Resurrection, part V
~§~
René struggled to keep his eyes open. He suspected that the other man had asked for that particular ointment on purpose, knowing how hard it would be to fight the pull of sleep with its soothing smell in the air. However, the paste would indeed ease Porthos' pain, and René could not truly fault the man for his scheming.
It felt strange to have someone go to such lengths to ensure his well-being. It felt almost like warmth.
He had not felt such a sense of loyalty ever since he had lost twenty-one of his brothers in Savoy. Twenty he could still visit, buried behind the training fields. The other...
Marsac had been a blacksmith's apprentice before he had joined the Musketeers, not a soldier like him. And yet, the man had taken it upon himself to protect and watch over René, like an older brother.
It had been Marsac on watch that night. Because René had complained about his back, after such a long ride, and his friend had offered to take his place.
The attackers came so suddenly and with such vengeance that it wouldn't have mattered who stood watch, really. But, because of him, Marsac was the one bearing the guilt and uncertainty of the 'what ifs'.
What if he had seen them sooner?
What if he had shouted the alarm louder?
What if he had stayed to fight instead of rescuing Aramis?
René shook his head, hoping the movement would dislodge those dark thoughts from his mind. Instead, it rattled his brain hard enough to render him dizzy. His hand slipped on Porthos' chest as he rubbed in the paste, the world spinning around him. He grabbed onto the bed sheets to anchor himself.
"Hey, now," Porthos' voice sounded like it was coming from the deep. "Y'er alrigh' there?"
René took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the smells of forest and earth. The snow-covered forests of Savoy had possessed no smell, except that of blood. "Just tired, I suppose," he admitted. The bed looked so inviting...
"Ya could rest, ya know? Plen'y of empty beds," Porthos suggested.
Again, there was a warmth to his voice that made René lean closer, wanting to melt the ice in his bones in the light of the other man's concern. "In a moment," he conceded, his gaze wandering to the occupied beds. All the men were resting and safe, their wounds tended to and on the mend. Still, he felt like they would simply slip away if he were to close his eyes for a minute.
He was just going to finish rubbing the salve on Porthos' torso, and then fetch some water for Mortier...and Adrian could do with fresh bandages...
"Ya owe me a tale," the other man said out of the blue. René figured that his face must've shown his confusion, because Porthos decided to elaborate. "'bout y'er other name. Ya told me it'd been a misunderstandin' of sorts?"
René frowned. He had no recollection of making such a promise, but he was too tired to sort out all of the long hours he had been awake in search of an answer.
Aramis felt like someone else entirely, the brave soldier who faced every danger with a smile on his face and a witty remark on his lips.
Aramis was someone he both hated with all his heart and, at the same time, longed to be more than anything else. He owed no allegiance to the name.
"A package, send to me at my former regiment," he explained, his eyes drooping in exhaustion as he got lost in the memory. "My friends back at the village didn't knew what name I had given to the army, nor how much of my past life I had shared, so they decided to play it safe and send the parcel simply addressed to 'The René friends' -Au René amis-. When it finally arrived to my hands, the handwriting had all but faded away, leaving nothing but 'A R amis'," he said with a small chuckle. "It stuck, I s'pose..."
Porthos let out a hearty laugh, clasping the younger man's shoulder. "Ther's worse things than being named by yer friends," he offered.
René looked pointedly at his hand, the one he supposedly couldn't use to apply the salve to himself.
Porthos shrugged, unapologetic. There was no point in keeping up the ruse, René figured. His eyes were so heavy he was sure he was already asleep where he sat. "I don't think...I'd evva tol' that to...anyone," he mumbled, sounding vaguely surprised by the realization and the slurring of his words.
"Oi! Help me wit' him!"
When a set of hands that couldn't possibly belong to Porthos grasped his shoulders and gently pushed him down to rest, René didn't even think to question their intention or put up a fight. He just allowed himself to let go. He felt oddly at home.
~§~
"Oi! Help me wit' him!"
Athos opened his eyes, stopping his pretense of sleep. He'd been listening to the quiet conversation between the two men, despite his best efforts to ignore them. It was at once endearing and infuriating the way the young medic still refused to go to bed, like a stubborn child. It was unbecoming of a man who could already grow his own beard.
Thomas used to do the same when he was a boy, pushing himself beyond exhaustion to stay up late with the grownups, until he ended up falling asleep on Olivier's shoulder.
For the second time in as many days, the accursed medic - Musketeer - Athos amended in his mind, still surprised at the revelation - had made him think of his dead brother and he couldn't help but slightly hate the man for it.
For a second, he entertained the idea of feigning sleep and ignore Porthos' call for help altogether. In fact, had he been able to rise at all without the ground fleeing from under his feet, Athos would've left hours ago to find the cure for his ailments at the bottom of a bottle.
As it was, he was still trapped in that bed and his sense of honor would not shut up about the baseness of not lending a helping hand. Even if that hand was needed merely to stop the hero of the moment from falling into an undignified nap on the floor.
With a groan, the former Comte pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a second as the room danced around him. His vision remained still a bit blurry, but Porthos' bed was right next to his and he could now see the other man's predicament almost clearly.
René was listing to one side, still mumbling words that were now impossible to understand. His eyelids moved sluggishly, each blink longer than the previous. The ointment fumes had certainly done their job.
As he watched, Athos saw the exact second when the young man lost his battle with consciousness and tilted back. Alarm filled Porthos' eyes, his bandaged arm reaching forward even as Athos sprang into action.
Athos' hands closed around wiry arms at the same time that Porthos grabbed onto a fistful of the young man's shirt. He fell bonelessly against Athos' chest, his head hitting his shoulder and rolling to the side.
"Ya got 'im?" Porthos breathed out, his face ashen from the strain he was putting on his injuries.
Athos nodded, knowing his voice would betray him. He had staggered under the sudden added weight, cursing once more the cowardly bandit who had attacked him from behind. Desperately looking around for someone else to aid them, Athos cursed louder as he saw that all the others were blissfully unaware of their dilemma. There was only one solution.
Reaching out with one of his legs, Athos pulled his bed closer, giving thanks to poorly-funded garrison that could only afford feeble bed frames. Once he had the two beds close enough, he let himself fall back, taking René's dead weight with him.
Porthos gave him a look, halfway between amused and impressed, but he wisely chose to say nothing as, between the two of them they managed to prop René's sleeping form in the midst of the two joined beds.
Determined to ignore the two men now that the task was completed, Athos turned his back on them once more. He would procure rest in what remained of the night and make his escape from that blasted room in the morning and never speak of this again.
His demons, however, would not let him sleep. The night felt endless and every time he closed his eyes, the image of his dead brother was there to greet him. And her, dressed in white... swinging...
A flopping hand landed across his shoulder. Athos tried to shrug it off, but instead of falling away, the hand grabbed on.
The former Comte turned angrily, ready to give a piece of his mind to the abusive medic, who was clearly overstaying his welcome. The angry words died in his throat. As it were, they would have fallen on deaf ears...well, sleeping ears.
The young man had curled onto his side, his knees pulled to his chest with one arm draped around them, apparently trying to look as small as a grown man could possibly achieve. His other hand had latched onto Athos' arm, the grip tightening as whatever had invaded his dreams made him whimper and tremble, like he was freezing cold. The dark shadows that still surrounded his eyes made him look gaunt and fragile. In need of protection.
Athos did not wished to wonder about what plagued the young man's dreams, but he could not ignore the signs in front of him. He was not the only one being haunted by vicious demons.
~§~
Treville had stomped his good foot at staying confined to the sick room. After all, his arms and head were functioning perfectly well and if the idea was to sit and rest, he could do it just as well in his quarters.
His garrison had been attacked on his watch, under his command. Seven musketeers had paid the price and a dozen more had been injured during the explosion.
It was more than a matter of honor to bring those responsible to justice. It was his duty...it was a chance to atone for his sins.
Tragedy was still too fresh in the hearts of the whole garrison, and his own. Something like this, so soon after, could rob even the sturdiest soldier of his spirit.
Treville was determined to not let that happen. Not again.
Savoy had been a disaster waiting to happen. Long had he distrusted the Cardinal and his conniving ways. When he had been ordered to give up the position of his men in a place so close to possible conflict, Treville's instincts had clawed at him, warning him that something very wrong was about to happen.
His men must have thought him a lunatic when he had decided to gather a small force and join the training group so shortly after their departure. His reasoning had been that he wanted to surprise them, watch the men in action and judge their behavior away from their Captain. In a regiment with only three years of existence, it was an excuse that raised no eyebrows. Even so, he took with him only his most trusted soldiers.
Truth was, the gnawing at his heart that something horrible was bound to happen would not let Treville close his eyes at night. So he had gone, hoping -praying- that his instincts were, for once, wrong.
The amount of crows surrounding the area where his men had set their camp, was the first sign that something had gone amiss. Even so, nothing could have prepared them for the sight that greeted them.
There were dead soldiers... everywhere.
Treville and the two men who had joined him were no strangers to war and its ugliness. This however...
Some of the men had still been inside their tents, curled up, as if asleep. Most of them were in their undergarments, their modesty barely covered as they were slain.
They had all been slaughtered, heedless lambs murdered in their sleep. There had been no honor, no deference, no respect for human life. Just bloodshed.
They found Aramis amongst the dead. He had been kneeling on the snow, feverishly sewing a wound on the chest of a corpse. It had taken all three of them to pull the young man from amidst the cadavers he was so desperately still trying to save, In the end, they had been forced to restrain him, to stop Aramis from returning to mend the dead.
The wound on his head had been a serious one, and the exposure to the harsh elements had brought on a high fever. For a long time, Treville had been sure that Aramis would soon join his fellow soldiers on the cold ground. God, however, wasn't so merciful.
From the moment it became clear that the young man would survive, Treville had taken measures to assure his continuous safety. No one could ever know that he had survived. It would be the end of Aramis. The Cardinal would make sure of that.
Sworn to secrecy, the two men who had joined Treville had returned to the garrison with the horrible news. Treville had stayed behind, watching over Aramis as he slowly crawled his way back to the living.
It didn't surprise the Captain one bit when, once recovered, the young man chose to spend his days amongst the sick and injured, rather than resuming his former duties.
Treville ran a hand through his hair, chasing the weariness away. He wanted nothing more than to question the assailant who had been captured, but the man had swiftly been taken to the Châtelet, for fear of what the Musketeers might do to him in their grief. And now, the cursed piece of paper in front of him told him that he would never get the opportunity.
It seemed that the Cardinal had seen fit to rob him of his chance of investigating the matter further and had taken the culprit from his hands, stating that Treville was too close to the subject to be fully trusted in keep his impartiality.
Treville was certain that what the older man meant to say was that he was sure the bandit would not live to see his execution day if he were to remain in the Musketeers' care and had taken his chance to soil the Captain's reputation in front of the King. Again.
Treville crumpled the message into a wrinkled ball and sent it flying against the wall, disappointed that it was too soft to punch through the stone like he wished. He would deal with the Cardinal later. In the meantime, he had a garrison to put back on its feet and his men to worry about. "What's the word on the wounded, Pierre?"
The boy, young enough to barely be able to grow a proper beard, had been serving as Treville's legs for the past day, running errands and summoning people to his quarters. He started at the rough sound of the Captain's voice, looking as if he had fallen asleep where he stood. Apparently, Treville had been caught up in his musings longer than he had thought.
"Humm...Aramis says that they're all recoverin' and at least four of 'em can go back to their chambers by t'morrow," the boy hurried to report.
Treville glared. "Who did you say told you this?"
"Aramis, sir," the boy stated, lowering his gaze to the floor, sure that the ire rising in the Captain's face was aimed at him. "He's been there since it all happen', so I figured he would know best..."
Treville realized he must have made some kind of growling sound, because the boy stopped talking and took a step back, lowering his head. The explosion had happened the morning of the day before, and the present one was almost at an end, which meant that Aramis, who Treville clearly remembered not having escaped the attack unscathed, had been left to his own devices for nearly two days straight. "Grab my stick, Pierre," the Captain ordered, still fuming at the news. "We are going for a walk."
As he made his way slowly to the infirmary, Treville wasn't exactly sure towards whom his anger was directed the most: if towards the doctor that he'd been assured would come, to relieve the young man from his care of the wounded; or towards himself, for letting other matters occupy his mind and not having kept a closer watch on the workings of the sick rooms.
He knew how obsessed with caring Aramis could get, and he alone knew the reasons why the young man behaved so. Still Treville had let things slide for almost two days.
His leg be damned! Treville was determined to reach that sick room and stop whatever nonsense Aramis was up to, even if he had to drag the young man by his pointy beard and put him to bed like he had done for his own daughters. It was high time the man learned to take care of hims-
Any thoughts of scolding one his soldiers as if he were a toddler vanished from the Captain's mind when he looked upon the sight that greeted him in the sick room.
Aramis, quietly asleep, flanked by Porthos on one side and one of the new recruits, Athos, on the other.
A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. A sight to be seen, indeed. He'd been sure that the young man would never allow himself to trust others, to let down his guard in such a manner. He was pleased to see that he'd been wrong.
"Should I fetch him, Sir?" Pierre suggested, ready to wake Aramis.
Treville managed to grab the lad by his shirt before he could get any further. "No. Let him rest," he whispered, before quietly leaving the room. "He has earned it."
~§~
It didn't happen over one day. It didn't happened over a few weeks, either. But slowly, it did happen.
One day, René realized that the sound of clashing swords no longer set his limbs trembling and he found himself pulled towards the window, curious about seeing the other men training. He felt a different kind of tingling in his hands, watching them parry and block, swords dancing in the air with sparking stars bursting whenever they connected.
It took him a while to realize that his hands tingled in longing to hold a sword once again.
He found himself watching Athos from afar, amazed at the other man's skill with the sword. He moved as if arm and blade were one, dancing effortlessly through the air in precise and elegant movements that he had never seen before. Soon after, watching from the window was not enough and René moved closer, stepping onto the training yard, attracted to such display of skill like a moth to a bright light.
The rest was Porthos' fault, really. Since the dark day of the explosion, he had taken to keeping the young medic company whenever his training and missions would allow it, mostly distracting René from his duties as the big Musketeer shared wild stories about his youth. He never said where those tales had taken place - and many of them sounded too fantastic to have taken place at all - but under all the bluster and boasting, it soon became easy for René to understand that Porthos had not grown up in a pleasant or safe place. That he had met sorrow and pain at a much younger age than René.
One day, when Porthos casually challenged René to teach him how to shoot without looking, like he had seen him do the day of the explosion, he had found himself agreeing. The grin that spread across the big man's face warmed his heart and René figured that was a good feeling. One worth keeping.
After more than a few missed melons, as Porthos tried to shoot his target without looking, they found themselves being watched by Athos.
"May I try?"
Athos was as good at it as Porthos, which wasn't saying much. That day ended with all three men covered in sweat and gunpowder, too many melons intact and a promise from Athos to help the other two in bettering their skills with a sword.
"Well, then...I s'pose drinks are on me!" Porthos offered with an enthusiastic smile, one arm clasped over the shoulders of his two companions. "Seein' as I'm 'bout to become the best Musketeer this regiment has ever seen," he added with a smirk.
"And how do you figure that, Monsieur?" Athos asked, his eyebrow raising in amusement. It was a hard task to keep a grim disposition in the presence of Porthos.
"Easy...I've got meself Athos, a proper swords' master to teach me," he said, squeezing Athos' shoulder to the point the man feared the bone would shatter. "And I've got Aramis, the best marksman in the whol' of France, teachin' me how to kill melons!"
Porthos' good humor tapered away as he noticed what he had said. He opened his mouth to correct the name he had used, a name that had not slipped from his mouth ever since meeting René in the sick room.
The man in question halted him, a calm smile on his face. It was a startling contrast from the angst Porthos had witnessed before.
"I'll drink to that!" Aramis announced, sharing a look with Porthos to tell him that there was no harm.
Together, they stepped out of the garrison into the Paris night. It was a bit chilly, the beginnings of winter arriving, but Aramis felt none of it. The warmth of his new companions was enough to keep the ice at bay.
The end
~§~
AN: Well, folks, this is it. Thank you so much for joining me on this lovely journey and for welcoming me open-armed into this amazing fandom.
Once again, I give my deepest recognition for the help of laurie_bug, who so graciously helped me with this story.
As you may have noticed, this whole story, besides being an attempt at guessing how Athos, Aramis and Porthos met, is also a set-up of sorts to something else. A few questions were left unanswered on purpose, to be dealt with in the sequel. I'm already working on that one, so expect to hear from me soon ;)
One for all, dudes!