Chapter Text
Winter, 1625
The forest is white, pristine beneath a layer of snow. A stream babbles, fighting ice on its way to join larger waters. It is the only sound. The birds are gone, the earth asleep, the trees bare. The wind moves through their leafless branches like a lover’s caress.
It feels like a forgotten world. Or perhaps, Aramis thinks, a tomb.
He shudders. Tries to ignore memories of red on white, bodies in the snow.
“We should stop here,” Porthos says, voice too loud in the stillness. “I think we’ve lost ‘em for now.”
Aramis nods and adjusts his cloak, stubbornly ignoring the flash of pain that runs up his arm. He’ll deal with the wound later. After Athos has been seen to. He turns to watch Porthos lower their third member carefully into the snow. Athos hisses quietly, the first sound he’s made in hours, and blood leaks from between the gloved fingers clamped around his side.
“I’m fine,” Athos murmurs, still maddeningly steady. “It’s a minor injury. We should keep moving.”
“No,” Aramis snaps as he crouches down by the man’s side. “You’ll bleed to death. Porthos, help me get him undressed.”
He may not know, or trust, Athos as he does Porthos, but he refuses to lose another comrade-in-arms. Not after …
He shuts the memories down quickly. It’s easier now, eight months after. There is still snow and red on white, but this is not Savoy and they’re not going to die. If he tells himself that enough, maybe he’ll start to actually believe it.
Athos glares as Porthos approaches, muscles coiled and eyes as icy as the stream behind them. Six months and he has never let them close. Even now—wounded and stranded miles from Paris, from anywhere. It’s maddening.
Aramis is freezing and hurting and scared and furious.
He curls a gloved hand in the front of Athos’ doublet and gives him a small shake. “Let us help you, you idiot. You’re no good to us dead.”
Athos’ gaze flits to Porthos and back. A beat. A breath that fogs in the air between them. Then, he slumps in defeat and nods.
Aramis exchanges a look with Porthos over Athos’ bent head. What’s his problem?
Porthos gives a little shrug and crouches down on Athos’ other side, begins working his doublet from his shoulders. Athos winces, but doesn’t make a sound. For nobility, he certainly handles pain well. Maybe Treville’s insistence that he was a soldier has some merit to it after all.
Though, he certainly doesn’t fight like a soldier. Aramis flicks back to another snow-covered clearing and Athos’ sword nearly severing a man’s head from his shoulders, right after delivering a blow that crushed his nose.
Brutality like that …
Porthos curses, wrenching him from his thoughts, and he kicks himself for his distraction. Athos is down to his shirtsleeves and blood has soaked through the fabric in a large stain on his side.
Damn. Not good.
“A minor injury?” He hisses as he leans forward to push the shirt up. “What do you consider a major one? Losing your head?”
Athos huffs a sound that could either be agreement or denial and Aramis offers a curse of his own when he sees the depth of the wound. It needs needlework, but his medical supplies went down with his horse.
Mierda. Very not good, then.
He takes a deep breath. No one is going to die. No one is going to die. No one is going to die.
“We need to wash the wound and try to stop the bleeding,” he tells Porthos because Athos’ eyes have slipped closed. “Help me get him closer to the stream.”
“I’ll do it,” Porthos interjects, pushing Aramis back. “You’re hurt, too.” His expression says exactly what he thinks of Aramis trying to hide it. Aramis glowers at him.
It’s been eight months. He doesn’t need a minder anymore.
But he still lets Porthos half walk, half drag Athos to the water’s edge as he carefully shrugs out of his own cloak and doublet. A dagger caught him across the back of his shoulder, but probing fingers reveal the cut is shallow and has already stopped bleeding. It aches, but it’s manageable.
He should still be able to fight, when the time comes. And it will. He doubts their pursuers have given up.
When he reaches the stream, he sees Porthos has untied the bandana from around his head and is soaking it in the water. Athos watches him, shivering in his thin shirt. Aramis can feel the cold sinking harsh fingers into his own skin, reaching for bone.
No, they don’t have much time.
“Here,” Porthos hands the wet cloth to him. “Cleaned it as best I could.”
Aramis shoots him a smile of thanks. “Help me get his shirt off?”
Athos stiffens again. “Is that necessary?”
Aramis frowns. “We’ll need your scarf, too. In lieu of bandages.”
Athos flinches, shifting away from them as though suddenly trying to escape. “No.”
“Will you stop bein’ such a stubborn git?” Porthos snaps, grabbing Athos’ shoulder. “You wanna bleed to death out here?”
Athos is doing a marvellous impression of a cornered animal—all fierce eyes and tensed spine. “No. Find another way.”
“Shut up,” Aramis says, fury lighting up his blood again. Porthos and Athos both still, looking over at him. “Just shut up.” He clenches the soaked bandana in a trembling fist. “I am not watching you die. I refuse. So be quiet and let me help you or Porthos will knock you unconscious.”
Athos’ eyes narrow in warning. Aramis raises his chin, prepared to stare him down. It doesn’t matter that Treville placed this bastard in charge of their mission. Bleeding out in the snow, rank can go hang itself. And social status along with it.
Aramis is the more experienced soldier and the field medic and in this, he will not yield.
Porthos doesn’t intervene in their silent standoff, watching them both with wary eyes. Aramis is grateful. He can handle this. He already knows how it is going to end.
Sure enough, after another few breaths, Athos sighs, sharp, and looks away. “Fine.”
Porthos shoots him a relieved glance and reaches for Athos’ shirt. “But,” Athos adds, stopping him, “you must swear not to say a word about what you find.”
Porthos arches an eyebrow. What the hell?
Aramis dismisses his hesitation with a flick of his hand. They don’t have time. “I swear.”
Athos glances at Porthos, waiting. “I swear,” the other man adds.
Only then does Athos relax and nod for Porthos to continue. Aramis ignores the stormy look that crosses his comrade’s face. Porthos has never liked Athos, believing him an arrogant and drunk noble who got a commission on breeding instead of talent.
Aramis thinks there’s more to the story, but again. Another time.
He busies himself re-soaking the bandana as Porthos unties Athos’ scarf and bunches his shirt up under his armpits to give Aramis room to work.
The stunned sound he makes snaps Aramis to attention like a blow to the face. He’s only ever heard that sound once before from Porthos’ mouth and that was when he was dying in the infirmary after—
“What are these?” Porthos rasps, staring with wide eyes at Athos’ exposed back. “Are … are these from a whip?”
Well.
Aramis hurries around to stand beside Porthos and sucks in a shocked breath. The man’s back is covered in scars. There barely seems to be any unmarred flesh left.
God.
Aramis eyes drift higher and he barely holds in another choked gasp when he spots the brand on Athos’ neck, exposed without the protective shield of the scarf.
The fleur-de-lis. Oh Christ.
“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, stunned. When Aramis offers no answer, he leans forward and tilts Athos’ head to get a better look at the brand. “How did you get this, eh? How?”
Athos speaks through gritted teeth. “You swore.”
They did. And even though Aramis wants to demand answers—know why someone bearing the mark of the condemned is among their ranks—Athos is still wounded and Aramis is through with watching people die. So he puts a steadying hand on Porthos’ arm and sinks back to his knees.
“Keep him still.”
“Aramis-“
Aramis silences him with a look. Later.
Porthos shakes his head and settles his hands on Athos’ shoulders. Athos closes his eyes. And Aramis presses the wet cloth to the gash, pushing down hard.
He’s prepared for a scream or thrashing but Athos merely shakes and not a single sound leaks from his mouth. Aramis doesn’t know what to make of that.
Later.
Right now, he focuses on staunching the blood flow. The cloth soaks through quickly so he has Athos apply pressure while he rinses it and puts it back again. They repeat the process three more times before the flow has slowed to a trickle. Not once does Athos make a noise of pain. Aramis wraps the scarf around Athos’ torso, pulling it as tight as possible, and then washes the bandana one last time in the river as Athos sags back against Porthos.
The air wheezes leaving his lungs but he stays conscious.
After redressing him, Porthos leans him carefully against a tree and joins Aramis, taking the bandana. “Let me wash yours.”
Aramis doesn’t protest. His hands are trembling.
God, it’s cold.
The cloth is freezing against his skin, but he keeps still until Porthos is done.
“What now?” Porthos asks as he washes out the bandana and Aramis slides his doublet back over his shoulders.
“We need to make it to Paris,” Athos murmurs, eyes still closed.
Porthos glares at him. Aramis flexes his fingers, wishing he could stop their annoying quivering, but they continue to betray him. Ghosts are seeping into the corners of his mind.
Red on white. Bodies in the snow.
He shakes his head. Later, later.
“Paris’s at least a seven days ride,” Porthos is saying when he refocuses. “With horses. And ours’re dead.”
“I noticed,” Athos remarks dryly. Aramis kind of wants to punch him.
“We should find shelter. Perhaps a courteous farmer,” he says instead, settling his hat back on his head. Horse and supplies gone but somehow he held onto this. “Then Porthos can borrow a horse and ride on to Paris and—“
Porthos rounds on him, eyes blazing. “I ain’t leavin’ you behind.”
The not with him and not injured is unspoken. Aramis sighs and glances at Athos. The other man is still shivering and the brand is ugly against the pale skin of his neck. He wants to know why. Has to know, if he’s ever to trust Athos.
But…
“I’m sure we’ll manage not to die of boredem, stuck out here in the woods,” he says quietly, attempting a reassuring smile.
Porthos’ brow furrows. Aramis isn’t surprised. He hasn’t been good at reassuring smiles since then.
Athos chooses that moment to stand, hauling himself up using the rough bark of the tree. Porthos instinctively moves to help him and it’s a perfect glimpse of the massive heart that beats in his friend’s chest. He doesn’t trust or like Athos, but he still can’t leave him to struggle.
Once Athos is upright, he sways dangerously but stays on his feet. “We need to keep moving,” he repeats. His voice is hoarse—from swallowing screams, Aramis suspects. “They can’t be far behind us. And they still have horses.”
“You don’t need to remind us,” Porthos grumbles even as he retrieves Athos’ doublet and cloak.
Aramis scrubs a hand over his face. Right, their lovely pursuers. In all the drama, he’d nearly forgotten them. “We’ll never outrun them.”
“You and Porthos might.”
Aramis whirls to face Athos. The other man shifts his weight but meets Aramis’ stunned stare without flinching. “I can try to lead them astray. Give the two of you enough time to make a successful escape.”
“No.” Porthos—automatic, authoritative.
Athos’ jaw tenses in frustration. “We need to deliver the cargo to the king. At any cost.”
The cargo—documents warning the king of coming treachery. The cylinder holding them is suddenly heavy against Aramis’ back.
“I ain’t lettin’ you die until I get answers.”
“You won’t get them. So I suggest you do as I say.”
“I don’t take orders from a liar.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just take the cargo. Head for Paris. I’ll manage.”
For a horrible moment, Aramis considers. Better this stranger, this criminal in a musketeers’ uniform, than Porthos. Than himself.
But …
(Red on white. Bodies in the snow. The last one breathing and why?)
… it only lasts a moment. He cannot become that kind of man. He won’t.
“Stop it,” he snaps to Porthos and Athos. “No one is becoming a martyr.”
He looks at Porthos. I can’t lose anyone else.
Porthos understands, like always, and backs down. Aramis closes the distance to Athos. Crowds into his space.
“I won’t ask questions, I keep my promises. But it’s clear you cheated your way into that uniform. So from now on, we don’t take orders from you.” A pleasant, jagged-edged smile. “Understand?”
Athos expression is unreadable.
Porthos steps a threatening step closer. “’E asked you a question.”
Athos relents with a slight dip of his head. “Very well. I understand.”
Aramis tips his hat to him.
“But can I make a suggestion?’
Right. Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. “What?”
“We should follow the stream. It may lead to some form of civilization.”
Porthos shakes his head before Aramis can respond. “Too obvious.” He gestures toward the forest on the opposite bank, where the trees thicken. “We need better cover. To go where their horses can’t.”
“We need shelter. Supplies. We’ll die of exposure or infection if we go deeper in.”
“What did we just say about havin’ to listen to you?”
“Porthos is right,” Aramis interjects when Athos opens his mouth again to retort. “They’ll find us too quickly if we keep near the water.”
He adjusts his weapons, pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and glances back at his companions. “Now, can we move?”
They cross the stream in silence—Porthos keeping a close eye on Athos while Aramis takes point. The trees soon envelope them, close-grown and cloying.
Aramis just hopes they’ll be enough.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
10 Days Earlier
“Why ‘im? Why can’t you and I go?”
Aramis glances across the courtyard to where Athos is saddling his horse. “I think Treville wants him to get used to working with the other musketeers.”
Porthos makes a disdainful sound as he adjusts his saddlebags. “That doesn’t answer my question.” He buckles his sleeping roll down. “You think the captain’s punishin’ us for somethin’?”
Aramis shrugs. It could be. But Treville usually prefers yelling to underhanded tactics like this. He shoots another glance at Athos. The man looks calm and composed, as always. One would never suspect that he drank himself into a stupor just last night.
A drunk with the speech and bearing of nobility—Aramis can understand why it makes Porthos’ blood boil.
“And why put ‘im in charge?” Porthos is still grumbling. “You’ve got the most experience.”
This, Aramis suspects, is more straightforward. He hasn’t been in charge of a mission since then. And Athos is probably accustomed to people following his orders.
“We’ll just have to grin and bear it, mon ami,” he says as he fastens his cloak over his shoulders. “It’s only two weeks. Surely we’ve endured worse.”
Porthos grunts. Aramis takes it for agreement.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Present
He hates the woods. And the cold. And the damn snow.
Night is falling, the shadows lengthening, and he draws them to a halt in a small clearing. They’ve been walking for hours and the trees are starting to thin again. So far, there have been no signs of their pursuers but he doubts their luck will hold, even if he’s been doing his best to cover their trail.
Porthos leans Athos against a nearby tree. Progress has been slow and agonising but the wounded man hasn’t complained once. For that, he’s at least earned Aramis’ grudging respect.
Athos breathes heavy and loud into the hush around them. It still feels like a tomb.
“How’re you holdin’ up?” Porthos murmurs, coming to his side.
Aramis frowns. Takes stock. He’s exhausted, starving, and his shoulder is achy and stiff from the cold. “Fine.”
Porthos arches an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t comment. Good man.
Aramis pats him on the arm as he passes, going to check on Athos. Athos watches him warily, but allows him to pull away layers of clothing and examine the wound. The makeshift bandage has soaked through, but the bleeding seems to have stopped for the moment.
He still wishes he could treat it properly.
The brand catches his attention, as it has ever since its discovery. It seems to be all he can see when he looks at Athos now.
He swallows back the questions for what has to be the hundredth time.
“You’re in luck. It looks like you won’t bleed to death. At least, not yet.”
“Comforting,” Athos murmurs wryly. He’s shivering and ashen. Aramis fears a fever if they keep on like this.
He readjusts Athos’ cloak and the query slips out, unbidden. “Does Treville know?”
Athos tilts his head towards him and Aramis reads the warning in his gaze easily. His lips quirk in a faint smile—a pathetic attempt at charm. “Answer me that, at least.”
Athos shifts and winces. Aramis waits, willing to be patient. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
Good question. Would he? That would mean Treville is guilty of treason, of betraying the honour of the musketeers by allowing a convicted criminal into their midst.
Treville is many things, but disloyal to the crown has never been one of them.
“I don’t know,” he answers softly, choosing honesty.
The corner of Athos’ mouth lifts in a feeble smile of his own.
“Aramis.” Porthos’ voice is low, urgent. When Aramis glances over, he sees the other man’s head cocked, listening. “You hear that?”
After a moment, he does—the crunch of horses’ hooves in the snow.