues,

“I was afraid because, however briefly, I had lost my purpose. And for men such as us, that is a terrifying thing to lose, because without it what are we? It drives us, defines us, gives worth to the wrongs we have done. Let’s us forgive ourselves for our sins, real or imagined.” Reaching out he rests a hand on d’Artagnan’s leg, giving it a comforting squeeze.  “I understand what it feels like to be trapped in your own body, understand the frustration and fear and uncertainty and the sense of loss. It will pass. You will heal, just give it time, d’Artagnan. All you need is time.”

D’Artagnan looks away and clasps his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. He feels bare and raw and exposed because in a few words Aramis had torn away the anger and the frustration and revealed what hid beneath it all, in a few words he has torn away the walls d’Artagnan was building around his fear. Because Aramis is right, if he loses the musketeers, he loses everything. He has no blood family left alive, no home to return to, no purpose in this world without the musketeers. To lose them would be to lose himself and that is a thought terrifying to imagine. He had wanted this so badly and for so long and now he has it in his grasp and he's afraid to lose it all again would be the end of him, he has nothing left to give.

“What if… what if this has broken me?”

Aramis just sighs, and it is a sigh that is filled with years of loss and grief and weathered heavy and grey by the world. “We all break, my friend, you must learn to become strong in the broken places.”

There is something different after that night, between him and Aramis. There is a sense of understanding, of respect. Aramis had shared a piece of himself with d’Artagnan, a piece he had never seen before, and in doing so exposed himself. Aramis has allowed himself to be vulnerable and d’Artagnan knows what that must have cost him and understands the weight of it.

By the time Athos and Porthos return two days later d’Artagnan can walk around the room unaided and his hands no longer shake when he holds something heavier then a glass. They set off for Paris the next morning, all of them more then ready to leave this nightmare of a mission behind them. 

D’Artagnan manages to convince Aramis to let him ride on his own, practically begging him. It’s one thing to ride with someone when you’re bleeding and half conscious but d’Artagnan feels he’s recovered quite well and tells all of them so. He does feel a little warm, not from too many layers of clothing but from an internal heat inside but he knows if tells Aramis that he will be strong-armed into sharing a mount with one of his friends so he does not mention it. Finally Aramis acquiesces, but warns that he’ll be watching closely and as soon as d’Artagnan gives him a reason he’s forcing him onto a horse with someone else. D’Artagnan assures him he will be giving him no reason.

It’s a beautiful day when they set out for Paris, the air is crisp and chilly but the sun is shining bright in the sky. There is no rain, for which d’Artagnan is grateful, he already has enough bad memories associated with rain and does not need to add more to them. At first the journey goes well, Aramis keeps to his word and his eyes are sharp and watchful on d’Artagnan but he simply waves away the concern with a smile, settling deeper into his saddle, and Aramis seems appeased. Soon, though, sweat begins to bead on d’Artagnan’s brow and he can feel his cheeks flush with heat. Looking to his companions he hopes to see them similarly afflicted but they all look comfortable as they ride, Aramis even drawing his cloak a little closer to combat the fall chill. Shivering despite the heat that grows in him he wipes away the sweat that drips down his forehead and grits his teeth, urging his horse to keep up with the others. Porthos who is riding nearest to him observes him with a creased brow,

“You feeling alright lad? You look pale, should we stop?” D’Artagnan just shakes his head, not wanting to delay their arrival in Paris any further. All he wants at the moment is a soft bed and to sleep till this journey is nothing more then a bad dream, and the sooner he can do that the better. Porthos looks suspicious but he doesn’t press the issue and for that d’Artagnan is grateful.

The further they travel the worse it gets. He can feel that his undershirt is damp with sweat and yet still he shivers, hands shaking on the rein's. His head feels strange, like he’s underwater, floating and disconnected from what his body is doing and the wound in his stomach throbs in time with each beat of his heart. There’s something wrong, something terribly wrong, and he realizes he needs to tell Aramis that he’s burning. He tries to kick his mount forward but his legs are too weak and the horse refuses to move. Spots dance and spin in front of his vision and he calls out Aramis’ name desperate and small and far too late. Aramis turns to look back towards d’Artagnan, and suddenly everything’s in slow motion. He feels himself start to slide from the saddle and though he tells himself to reach for the pommel, the reins, anything to keep him from slipping his hands do not obey his command. The world blurs into indistinct patterns of brown and green and blue as he falls, the last thing he sees is his name on Aramis’ lips. He is gone before he hits the ground. 

Chapter Text

Aramis hears d’Artagnan cry out his name once, something desperate and frightened in the tone. He spins in his saddle just in time to see d’Artagnan slide bonelessly from his mount and land face down in the dirt, lying unmoving beside his horse. He’s dismounted in a second, running back to the unconscious man, d’Artagnan’s name on his lips and a sinking feeling in his stomach. He drops to his knees beside d’Artagnan, turning him onto his back and his hands hesitate, stuttering to a halt at what he sees. The boy's skin is ashen beneath his olive tone, pale except for the redness staining his cheeks and forehead; beads of sweat run down his face and neck. Taking a deep breath he forces himself to find calm within himself and reaches out to place the back of his fingers against the skin of d’Artagnan’s skin. He swears low and hard, pulling his hand back.

“What is it?” Porthos asks from behind him, placing a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, and he lets the feeling of wide fingers pressing firm against the leather of his coat ground him.

“He’s burning up.” He answers shortly, hands already opening d’Artagnan’s doublet and pulling up his sweat soaked undershirt, undoing the bandages he had so painstakingly wrapped yesterday. D’Artagnan’s wound is red and weeping, tissue enflamed and Aramis’ neat stitches nearly disappearing into the swollen flesh surrounding them. His breath is coming in short sharp pants, rasping painfully in his chest and when Aramis checks he finds his pulse to be thready and fast. He lets the bandage fall, rocking back on his heels and swearing again. He should never have listened to d’Artagnan, never should have let him ride alone, if he had been with him then perhaps he would have noticed this sooner. It would have been impossible to miss the heat radiating off the younger man. He feels his hand begin to shake where it’s laying on his knee and clenches it tight. Taking another breath he sets the guilt aside, there will be time to examine it later, but right now he needs to help his friend.

Porthos and Athos are both behind him now, waiting for instructions and so he turns to them. “His wound is infected, he cannot travel until I get this fever under control. We should find somewhere to make camp.”

Porthos nods and disappears; Athos just stands behind him and waits, listening. A steady figure behind his left shoulder.

“It has been several days since he was injured, for infection to set in this late… I must have left something in the wound when I was closing it up.”

“What can we do?” Athos asks, voice flat and rigid. Aramis bites the inside of his cheek, considering his options. He can leave the stitches in and hope that the fever breaks on its own, or he can undo the stitches and try find the source of the infection and remove it. After a few moments of deliberation he decides,

“I will have to re-open the wound and try to find whatever is causing this. Leaving it in will do more harm then good.” Athos nods, trusting his decision implicitly. Aramis only wishes he had that kind of faith in himself, so absolute and unwavering. They are interrupted by Porthos’ return, despite their years of friendship Aramis still hasn’t gotten used to the way Porthos can appear and disappear almost without a sound.

“There’s a small river not far from the road, should be as good a place as any to set up.” Aramis nods, quickly redoing d’Artagnan’s bandage and with a last lingering touch to his friend’s clammy skin pushes himself to his feet and brushes the dust from his knees.

“We must move him, gently.” Scarcely a second after he utters the words Porthos slides by him, kneeling beside d’Artagnan and taking their youngest into his arms before standing, careful not to jostle the injured man more then necessary. He cradles d’Artagnan’s yielding body in his arms, and although the younger man is by no means small he looks tiny, dwarfed in Porthos’ grasp. There is something about the way he lays limp and unmoving as Porthos’ carries him that twists at Aramis’ heart. The gentle, slack bouncing of his legs with each step looks too similar to that of a corpse’s and Aramis has to tamp down the bitter taste of fear that rises in his mouth at the thought. Shaking himself he reaches up and grabs at the abandoned reins of d’Artagnan’s mount before walking back to his own to collect his own. Horses firmly in hand he followed Porthos off the road.

Once near the river Porthos lays d’Artagnan gently on the ground, large hand brushing the hair out of his eyes with a gentleness that belays his size. Aramis tethers the horses to a low hanging branch of a near by tree and moves towards his friends, already issuing commands.

“Porthos, we will need hot water, start a fire.” Porthos nods and rises from beside d’Artagnan’s side, setting himself to the task. Athos stands still and silent beside Aramis, awaiting instruction. In most situations Athos himself assumes the position of leadership and always has. Aramis and Porthos both yield it too him easily, the man having a natural born talent for command but in situations such as these Athos always defers to him. “Athos, we cannot risk further contamination of the wound.”

Athos nods shortly, and as one they move. They lay d’Artagnan down on Athos’ cloak, stripping him of his doublet and shirt. The swollen pussy mess of the wound stands out red and hot against his pale skin and Aramis can feel Athos tense at his side, like a burning fuse just waiting to explode. Porthos joins them a moment later and his face pales at the sight,

“Mon dieu.” He whispers, turning away. There is a tremble in his voice and Aramis sympathizes. Barely a week ago Porthos had been tossing d’Artagnan in a hay bale, happy and joking and full of life and now he lies at their feet more dead then alive. How quickly the world turns on those that love it the most, Aramis thinks, for if any of them deserve this fate it is not d’Artagnan.

Porthos heats water over the fire while Aramis spreads out the tools he will need and rinses his hands with his water skin. As he busies himself with the task he hears a low moan from beside him, turning quickly he meets d’Artagnan’s gaze, eyes fever-bright but lucid. His voice rasps like steel on steel when he speaks and Aramis winces at the sound.

“Aramis, what happened?”

“You collapsed and fell from your horse.”

All d’Artagnan can manage in return is a single word. “Why?”

There is confusion and fear in the question and Aramis reaches out a hand, resting it on d’Artagnan’s chest as a comfort. “You are… you are very ill. Your wound became infected and you have a bad fever.”

 D’Artagnan nods, gaze drifting to the sky and away from his friend. "Am I dying?”

 The question is so blunt and unexpected it drives the air from Aramis’ lungs. He flounders for a second, unsure of how to respond. D’Artagnan’s head falls to the side, eyes finding Aramis and there is desperation there, but also acceptance. At the sight Aramis finds his words, forces them past the lump in his throat.  “I did not let you die before and I will not let you die now. Have faith, d’Artagnan.”

He doesn’t answer the question though, because he does not think he can lie to the man lying in front of him. D’Artagnan smiles, but it is a sad smile, the smile of someone who has known too much loss and grief and it makes him look old beyond his years.

“Sometimes faith is not enough. Not enough to kill a man, not enough to save him.” His face is losing focus, voice wandering, and Aramis gets the sense d’Artagnan’s not really talking to him anymore. Before he can reply d’Artagnan’s eyes begin to close but they flutter open soon after as he struggles to cling to consciousness. Smiling at the young man’s stubbornness even in the midst of his concern Aramis whispers,

“Sleep, it will be easier for this next part.” And d’Artagnan obeys, eyes slipping shut. As he loses his grip on the waking world his lined features lose some of their tension and Aramis draws a shaking breath, bracing himself for what is to come. D’Artagnan’s words echo in his ears though, eerie and haunting and he clenches his teeth. Aramis is a man of faith, but he is also a man who has lost too many and will not lose another. Faith may not always be enough to save a man, but Aramis will save d’Artagnan anyways. He must.

When Porthos returns with the pot of boiling water Aramis takes the blade of his knife and dips it in, holding it in the heat for a few seconds before withdrawing it. “Be ready to hold him down if he wakes, this will be dangerous enough without him moving about.”

Porthos and Athos nod, taking up their positions on either side of d’Artagnan’s prone form. Taking a deep breath Aramis signs a cross and whispers a quick prayer to himself before beginning. Carefully he slices through the stitches in d’Artagnan’s side, tip of the knife drawing blood from the puffy flesh. Once the thread has been cut he carefully teases it out and disposes of it. As he begins to open the wound d’Artagnan shifts, a low moan escaping his lips and discomfort flashing across his face and Aramis freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He sees Athos and Porthos’ fingers tighten and they wait, still and silent, for a second. Thankfully d’Artagnan does not wake, caught too deep in the grip of his fever and Aramis resumes his work, digging his fingers deeper into d’Artagnan’s side. After a few minutes he is beginning to lose hope, hands and blade now red with blood and nothing to show for it, but just as he is about to admit defeat he sees something, a flash of white against the scarlet that surrounds it. Carefully pushing aside flesh and skin with the tip of his knife he sees a small piece of cloth clinging to the blood and pus of d’Artagnan’s wound. Pinching it between thumb and pointer finger he draws it out triumphantly. The victory is mixed with a sense of guilt and shame however. A small part of him had been hoping that he would find nothing as that would mean he had not failed his friend but the truth is he had, and d’Artagnan may now pay for Aramis’ mistake with his life. His contemplation is interrupted by Porthos’ voice,

“Is that what is causing this fever?”

Aramis nods, “I believe so, the sword must have carried some of the fabric of his shirt inside the wound when he was stabbed and I failed to see it when I was closing him up.”

 Setting aside the offending fabric and his knife he leans back and lets out a long breath, thanking god they did not have to open the stitches on d’Artagnan’s back as well. Small mercies. Wiping at his face with the unstained back of his hand he sighs,

“The wound is too inflamed for me to sew it back together right now, I’ll have to redo his stitches later when the swelling goes down.” Then, looking down at his bloody hands with disgust, Aramis pushes himself to his feet.

 “I’m going to clean up.” Spinning sharply on his heel he walks the short path through the trees to the river they had settled near. Kneeling on the sandy shore he dips his hands in the cold water and scrubs till his hands are numb, water running red and then pink and then clear, and yet he cannot clean himself of the feeling of d’Artagnan’s blood on his skin. There’s a crunch of pebbles under the heel of a boot behind him and he looks over his shoulder to find Athos watching him. He knows why he’s here, and frankly he doesn’t want to talk about it so he stands quickly and avoiding Athos’ gaze tries to walk past him back to the camp. Athos stretches out an arm across Aramis’ chest, blocking his path.

 “Are you alright?” He asks, and his voice is quiet and even. Aramis snorts bitterly,

 “I’m fine. D’Artagnan, not so much.”

 Athos must see the guilt carved into his features because he lays a hand gently on Aramis’ shoulder, eyes softening and Aramis both longs for the touch and does not feel he deserves the kindness in it.“Do not blame yourself for this, Aramis.”

Aramis looks up at his old friend, desperately seeking absolution in his face. “How can I not? I was the one who left the cloth in there, if I had done my job better he would not be hovering halfway between life and death. I’m the one responsible for his suffering. ”

Athos shakes his head, fingers tightening on his shoulder. “No, you are not. You are just a man, Aramis, you are not infallible. You were exhausted, we all were, and you did the best you could under the circumstances. If you had not been there he would have surely perished then. You did what you could to save him, and now you must trust him to fight.”

Aramis nods, but he cannot rid himself of the feeling of guilt in his chest. Will not be able to until d’Artagnan looks at him with clear eyes again. Will not be able to until d’Artagnan is safe and healthy and breathing again. And if d'Artaganan dies, well Aramis does not think he will ever be able to forgive himself for that. 

Chapter Text

The sickness takes d’Artagnan and pulls him far under, away from the light and the voices of his friends. The fever is like lead in his bones, burning every inch and unmaking him piece by piece till there’s nothing left but flesh and blood and agony and then remaking him to suffer again. He burns, fire under his skin, burns till there’s nothing left but ash. 

He dreams, he thinks. He is standing in a burning building, roof falling in under it’s own weight and flames licking at the walls of the room. He wants to run but his feet are glued to the floor and no amount of struggle will lift them. Smoke burns at his throat and makes his eyes water, he can feel heat dull and intense against his skin. Looking around he realizes with a sort of detached horror he is standing in his home in Gascony. He recognizes the rough hewn table standing in the corner he had helped his father build when he was young, the dent in the lintel of the door he had made running away from his friend Jacques without looking where he was going. He looks out the window and sees outside the fields he and his father had labored so hard in have gone up in flame, trees like bright torches against a dark sky. When he looks back there’s someone standing in the doorway.

“Père,” He whispers, and the word catches like a razor blade in his throat. It can’t be his father, his father is dead and buried, his father died in his arms, and yet he is here standing across from him in their burning house. His father walks towards him, slow and solemn through the flames and there is a look of such sadness on his face. “Père, you must get out, you will burn.”

He cries out, choking on the taste of ash. But, d’Artagnan realizes, his father isn’t burning. The flames dance around him like swaying wheatgrass but leave him untouched. Somehow he’s untouched and d’Artagnan’s the one burning.

“Ah, mon fils, qu'avez-vous fait?” He asks d’Artagnan. “It would break your maman’s heart to see what you have become, mon fils. As it breaks mine. ”

The words pierce d’Artagnan’s heart deeper then any blade ever could. Because he had been proud of who he had become, and thought his father would have been too. Because he had good friends and a purpose and something to believe in, but now his father is here and there is heartbreak painted on his face and somehow none of that matters anymore.

His father is standing in front of him now, reaching out a hand he rests it so, so gently on d’Artagnan’s cheek and he relaxes into the touch, letting his eyes drift shut. He’s crying, but the tears are gone from his eyes before they can fall, stolen by the heat.

“You avenged me, d’Artagnan, but why could you not save me? Why did you let me die?”

A choked sob rises in d’Artagnan’s throat, and the words trip over his tongue. “Je suis désolé père, je suis tellement désolé”

“Ah, little Gascon farm boy, sometimes sorry is not enough.” The voice that replies is not his fathers, heavy and dark. He recognizes it from when echoed against the dim walls of the Chatelet mixed with rain and thunder, remembers it mocking him. His eyes snap open and now it is Labarge standing before him, cruel smile on his face. “Now you can burn with your precious farm,”

He whispers and his breath is hot on d’Artagnan’s face. He tries to back away but he’s frozen as Labarge’s hands move to his neck and tighten there and with one quick movement snaps his neck. 

He blinks and when he opens his eyes his farm is gone and he’s standing in dark cool tunnels, the tunnels beneath the palace, he remembers. There’s a thick smoke that fills the space, and when d’Artagnan inhales he tastes gunpowder and beneath it the heavy metallic tang of blood. He takes a step backward, only to stumble on something soft and heavy behind him. Spinning he lets out a cry at what he sees. The object he’d tripped on is Athos, Athos lying still and pale on the ground. His eyes are open, wide and sightless, and blood trickles from his ears and nose, staining his beard red. He doesn’t have to feel for a heartbeat to know there is no life left in the body in front of him. He turns away, bile rising in his throat only to see Porthos and Aramis, thrown like rag dolls against the far wall. Porthos’ chest is a mess of shrapnel and dust and blood, glimpses of white bone peaking through the torn skin and Aramis is missing his leg below his left knee. Any strength he had left leaves him and he falls to his knees, retching. There is something building in his chest, something beyond grief and loss, something beyond sorrow and it feels like he’s tearing apart from the inside. He’s weeping, tears dripping down his face and all he can smell is blood and death and his own sick. He stays there, on his knees, surrounded by the bodies of all those he had left in the world until a voice echoes through the darkness and his head jerks up,

“It was a good trick, it should have worked.” The words are familiar and d’Artagnan squints to see Vadim approaching through the destruction.

“Why. Why did you kill them.” He whispers, and the sound that echoes against the walls is broken and quiet and empty.

Vadim just smiles, “For the fun of it.”

The tone is so flippant, so careless, and d’Artagnan feels something rise in him to replace the emptiness, something that feels a lot like rage. “You’re dead, I saw you die! I killed you!” But the words don’t sound as sure as d’Artagnan though they would.

Vadim laughs, head thrown back. “Maybe I am. But what does that make you?" He asks, and suddenly his teeth are colored red, bloody spittle dripping down his chin. There’s a stain, spreading across the dirty off-white of his shirt, growing larger and larger until his stomach is nothing but scarlet. Vadim spreads his arms wide, light filtering from somewhere behind him and lighting up the dust floating in the air around his broad frame till he looks like he’s on fire and d’Artagnan can hear something, quiet at first but growing louder and louder, it’s the sound of a burning fuse. “Time to go now, my friend. I’ll be waiting for you in hell.”

Then the world explodes around him.

When he opens his eyes again he’s in a forest. He’s running but he’s not sure what he’s running from. There’s fear in his stomach though, heavy and primal and driving and so he runs and does not look back. The ground is rough beneath his feet and branches whip and sting his face and still he runs. There’s a sound behind him, a low crackling roar that echoes in his bones and he can feel heat against his back. There’s a orange-red glow that flickers against the trees around him and he realizes then why he’s running, the forest is on fire. He runs faster, heart beating loud in his chest and drowning out everything else but he can still feel the heat growing and growing, feel the hairs on the back of his neck start to singe and curl as the fire gains on him. There’s a figure standing ahead of him unmoving, shadowed by the trees. He wants to shout at him to move, to run, but he has no breath to say the words. He gets closer and the figures features resolve. It’s a boy, face beautiful but expression cold and hard, there is a long scar running down his face that cuts through his lip and it stands out silver and angry against his skin. There’s something wrong with him, his hair coated with something dark but d’Artagnan can’t make out what it is. When he gets closer he blanches, there a bullet wound in his head, one of his ears half ripped off by the impact. The hole drips blood and something else, white and oozing, down his neck. D’Artagnan tries to shift his course to avoid him but the trees are thick and heavy on either side and the passage grows narrower and narrower forcing him straight. There’s a feeling in him at the sight of the boy, a feeling of fear, a memory past of pain but there is fire behind him and no where left to run but forward and so run he does.

 As he draws close the boy throws his arms open and d’Artagnan runs into him, unable to stop his feet. He feels an arm around his shoulder and for a second he thinks the boy is embracing him but then there’s a sharp familiar pain in his side and he looks down to see silver sliding into his flesh. He stumbles back, gasping and he can feel fire licking at his heels. The boy pulls the sword out, blood dripping red and thick to the forest floor and leaning in close he whispers, 

“Et ego iam sum vindicatus.” 

And his words ghost along d’Artagnan’s ear as he falls and lets the fire take his body. 

He wakes with a start, breath coming fast in his throat and shivers. He’s in a bed, covers drawn up past his chest. It’s morning wherever he is, pale light filtering through pastel curtains and casting dancing shadows on the wooden floors and it smells faintly of lavender. There’s a faint moan that does not come from his lips and with a start he realizes he’s not alone in bed. There’s a figure of a woman beside him, naked but for the sheets over her hips. The sun plays over the supple curves of her body, casting shadows in the dips and dying her skin a light gold. He can’t see her face, her back is too him, but there’s a mass of curly chestnut hair gathered at the nape of her neck that he would know anywhere. Slowly, carefully, he breathes out her name like a prayer.

“Constance.” She shifts at that, hair sliding away to reveal the smooth skin of her back, and then she turns towards him. Her eyes are foggy with sleep but so, so, beautiful, and her lips curve in a smile when she sees him.

“Yes, mon cœur?” And then when she notices the troubled look he wears, the sweat sliding down his face her brow creases. She reaches up and gently soothes away the lines in his forehead.

“What is the matter?” He stares blankly at her for a moment, still not convinced this is real, unsure of what to say and she stares back, eyes wide and worried.

“It’s nothing…just… just bad dreams.” Her hand comes to rest on his cheek, thumb gently stroking the line of his jaw. And Constance is hard and sharp and brave, but here in this bed with d’Artagnan she is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

“I’m sorry, what can I do?” She asks, and her breath slides across his throat and makes him shiver, but not like before. And suddenly he needs her arms around him, needs to feel her flesh against his and smell her scent of lavender and fresh bread and linen.

“Just hold me, please.” Her face softens at that and she complies, reaching around him and pulling him close to her. Her breasts are pressed against his chest, lips in the curve of his collar bone, her hair brushes against his nose and he holds her too him like the world is crumbling around them. She speaks, mouth just brushing against his skin and he feels her voice vibrating in his throat,

“Do you love me, d’Artagnan?” And his heart swells then, in a way he never imagined it could at how much he loves the woman in his arms. His voice is low and fervent and the truth in it is ripping at his seams.

“Of course. More then the sun.” 

“Would you do anything for me?” And in that moment d’Artagnan would.

“Anything.” He breathes, and it is a promise. She pulls back from his chest and he notices she’s wearing a ribbon around her neck, a band of thick black silk. He shakes his head a little, how did he not see that before? With one hand she reaches up and undoes the ties, letting it fall from her neck to reveal cruel red scars at the pale skin of her throat. 

“Then kill the man that did this to me, kill the man who broke my heart.” And suddenly there’s a pistol in his hand, heavy and dark and menacing, out of place in the soft golden light of their bedroom. Her hand closes his fingers around it, and slowly he’s lifting it up till he feels the cool end of the muzzle press against his temple. The weight of it in his hand feels wrong and strange and he opens his mouth, trying to tell her, but she just presses a single delicate finger against his lips.

“Sshh, mon amour. It will be alright. Just do this, for me.” And he nods, unable to disobey her, not even now. Her hand is on his still, and she guides his finger to the trigger, lets it sit there. Even as he starts to pull it tight he doesn’t look away from her, memorizing the lines of her face, the color of her eyes, the curve of her neck. Constance is the sun too him, and the moon too. She is the smell of rain, the feeling of rich fertile dirt beneath his palms, she is new life growing from the earth, she is home. And he would die for her, now and tomorrow and forever. 

The last thing he see’s before he pulls the trigger is Milady’s eyes, hard and cold and cruel.

Chapter Text

D’Artagnan’s fever worsens, despite the removal of the piece of cloth and Aramis fears that once again he has made a mistake, wonders if d’Artagnan was too weak to survive the invasive process. He’s radiating heat, thin shirt soaked through with sweat and yet still he shivers. They pile their cloaks on top of him and move him close to the fire, trying to sweat out the fever but that proves ineffective, he just thrashes the coverings off and they cease their efforts.

He does not wake properly again, after that moment before Aramis cut open his stitches, but his eyes rove wildly beneath his eyelids showing that he does not rest either, at least not peacefully. The worst part is the sense of helplessness Aramis feels. He sits by him, flushes out the wound, applies poultices to draw the fever out, towels the sweat away, he prays, but that is all he can do and despite his efforts still d’Artagnan burns.

The second day is worse. D’Artagnan loses all semblance of coherency, muttering words that make no sense under his breath and often calling out names in his slumber. Sometimes Constance’s, sometimes theirs, and sometimes most painfully he cries out for his father in a voice that breaks Aramis’ heart. They take turns sitting by his side, changing cool rags on his forehead and doing their best to calm him in the worst of his fits. D’Artagnan murmurings are in French for the most part but sometimes he slips into something Aramis recognizes as the Gascon dialect, and occasionally into something else he can’t discern. After listening closely though Aramis, to his surprise, makes it out to be Latin. One phrase in particular he hears over and over, dimitte mihi, quoniam peccavi. He does not know enough Latin to know what it means but there is something about the way it echoes raw and ragged and desperate in d’Artagnan’s throat that sends a chill down his spine. Aramis is reminded of when he had cleaned d’Artagnan’s wounds in the inn, he had shouted out verses of the Vulgate and Douay-Rheims then until he lost consciousness, ancient words steeped in blood and history. Aramis shivers at the memory, remembering the blind agony and desperation in d’Artagnan’s voice. It is not a sound he ever wants to hear again.

It’s strange, d’Artagnan had never publicly denounced religion but Aramis felt a strong sense of disillusionment about the subject from him, to hear him recite perfect verses, in Latin no less, was quite surprising. Then again, Aramis thinks, pain makes men do funny things. It only serves to remind him of how little they truly know of their youngest companion, for all that he wears his heart on his sleeve he speaks little of his time before Paris, of his youth in Gascony or his family there. It’s not that they’ve never bothered to ask but whenever they do he skillfully diverts the topic away, unwilling or unable to speak of times gone past. It appears there are hidden depths to their young companion, as there are to all of them. It’s easy to forget the loss that d’Artagnan has suffered in his short life. The very first time they met him was less then a week after his father died and he doesn’t speak of his mother but from what Aramis can gather she is no longer of this world. He’s always so cheerful and sunny, full of light energy and life and it masks a grief that is as deep and heavy as any of theirs. Aramis sees that now and it feels like he’s looking into a part of d’Artagnan he shouldn’t be, feels like an intrusion on his privacy, intimate and unasked for. But he’s also glad of it, glad to be reminded that beneath d’Artagnan’s youthful exuberance there is pain.

They try to keep him hydrated by dripping water into his mouth but much of it he doesn’t swallow and he loses water faster then they can put it in him. He stopped sweating a few hours ago and now his skin his hot to the touch and dry as parchment, lips cracking and bleeding. Every now and then he’ll open his eyes, but it’s terrifying to see. There’s no lucidity in those eyes, no awareness of his surroundings, just demons from times long past that they can do nothing banish. Even more frightening are the moments of stillness between his fits, when his thrashing quiets and the muttering stops and Aramis has to press a hand to his chest to reassure himself d’Artagnan’s not dead, that he still breathes. The mood around the camp is grim, Porthos busies himself with what work he can find, gathering wood for the fire, making sure they eat, boiling clean bandages. He has always been the kind of person who combats grief with action, with purpose, and so he does not let himself still except to take his turn by d’Artagnan’s side.

Athos is the opposite, drawing into himself and away from them in a way Aramis has seen before and Aramis feels stretched thin worrying about two of his friends. Everybody thinks that of the four of them Athos is the most reserved, the most distant, but Aramis knows the truth. Beneath the polished cool exterior Athos feels deeply, perhaps the most deeply of any of them, and it is both a blessing and a curse. Right now it is a curse, because Aramis can see Athos slowly tearing himself apart and he is truly afraid for him if d’Artagnan does not make it, afraid for all of them. Because Athos is like a winter storm, like a fire burning hot and bright, like thunder and lightning, and he will let his emotions tear him apart if there’s nobody to stop him, and tear them all to pieces with him.

Aramis’ just finished changing the poultice on d’Artagnan’s wound and he rises, stretching out his back. Athos is sitting near the edge of the little clearing they’re in, back against a tree and face brooding. He’s holding something in his fingers that flashes bright and silvery in the sunlight, staring at it with a look of concentration. Sighing, Aramis walks over too him and nudging him over with a booted foot slides down the trunk till he’s sitting next to him. Athos doesn’t look at him for a second, still absorbed by the item in his hands. Finally he sighs, a gentle huff of air between his teeth before he hands it to Aramis. It’s a signet ring, wide and heavy. Gesturing to the coat of arms stamped into the metal Athos murmurs,

“Do you recognize it?” Glancing at the symbol Aramis nods,

“Yes, it is the Comté de Châtillon’s crest is it not? Where did you find it?”

“Got it off the body of one of the men who attacked us.” Athos says, reaching over and taking the ring back. Aramis furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head, confused.

“Why would his men attack us? He is a wealthy man, why would he care about this letter being delivered?” Athos looks contemplative, turning the ring over in his fingers.

“Recently the Comté de Châtillon has been out of favor with the King. Treville said the letter had to do with the funding of a new battle ship in the royal navy, perhaps he thinks if he is the one to offer the money then he can return to King Louis’ good graces.”

Athos’ tone is bitter and flat, and he spits out the title like it’s a curse. Aramis lets his head fall back against the rough trunk of the tree behind him, feeling bark and sap catch at his hair, and stares up at the sky. “So if d’Artagnan dies, he dies for some wealthy fool’s bid for power.”

He watches as Athos’ head dips, a tiny nod, eyes still locked onto the ring cradled in his palm like it will offer up the secrets to the universe. “There is no glory in death, only sorrow.” He whispers, and Aramis isn’t sure if he’s talking to himself or to him. Either way, Aramis has known death enough to know the truth in his words.

“We will make him pay, if d’Artagnan does not survive.”

And it is a promise, not a question. Athos nods, his fist closing suddenly around the ring like a snakes jaws around a mouse and his eyes are dark and dangerous in a way that sends shivers down Aramis’ back.

The day drags on, sun sinking behind the line of the trees and succumbing tonight. Porthos forces him to rest, but he sleeps fitfully and rises long before dawn and d’Artagnan does not wake.

The third day drags on and Aramis is so tired, drained from lack of sleep and worry and guilt gnawing at his insides and d’Artagnan is not getting any better, still the fever rages in him and he’s growing weaker and weaker with each passing hour.

“If this fever does not break soon he will die.” It’s flat and dull, a bare statement of fact, because if Aramis lets any emotion into it it will overwhelm him and he will be of no use to anyone, least of all d’Artagnan. Beside him Porthos looks nearly sick with heartache, he turns to Aramis at his words.

“You are givin’ up on him!” And there is betrayal, sharp and ragged in his voice. Aramis shakes his head, feeling the world dance and spin around him for a moment.

“I’m not giving up on him Porthos, just being realistic.”

“You are, though. Giving up on him.” Athos’ voice sounds behind him and Aramis nearly jumps at the surprise of it, spinning to face his friend. There’s no accusation in the tone but Aramis is tired and afraid and finds it in his own heart and Athos is an easy target. He’s suddenly angry, all the fear and guilt and exhaustion building into a knot in his chest.

“I have tried everything, Athos! Everything I know and it is not enough. My skills… my skills are not great enough to heal this wound and I must sit and watch as he suffers unable to do anything! At this rate he will burn himself up, I cannot cool him down sufficiently.”

Athos eyes darken and he opens his mouth to reply but he’s interrupted by an exclamation from Porthos,

“The river!” Aramis turns; confusion creasing his brow and Athos looks similarly nonplussed by Porthos outburst.

“What about it?”

Porthos gestures excitedly, hope tingeing his tone. “We must cool him, correct?” Aramis nods slowly, and he thinks he’s starting to see where Porthos is going with it. “We can use the river to do so.”

Aramis nods again, a little stronger this time and though he does not yet allow himself hope, luxury that it is, some of the grief that sat heavy in his heart lifts. “It might work. There is not any harm in trying, it is the best chance he has.” He does not say he thinks it is the only one chance d’Artagnan has.

Once again Porthos gathers a limp d’Artagnan in his arms, and they all follow as he makes his way down to the river. There is a solemnity to their steps, a sense that everything balances on the edge of a knife. It feels like a funeral march, it feels like hope.

When they reach the riverbank they pause, Athos and Aramis shucking their boots and doublets before wading into the river. Porthos carefully passes d’Artagnan to them before quickly following suit. Aramis positions himself at d’Artagnan’s head, holding it above the river and Athos and Porthos guard his sides. They all sink to their knees in the river, current licking at their waists. The water is icy and already Aramis can feel numbness creeping in but d’Artagnan’s skin still burns hot against his fingers and so he grits his teeth and does not move. They stay like that for a long time, unmoving and silent in the river but none so silent as the man they hold cradled in their midst. Finally when they can no longer feel their fingers or toes and d’Artagnan is pale as ice they rise from their crouches and carry him back to the shore.

D’Artagnan will live or he will die, there is nothing left to do now but wait. They have done all they could, Athos tells him, but Aramis takes little comfort in the fact. What does all they could matter if it is not enough? He has saved countless lives with his hands, countless brothers, but what do those lives saved matter if he cannot save this one. It’s a bitter thought and Aramis shies away from it but then he realizes it’s true. D’Artagnan has wormed his way into all of their hearts, into the brotherhood they had built with each other and there is no turning back from it now, too late to undo what has been done, too late to even try. If he dies they will survive, they will go on living as those left behind always must, but they will be changed by it. It will be, as someone once said, a world diminished.

Athos will drown himself in wine, Porthos will gamble and cheat and brawl until the pain outside is great enough to cover the pain inside, and Aramis, he does not know what he will do. He does not want to think about it. For they each have a role in their little group, and had long before d’Artagnan arrived in their midst but now, now d’Artagnan is the glue that holds them together for better or for worse and they will crumble like old worn bricks without him.

They carry him back to their little encampment, strip him of his wet clothes and wrap him in all of their blankets, and then they sit and wait for that is all they can do. Aramis thinks back to d’Artagnan’s words in that clearing days ago, some things are worth dying for. He hopes he realizes that there are something’s worth living for too.

That evening d’Artagnan’s fever breaks, that night Aramis allows himself to hope again. The next morning d’Artagnan wakes up, and when he looks to Aramis his eyes are clear and Aramis could weep at the sight. 

Chapter Text

When d’Artagnan wakes his eyes are gritty and sore, mouth dry as bone, and most alarmingly, he is wearing nothing but his smalls. He tries to raise an arm to rub away the sleep in his eyes but he finds himself trapped in a tightly wrapped blanket. He struggles feebly to get free for a moment but then there is a hand on his arm, stilling his movement. He looks up to see Aramis beside him, eyes exhausted and face lined but there is a genuine smile on his face, a look of almost disbelief.

“Aramis, where are my clothes?” He rasps, and his voice sounds like he hasn’t spoken for days. Aramis laughs a little, short and sharp, bordering on hysterical.

“You’ve been unconscious for almost three days and that’s the first thing you worry about when you wake up?” D’Artagnan half shrugs helplessly. Aramis shakes his head, hands busy doing something d’Artagnan can’t see. “You know, most people try to only have one near death experience a week. Of course, that wasn’t enough for you now was it. Had to go and scare the living daylights out of us twice.”

His tone is light and conversational, but there is something hidden beneath it, something bitter and harsh and not directed at d’Artagnan. He finishes what he was working on and lifts a little battered tin cup filled with something that smells awful. D’Artagnan crinkles his nose, turning his head away from the foul brew. Aramis’ hand gently catches his cheek though, pulling his face back towards him.

“Please,” He says and his voice is stripped bare and fragile and d’Artagnan realizes that there is still so much fear there. "it will help with the pain.”

And the poorly concealed tremor in Aramis’ voice breaks d’Artagnan’s heart so he doesn’t resist as Aramis helps him to drink the liquid. He coughs a little as it goes down and Aramis rubs comforting circles on his shoulder, face pinched. When he can finally breath normally he grates out, “I’m sorry.”

Aramis pulls back, looking surprised. “Whatever for?”

D’Artagnan looks away, shame-faced. “For making you worry. I was irresponsible.”

Aramis shakes his head, that same bitter look flashing across his face again. “Please, do not apologize d’Artagnan, we are just glad you are still alive.” His voice is husky with emotion, and he bends over, pressing his face to d’Artagnan’s shoulder. When he speaks again his words are muffled, but they sound choked.“If anything it is I who should be apologizing.”

He doesn’t say for what, though. They stay like that for a long time, Aramis bent over d’Artagnan like he’s praying over an altar and the moment is unusually intimate and unguarded for Aramis. Eventually d’Artagnan reaches out and places a hand on Aramis’ head, feeling like he is giving him absolution for a sin he never committed. After a few minutes there is the sound of heavy footsteps and he looks up to see Porthos walking out of the forest, carrying an armful of sticks and branches. When he sees d’Artagnan his face splits into a wide grin, hurrying forward he dumps his armful of wood next to the fire and falls to his knees beside d’Artagnan. At Porthos’s arrival Aramis rights himself and for a second d’Artagnan thinks he sees him wiping away a tear but then he smiles, his face shuttering closed again and d’Artagnan is convinced he must have imagined it.

Porthos is laughing though, and there are tears welling unashamedly in his eyes and those tears d’Artagnan are sure of. He prepares himself for another bone crushing embrace but Porthos doesn’t pull him into a hug, hands hovering just above d’Artagnan like he’s afraid he’ll break him if he touches him. It’s not until then that d’Artagnan truly realizes how close he had been to death, how bad it had really been. Porthos takes a deep shaking breath, and finally lets his hand settle on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Diue merci, I thought I’d never see those eyes again.”

D’Artagnan smiles, “Oh come now, do you really think you could get rid of me that easily?”

Porthos laughs, a little wetly. “I should hope not, we’ve taught you better then that. If you went and died now we’d have wasted so much time training you, I’d have to drag you back from the dead and kill you again myself!”

D’Artagnan can’t help the laugh that bubbles in his throat as well, regretting it swiftly when it jars his side and he winces a little. “That would be a little more convincing if you weren’t crying Porthos.”

Porthos quickly wipes at his eyes with the back of his broad hand, sniffing.“I’m not cryin’, that damn fire is just too smoky.”

Aramis rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “Blame it on the fire if it makes you feel better, Porthos. We all know you’re lying. Do I need to remind you of Athos’ funeral?”

Porthos huffs and glares at Aramis who just smirks back. “I told you, that was… emotional… alright?”

Looking around the campsite d’Artagnan notices someone is missing and interrupts the pairs lighthearted bickering. “Where is Athos?”

Aramis shakes his head, “No doubt off brooding somewhere. This has been hard on him…on all of us.”

Porthos pushes himself to his feet, brushing off the dirt gathered on his knees. “I’ll go find ‘im, he’ll want to see you awake.”

And with that he disappears into the forest and once more d’Artagnan and Aramis are alone. There is something hanging in their air between them, something heavy and electric and d’Artagnan can feel that something happened in the days he slept. Aramis rises from his side, busying himself with something by the fire. D’Artagnan tries to sit and groans as his body protests.

“I feel as though I’ve been run over with a horse.”

“Well, that tends to happen when you battle a fever for three days.” Aramis comments acerbically, not looking at d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan coughs awkwardly, looking down at his hands.

“Aramis… is something the matter?” Aramis freezes, hands halfway through tying off a sachet of herbs. After a second he continues but it’s a long second and a telling one.

“Why do you ask?” He replies, avoiding d’Artagnan’s gaze.

“I don’t know, you just seem… off… Did something happen?” Aramis turns to him and there is something raw in his eyes, something anguished and d’Artagnan can feel a tension in the air.

“D’Artagnan…I-”

He’s interrupted by the crunch of boots at the edge of the campsite and an exhale of breath somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. At the sound Aramis breaks off, and the iron walls close around his face once again as he turns away. D’Artagnan can sense he just missed something important, knows what Aramis was about to say meant something, but he can’t tell what. He puts it aside for inspection another time, and looks up to see who interrupted them. Athos is standing at the edge of the camp, face and hair dripping wet and a look of such unbridled relief on his face that d’Artagnan is not sure whether to laugh or cry. He crosses the clearing in four broad strides, dropping to his knees beside d’Artagnan and just sits there, eyes roving over d’Artagnan’s face like he has to convince himself that this isn’t a trick, then when he’s assured himself d’Artagnan truly is awake he reaches out and grasps one of d’Artagnan’s hands in his own two, holding it tightly for a second like if he lets go d’Artagnan will slip away again. D’Artagnan lets him, grasps Athos’ hands as tight as he can with his own and finally Athos smiles, and it’s small and tired but it’s an honest smile.

They let d’Artagnan rest for one more day before they set off for Paris. This time Aramis will not hear of d’Artagnan riding alone, and he’s inclined to agree. He’s feeling better but even now he thinks he’d be more likely to fall off a horse then stay on it by himself. He expects Aramis to be the one to ride with him but as they get ready to leave he asks Porthos to take him instead. Porthos complies readily, gently helping d’Artagnan up in front of him and with little fuss they’re off, homeward bound.

D’Artagnan notices as they ride that Aramis is keeping to the front, riding a little ahead of everyone and not looking back, not looking at d’Artagnan. He’s not avoiding him, exactly, but he seems distant and detached. There is something sitting heavily on his shoulders, its clear to see, d’Artagnan just wishes he knew what.

Something is sitting heavily on his own shoulders though, which distracts him from Aramis’ sudden distance. Something that has twisted it’s way into his heart and settled it’s roots there and now it grows. Something dark and painful and secret that tears at his throat and tongue until he tastes blood in his mouth. Something dangerous. It is words that echo in the back of his mind, words of a man long dead and buried. What have you become, my son.

It hurts in a way he had never imagined before that his father might not like the man he had become. Because the truth is he is now sworn to serve a king who his father never believed in, the truth is he has blood on his hands and he’s afraid some of it might be innocent. He believes though, believes in the sword in his hand and the oaths he swears and believes in the men he fights beside and that is enough to make the hurt worth living with, he thinks. Because for the first time in his life d’Artagnan has something to believe in greater then himself. For the first time he has something truly worth dying for. But the words still ache, in a tender place inside of him that had never quite healed after his father’s death, and no matter how hard he tries he cannot push them from his mind.

They ride at a steady but slow pace, not wanting to push d’Artagnan’s healing body and Porthos is a steady comfort behind his back. Despite that it’s still uncomfortable. The hole in his side is closing but the fever has left him weak and unsteady. Aramis makes him drink another foul tasting brew before they set off but even that only dulls the pain, like a numbing blanket of snow over the forest floor. It’s not that d’Artagnan has never been injured before, over his time with musketeers he had accumulated his fair share of bumps and bruises, but this is the worst he’s ever been hurt. Over the past week he’s become intimately acquainted with pain in all its forms. The sharp bright insistent pain of a fresh wound, the constant belligerent ache of healing skin, the intense burning heat of a fever in his veins. And he knows this pain now, too, a low deep misery in every inch of his body. It’s become a living, breathing thing. Taking each breath with him, it echoes in each beat of his heart and hides behind each blink of his eyes. He can feel sweat beading on his brow and he presses his lips tight and looks inside of himself for a strength he knows he has. Porthos notices when he reaches a hand up to wipe at his brow, he can feel his heart skip a beat against his back.

“Are you feeling warm again? Is it…”

And he doesn’t finish his sentence but d’Artagnan knows what he’s asking. He shakes his head, and when he replies his voice is strained. “No, no… it’s just…”

“It just hurts?” Porthos replies, and the words are kind. D’Artagnan nods shortly.

“Lean back against me, it will be more comfortable.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head, surprised at the offer. “I’m heavy, I don’t want to put to much weight on you.”

He can almost feel Porthos roll his eyes behind him, a sigh rattling through his chest. “D’Artagnan, don’t be stubborn. I can take it.”

The heavy hand on his shoulder pushing him back against Porthos’ broad chest doesn’t leave him much choice in the matter and so he lets himself be pressed backwards. It’s an improvement, laying back takes some pressure off of the wound in his side and the pain recedes a little. After that Porthos tells him stories, of his childhood in the court, of the adventures (and misadventures) he has had with Aramis and Athos, of love and loss and honor. Tells him stories of home. His voice is low and calming, a gentle rumble against d’Artagnan’s back, and he lets himself be lulled into a half-sleep, his lullaby long past spilt blood and smoke and hope, a soldier's dreams.

Night starts to fall heavy and cool and they’re still almost a day from Paris so they pull off the main road and make camp. He insists on climbing off the horse himself and it hurts but it comes with grim satisfaction, gives him a sense of control he’s been lacking since he collapsed. He offers to help gather firewood but Porthos just gives him a look that could wither plants and gently pushes him down against a log. The rest of them busy themselves with setting up camp and soon there’s a fire going and Porthos is dividing up dried meat and bread between the four of them. He sits and watches them all silently, and now it is even more glaringly obvious that Aramis is avoiding him. Over the course of the night he says maybe ten words to d’Artagnan, and never quite looks him in the eye and when he does he sees something in Aramis’ gaze he can’t quite understand. Something almost guilty. After he eats and forces yet another concoction down d’Artagnan’s throat he retreats to the other side of the camp and sits broodingly against a tree, cleaning his musket and pistol and taking first watch.

For a long time d’Artagnan lies awake, watching the stars glisten silver in the velvety darkness of the sky above him and listening to Porthos snore. The night is full of the sounds of the wind rustling the dry leaves still left on the branches of trees and whistling along the plains, and he can hear the faint sounds of Aramis nearby. Eventually he falls into a restless slumber. That night d’Artagnan dreams. Dreams of burning fields and trees like torches and the walls of his childhood falling around him. Dreams of his father, standing unscathed amidst the destruction asking him ah, mon fils, qu'avez-vous fait. He wakes up gasping with those words echoing in his ears.

Chapter Text

The morning is quiet and solemn, each of them haunted by their own demons. The only one seemingly unaffected by the grim mood is Porthos, who is almost forcefully cheerful. As d’Artagnan and Aramis and Athos sit silently and eat their mealy porridge Porthos strides around their little encampment, rinsing out the pot they used to cook breakfast and packing away the rest of the food while humming a cheerful tune to himself. D’Artagnan can’t help but wonder at the man’s ability to ignore the dark atmosphere that hangs over their group like rain swollen clouds. Although, he has been friends with Athos for years so he probably has plenty of practice.

Today he rides with Athos, something which he is grateful for. He doesn’t think he could handle Porthos’ painfully bright disposition at the moment. Athos is content to sit in silence as they ride, not trying to start a conversation. His father’s heart broken expression from his dreams won’t leave him alone. And d'Artagnan knows his father would never say those things  too him, knows that it was just a product of his fevered mind, and yet he can’t shake the ring of truth in it and he’ll never be able to ask his father now, never be able to truly know. He tries to stay silent, but the words echo in his ears like the tolling of church bells for a funeral and they drown out everything else. Eventually he can’t and the question slips out of his mouth before he can stop them, and it carries in it a desperate plea, it carries hope. 

“Do you think my father would like the man I have become?” He regrets the question as soon as the words leave his mouth, they sound silly and weak to his ears. Athos is quiet for a long time and d’Artagnan waits, feeling his friends even breathing against his back and taking comfort in it. Finally Athos replies and his tone is solemn and measured.

“I never met your father, I cannot claim to know him and so I cannot give you the answer you need. I will say this, however. Alexandre d’Artagnan raised you, and if you are any measure of him then he was a good and honest man. I do not…I do not think a good and honest man could look at you and not respect, or love, what you have become.” And the words are simple, but from Athos lips they are worth more then all the gold and silver in the world. Because Athos is, if nothing else, a good and honorable man. His throat grows tight and he bows his head to hide the tears that well unbidden in his eyes.

“Thank you.” He breathes, and tries not sniffle. Athos shifts behind him, one of his hands dropping the reigns and moving to rest gently on d’Artagnan’s wrist where it is laying against the saddle. He doesn’t say anything, but d’Artagnan feels the reply in the feel of Athos fingers against his skin and he smiles.

They’re a sad sight when they ride into the garrison, muddy and exhausted, d’Artagnan sitting in front of Athos and his mount trailing behind their group, riderless. D’Artagnan slips down on his own but stumbles when his feet hit the ground and would have fallen if Porthos hadn’t caught him by the shoulders and pulled him upright.

At the commotion in the yard Treville emerges from his office. One look at their tattered appearance and d’Artagnan nearly held up by Porthos grip has him pinching the bridge of his nose and heaving a heavy sigh.

“My office, all of you.” Porthos’ looks like he’s about to protest but d’Artagnan gives him a little shake of his head, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine.” And Porthos reluctantly shuts his mouth. He doesn’t let go of d’Artagnan though, keeps a tight hold on him as they walk their way up the stairs and into Treville’s office. D’Artagnan’s glad of it too, because he’s not sure if he’d have made it up the stairs by himself.

They gather in front of Treville and despite the weariness that seems to have settled itself in d’Artagnan’s very bones he pulls away from Porthos supportive hands and stands straight, head high. Treville falls into the chair behind his desk and lets his eyes sweep over them, taking in the bedraggled mess. The cut above Aramis’s eye that’s still healing, the blood stained tear in the right sleeve of Athos’ jacket, the way d’Artagnan can’t help but list to the side a little, and he lets out another sigh.

“Nothing can ever be easy with you four, can it?”

They all exchange glances, and Aramis shrugs. “Well, to be fair, it’s not like we ask for this.”

Treville just shakes his head, sitting forward in his chair and shuffling the papers lying out on his desk. “Some days I’m not so sure… Anyways, the letter?”

Athos replies shortly, “Delivered.”

“The men who attacked you?”He asks.

Porthos answers that one, voice low and dangerous. “Dead.”

Treville nods. “Very good. Now d’Artagnan, get out of my office before you pass out on my floor.”

The words are strict, but the tone carries a rough edge of affection, and maybe even pride. D’Artagnan nods thankfully, and with a last look at his friends walks out the door. Treville watches him go and once the door clicks behind him and they hear d’Artagnan’s footsteps fade away he turns back to the others.

“How bad was it?”

“Very bad.” Aramis says, and his voice is bitter and tight, shadowed with the memory of fear. Treville nods, and his eyes look tired.

“I see.” Athos takes a step forward and sets the signet ring down on the scratched oak of Treville’s desk. Treville reaches forward and picks it up, examining it carefully and recognition blooms on his face.

“Is this the man responsible?” He asks sharply, and Athos nods curtly. Treville sets the ring back down, face tight and drawn.

“Go. Bring him here. He will answer for endangering the lives of my men.”

And Porthos smiles in a way that promises blood, “It would be our pleasure, Captain.”

When D’Artagnan reaches his room he doesn’t bother undressing, just kicks off his boots and lets his sheathed sword clatter to the ground and falls gratefully into into bed. He’s asleep nearly before his head hits the pillow. He sleeps for a long time, the heavy motionless sleep of the thoroughly exhausted. He dreams, wild and nebulous they slip from his mind as soon as he’s finished dreaming them.

When he wakes it is still light, but it is an evening light that filters through the slats and casts shifting stripes of shadow upon the ground. D’Artagnan sits, shaking his head muzzily. His limbs and eyes are still heavy, the last remnants of his dreams still cling to his mind like ragged ribbons of silk. He feels half asleep still, disconnected and hazy, and the world does not quite feel solid under his fingers. Somebody left a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread by his bed and he slides to the floor beside them. Sitting with his back against the frame of the bed he eats, spooning the rich broth into his mouth and wiping the inside of the bowl with the bread. The wooden floor is warm beneath his legs, and he can feel sun against his cheeks. The warm soup makes him drowsy and when he’s finished eating he strips off his shirt and breeches before climbing back into bed. His last thought before he sleeps again is to wonder where Aramis and Porthos and Athos are. This time, when he sleeps, he does not dream.

The second time he wakes it is morning. Outside he can hear the sounds of the Garrison, the clang of metal against metal as the Musketeers practice with swords, heavy shouts of encouragement or mockery. He lays in bed for a while, eyes closed and just listens to the familiar noises, feeling at peace and at home. Finally he tosses his blanket aside and stands, carefully stretching out his back. Pulling on his shirt and breeches, slipping on his boots and buckling his weapons belt around his waist he heads to the door and out of his room. His stomach rumbles in hunger and he wonders how long he’s been asleep.

D’Artagnan wanders down the stairs, drawn by the smell of food, nodding in greeting to the other Musketeers in the yard. He walks towards the kitchen and as he makes his way across the courtyard he glances at the table he and the others usually congregate at but it’s empty. Slipping into the kitchen he starts to scrounge for something to eat but he’s interrupted by Serge walking into the room with a bucket full of water and a wide smile.

“So you’re finally awake!”

D’Artagnan smiles back and nods, “How long was I asleep for?”

Serge shrugs, wiping his hands off on his apron and starting to rinse potatoes in the water he’d brought in.“Little over two days. Slept like the dead you did.”

D’Artagnan shivers a little at that, thought to close for comfort, but he shakes off the feeling and reaches for a one the apples sitting in a bowl on the counter in front of him. Serge slaps his hand away, tsking at d’Artagnan. He musters his best pitiful look, gazing dejectedly at Serge until he sighs.

“Go sit, I’ll make you something.” He says, flapping a hand at d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan acquiesces readily, flashing Serge a cheeky smile as he walks out the door. Walking back to the Inseperables usual table he plops down on the rough hewn bench, eyes scanning the faces of the musketeers sparring in the courtyard but none of them are who he’s looking for.

D’Artagnan’s search is interrupted by the arrival of Serge carrying a steaming bowl of oats and boiled apples. He sets it in front of him, and turns to head back to the kitchen but d’Artagnan calls him back.

“Have you seen Athos and the rest?”

Serge shakes his head, “They left the morning after you returned. Don’t know where they were heading, but I’ll tell you that they didn’t look happy.”

D’Artagnan nods and thanks him, and Serge walks off muttering something about reckless and headstrong under his breath. D’Artagnan eats his breakfast, musing about where his friends could have got off too. It’s strange that they would leave again so soon after returning, and a little part of him is hurt that they didn’t even bother to say goodbye. He shakes it off though, telling himself sternly that musketeer business trumps personal matters and he shouldn’t be silly.

He’s just finished his food when he hears a commotion at the entrance to the Garrison. Looking up he sees Athos and Porthos and Aramis pulling their horses to a halt, clustered tightly at the arch of the tunnel that leads in. He stands, about to walk over to them when a fourth horse comes into view, tethered loosely to Porthos’ saddle. It’s carrying a rider, a well dressed man in his mid forties. Upon closer inspection d’Artagnan sees that his hands are bound in front of him and there is deep purple blue bruising along the left right side of his face and his lip is split and swollen . He looks sullen and indignant, slouched deep into his saddle and there is an air of entitlement to the way he looks at the people milling in the streets about him, as if he is better then them in some intangible way.

Staying where he is d’Artagnan watches as a city guard rides up and Porthos hands over the end of the rope still secured to the fourth horse to him. The guard turns, starting to lead the horse away but then Athos lifts a hand up and he slows, pausing. Athos nudges his horse near to the bound man mount, leaning in close. He says something to him, face shadowed by the broad brim of his hat, and d’Artagnan is to far away to read the words on his lips but the other mans face goes white and still as Athos pulls away. He signals the guard and he gives the rope a sharp jerk and rides away, disappearing into the crowded streets of Paris. Athos and the others watch him go with looks of disgust and thinly veiled anger on their faces. D’Artagnan wonders what the man could have done to inspire such hatred. 

After a few seconds Porthos turns, face widening into a grin when he sees d’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan!” He shouts out, and his cheerful voice echoes against the cobblestones. Athos and Aramis turn at his cry and D’Artagnan smiles and offers them a wave. Wheeling their horses around they ride towards him. And d’Artagnan is glad to see them, but there’s a strange sense of apprehension that settles in his stomach, for what he does not know but he does not like the feeling. Swallowing away the unsettling feeling he affixes a smile and stands to greet his friends. 

Chapter Text

Reaching the courtyard the musketeers dismount, the stable boy running forward to take the reigns of their mounts, and Athos and Porthos walk over to d’Artagnan. Porthos claps him heavily on the shoulder, rocking d’Artagnan forward a little.

“Good to see you up.” He says, still grinning, and there are no vestiges of the disgust from earlier visible on his face. Athos is behind him, pulling off his gloves, and d’Artagnan sees the knuckles on his right hand are dark and bruised. He drags his gaze away from the purpled skin and up to Athos face. It is as cool and impartial as ever, features schooled into a neutral expression but when d’Artagnan looks into his eyes there is anger burning low and fiery there. He gives d’Artagnan a nod in greeting though, walking past him to drop heavily onto the bench.

Aramis appears from the stable now, and he smiles at d’Artagnan but it is tight and shadowed and so un-Aramis like and for some reason it just makes d’Artagnan sad. He brushes past to drop down next to Athos, and Porthos and D’Artagnan follows. They all sit around their table, watch the daily life of the Garrison go on. It’s a familiar scene, one they’ve played out hundreds of times before, but it feels different now. Silences reign heavy where before there had been laughter and jokes and conversation. Aramis is withdrawn and quiet, not looking them in the eyes and even Porthos’ cheerfulness seems dampened. It feels as though something has changed between them, and it makes d’Artagnan afraid. For all that they made it home alive and in one piece something seems broken. Eventually Porthos breaks the silence, a little tentatively.

“If you are feeling strong enough, D’Artagnan, perhaps we could spar? Wouldn’t want you getting rusty.” D’Artagnan nods and smiles, grateful for the break in the uncomfortable atmosphere.

“I don’t think that will be a concern, I will trounce you unwell or not! Athos, perhaps you could officiate to ensure Porthos here does not play dirty?”

Athos sighs, long sufferingly but there is a smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I don’t have anything better to do with my time.”

Porthos slaps the table enthusiastically, standing. “Very well! And the loser shall buy the first round tonight!”

They all look expectantly towards Aramis then, but he just shakes his head and offers another tight smile. “As wonderful as this sounds I unfortunately have other engagements to attend to. The ladies of the city have been without my ministrations for far to long, I can’t keep them waiting.” But the excuse sounds hollow, none of his usual flair in his voice.

D’Artagnan watches him go, confused and concerned and a little hurt by the rebuffal. Trying to brush it off he stands, turns to Porthos and draws his sword. “Well then, are you ready to be thoroughly beaten?”

Porthos smirks, drawing his own weapon with a flourish. “I think that is the question I should be asking you, d’Artagnan.”

An hour later and d’Artagnan is sweating heavily, breath coming in short pants. He’s feeling better now, but he’s still weak and he can sense that Porthos is going easy on him. It bothers him, even though he knows it shouldn’t. He’s tired and frustrated with himself and worried about Aramis and it all boils over like a pot left over a fire for to long. He holds up a hand, signaling Porthos to stop, and discontentedly sheathes his sword. Striding away from Porthos a collapses onto the nearest bench, elbows resting on the table and drops his head into his hands, heaving a great sigh. He hears footsteps behind him as someone walks around to the other side of the table, feels a presence hovering at his side. When he lifts his face he sees Porthos sitting across from him and Athos flanking him to the right. They are both watching him with quiet concerned eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and his voice is small.

“It’s just… everything feels different. I feel different.”

Porthos looks sad, sympathy heavy in his eyes. “Oh d’Artagnan, you are going to be different. What you went through… that changes people, no one can expect you to be the same. But it’s alright, to be different. Changing is just a part of life.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head, still unsure. “I am… I am afraid things will never go back to the way they were before. I mean Aramis… Aramis will barely look at me, will not talk to me. I do not know how to fix it.”

He looks up at them, searching for an answer in their eyes, searching for hope. They exchange looks, something unspoken passing between them before Athos turns to d’Artagnan. When he speaks his tone is cautious and careful.

“Aramis is…he is not angry with you, d’Artagnan. He is angry with himself, he feels guilty. The reason your wound became infected was a piece of your shirt was carried into the wound by the sword. Aramis did not see it when he was closing you up and now he blames himself for your-your near death. We have tried to convince him otherwise but… he will not hear it, I think. Not from us at least.”

D’Artagnan just looks between them, shocked. “But he saved my life, he saved me! In more ways then one, I think. If Aramis had not been there then I would have died.”

Athos sighs, and it is heavy and sad. “We know that. But Aramis will not let himself know that.”

The shock starts to die away and beneath an anger starts to boil, something bitter and ugly and hurt. “Why did you not tell me?”

Athos says a little guiltily. “We did not want to worry you. We thought we could handle this on our own but…” And he trails off there uncomfortably.

D’Artagnan stands, shaking his head. “You should have told me. And who was that man from earlier? Why did you leave again so soon after we returned?”

Porthos sighs, running a hand through his tightly curled hair, and glances at Athos who shrugs as if to say ‘why not’

“He was the man who ordered the ambush. Athos found his signet ring on the bodies of one of the men we killed. After you retired Treville gave us permission to…retrieve… him.”

D’Artagnan stares at them both, open mouthed and hurt. “And you didn’t think you should tell me? If anyone had a right to know it would have been me and you hid this!”

“You needed to rest and heal, d’Artagnan. We handled it.” Porthos says in a placating tone, hands up in front of him like d’Artagnan’s a horse he needs to calm and that only makes him angrier. He’s angry, though, because he feels betrayed. Because they are hiding things from him, and suddenly he’s not so sure what he means to them anymore. Because now he is left wondering what other secrets they have that he does not know. He stands suddenly, bench clattering backwards and without another words starts to stalk away, feeling a little petulant child but not able to help it. Porthos calls out,

“D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan! Where are you going?”

“To look for Aramis.” He throws over his shoulder without looking back, and it’s childish but it makes him feel a little better.

D’Artagnan finds Aramis in the little church a few streets away from the garrison as he knew he would. He’s kneeling by the alter, head bowed and hands pressed tight in prayer and d’Artagnan can hear him as he draws closer.

“Oh Dios amoroso y amable, ten misericordia. Ten piedad de mí y quita la terrible mancha de mis transgresiones. Oh, límpiame, límpiame de esta culpa. Déjame ser puro otra vez. Porque admito mi vergonzosa acción, me persigue día y noche. Perdóname dios.”

The words are whispered, carried on low reverent breaths that ring in the quiet vaulted space. D’Artagnan has only heard Aramis speak his mother’s tongue a few times, and the sound of it is beautiful and lilting and tastes of something old and new all at once. He does not know much Spanish, only a few words Aramis has taught him over the course of their acquaintance, but he knows enough. Enough to hear perdóname, enough to hear forgive me. Walking forward he drops to his knees beside Aramis.

“For what do you ask forgiveness, Aramis?” Aramis doesn’t look at him, hands still clasped in front of him, thumbs pressed against his forehead and eyes shut.

“I-I nearly let you die d’Artagnan.” D’Artagnan is silent for a second, trying to find the words to make Aramis understand.

“When I was… When I was in the fever I dreamt. I dreamt of my father, and he asked me why I could not save him. I am still searching for forgiveness for that. I do not know if I will ever find it.”

Aramis finally looks at him at that, eyes incredulous, hand reaching out like he wants to touch d’Artagnan, but it falls away at the last second, limp and useless.“You must know that was not your fault, d’Artagnan! There was nothing you could have done, you cannot carry this, it is not your burden to bear.”

D’Artagnan shrugs. “Then you must know that my illness was not your fault. Without you I would have most certainly died in that forest. You saved my life Aramis. I have forgiven you, you must simply forgive yourself. This is not your burden either.”

Aramis shakes his head, eyes bright and guilty and desperate. “D’Artagnan… you were… you were so close to death. There were moments… there were moments when I thought you’d already left us. I left that cloth inside you and you nearly paid for it with your life.”

“But I did not,” D’Artagnan says. Reaching out he grasps Aramis’ hand and brings it too him, pressing it under his doublet and against his chest.

“My heart still beats, I still breathe and talk. I survived, Aramis, I survived.” Aramis lets his hand rest there, pressed again d’Artagnan’s skin, and he closes his eyes and listens to the steady thump of d’Artagnan’s heart like he can hear God’s voice in it. “You told me that we must become strong in our broken places,” D’Artagnan whispers, and his voice echoes off the edges of the church, bouncing against stained glass and heavy wooden pews and finding their way back again. Aramis, tilts his head back, eyes still closed and he does not move his hand from d’Artagnan’s chest, from his heart.

“I fear I am nothing but broken places, d’Artagnan, I fear I there is no part of me left that is whole.”

“Then you will be the strongest of us all.” Aramis’ shoulders shake once then, a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob tears itself from his lips and d’Artagnan can sees tears running down his cheeks and dripping to the floor. Reaching over he pulls Aramis close to him, wraps his arms around him and offers what little comfort he can give. Softly he whispers in his ear,

“N'oubliez pas qu'il ya des choses dignes d'être vécues.” And he feels Aramis’ fingers tighten on his back. They weep together, in that church. Cry for everything they’ve lost and everything they cannot have and for all of the people they’ve buried who they should’ve been able to save. They mourn, and when they have finished they stand and wipe away the tears and walk out the church side by side.

They go to a tavern, far from the garrison, and Athos and Porthos are already waiting at a table. Porthos smiles wide when they sit, teeth flashing white in the dim light of the room.

“Bienvenue à la maison, mon ami.” And Aramis smiles back, a little weakly, but stronger then before. Athos signals the barmaid for another round and turns to them,

“So I see d’Artagnan has succeeded in talking some sense into you.” Aramis tenses, and for a second d’Artagnan is afraid, but then the tension flows out of his shoulders and he smiles again, and it is the first real smile d’Artagnan has seen out of him since they got back.

“I guess…I guess he has.”

The barmaid arrives with another bottle of wine and two tankards for Aramis and d’Artagnan. She sets them on the table and gives Aramis a flirtatious wink, which he returns with a grin and it’s got a little of the fire d’Artagnan is accustomed too from his friend. After they’ve all settled and the first round has been poured d’Artagnan is the first to speak. “I’m sorry.” He says, and it cuts through the quiet like a knife. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier. I was just hurt, I guess.”

Athos shakes his head though, “No, we should apologize d’Artagnan. It was wrong to hide things from you, even if we thought it was for your own good. You are a musketeer now, no longer a child, and you deserve to be treated as such. It was our mistake, we will not make it again.”

D’Artagnan smiles softly and shrugs.“Yes, but I still could have behaved better. We both made mistakes.”

Athos inclines his head in agreement, and beneath the strands of hair the fall across his eyes there’s a look that’s almost proud. Porthos raises his glass high,

“Well then, to no more secrets.” They all follow suit, murmuring in assent. They drink, and when they set their glasses down d’Artagnan grins cheekily,

“Well, if there truly are no more secrets then I have to come clean. Aramis, I was the one who knocked your hat into the horses water trough last summer. I’m very sorry.” But it’s clear from his tone that he’s not. Aramis looks shocked, mouth opening in betrayal.

“That hat smelled like horse for a month! I nearly challenged Jacques to a duel over it!”

Porthos lets out a loud belly laugh, slapping the table and even Athos looks amused. “So that was you! I always wondered, it got Aramis in such a snit too.”

Aramis for his part glares good naturedly at Porthos and d’Artagnan, crossing his arms and sitting back in his chair. After the laughter subsides they settle into silence. It’s not an uncomfortable stilted one like from earlier but an easy one. Each man content to sit in the other’s company, no words needed to fill the space between them. Eventually though d’Artagnan breaks the silence. A little cautiously he asks,

“We are brothers, still?”

Reaching out his hand to the center of the table he lays it palm flat against the rough wood. And he feels not one hand upon his but three.

“Of course.” Aramis says, “Toujours et à jamais.”