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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, it would never have been cancelled and there would have been way more episodes about Aramis ;)

Author's Note: While I embrace  constructive  criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

Okay so along with burying myself under Whumptober prompts (comin at you with another one of those today too), I took on this month's Fete des Mousquetaires challenge which was "Haunted Houses". Of course, how could I pass up a chance for some Aramis angst and whump? So here we are.

This was beta'd by the glorious  Arlothia  who is also the rockstar slaving away on my 120k+ word musketeer fic that I keep yapping at you guys about. It's coming, guys, I promise haha.

Anyway, enjoy this!

Don't ignore the past, but deal with it, on your own pace. Once you deal with it, you are free of it; and you are free to embrace your life and be a happy loving person because if you don't, the past will come back to haunt and keep coming back to haunt you.
Boris Kodjoe

June 1626

Porthos cinched his saddle into place without looking. Instead, he steadily watched over the back of his horse as Aramis performed the same task. Something was off with his brother and had been off ever since they took this mission.

It had all been simple enough, both in theory and in practice. An easy, though long, trip down to Sigean in Southern France. A short, remarkably straightforward investigation into someone falsely collecting taxes in the name of the king. It had all been quite easy, in the end, more so than their missions usually went.

So Porthos couldn't quite work out why Aramis seemed so sullen.

Athos appeared next to Porthos, leaning against Fort's flank and joining him in watching Aramis saddle Esmé.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Athos asked quietly, so as not to be overheard by the subject of their concern.

Porthos shook his head, gaze never leaving Aramis' back.

"He hasn't said anythin'…but that's the problem innit?"

Athos hummed his agreement.

"I hate it when he gets quiet like this…" Porthos muttered. "'S unnatural."

"He didn't sleep last night," Athos pointed out lowly.

"Noticed that too, did ya?" Porthos sighed softly. They watched Aramis finish his task and then absently start stroking Esmé's neck while fingering the worn, wooden cross he wore around his neck with his other hand. He seemed lost in thought and unaware of his surroundings.

"He hasn't even noticed us starin'," Porthos complained. That alone was cause for concern considering their brother was usually hyper-aware of everything around him – a lovely parting gift from Savoy.

"His mind is elsewhere," Athos theorized. "But where?"

"Well, let's find out, shall we?" Porthos ducked under Fort's head. Athos followed and together they moved towards the marksman. "You in there, 'Mis?" Porthos teased in a gentle, cautious tone.

Aramis blinked, turning to regard them immediately with tired confusion in his gaze.

"You've been quiet," Athos explained with a teasing smirk. "As much as we've enjoyed the rare peace, I hadn't thought you capable of such a thing."

"Not for this long, at least," Porthos chimed in with a grin.

Their teasing drew an answering grin from Aramis, but it was weak, lacking the usual bright light of humor, and it garnered no quick-witted teasing in return. It wasn't the first time they had poked fun at Aramis for how much he talked. The marksman always took it in good humor and usually shot back at them with quips of his own.

"Alright, now I'm getting worried," Porthos teased with concern in his eyes. He nudged Aramis lightly in the arm and ducked his head to try and catch the marksman's gaze. Once he captured the brown eyes with his own, he spoke again. "What's goin' on?"

Aramis held his gaze for a moment before cutting his eyes away and letting out a weary sigh. He seemed to debate for a moment what to say. Porthos worried the marksman would dodge around the truth, play off their concern and redirect the conversation away from him. It was a familiar dance; one at which Aramis was an expert.

But Porthos could see the exact moment Aramis decided not to lie to them.

The marksman's shoulders sagged slightly and he tugged his hat off his head so that he could tangle a hand up in his unruly hair.

"I was born not far from here," he revealed. "In Saint-Pierre, a small town just a few leagues further south."

Porthos blinked in surprise. He had known, of course, that Aramis had been born and spent the first several years of his life in southern France near the coast. But he hadn't realized they had ventured so close to his childhood home.

"You didn't say anything," Athos scolded, but his gaze was soft.

Aramis shrugged a shoulder dismissively.

"It wasn't important."

"That is obviously not the case," Athos countered. He studied Aramis for a moment. "Do you want to go there?" he finally asked.

Aramis looked away from them again, focusing instead on Esmé's mane as he combed his fingers through it.

"That town has nothing for me anymore," he denied sharply. "But…" he trailed off and swallowed, the fingers of the hand not tangled in Esmé's mane finding that wooden cross again. Esmé shifted, looking back at him with a concerned huff.

"But what?" Porthos prodded.

"My mother is buried there," he confessed quietly. "Or at least I think she is."

"'Mis…" Porthos sighed out the nickname. "Why didn't you say somethin'?"

They both knew how dearly Aramis had loved his mother and how much he treasured her memory.

"We had a mission to complete," Aramis defended.

"Which we have done," Athos shot back. He fixed Aramis with a heavy gaze. "What do you want to do?" he asked quietly.

Aramis' gaze turned to the dusty road leading south out of Sigean.

"I wasn't there when she died," he admitted without looking at them. "I can't make up for that, but I can go and see her now."

Porthos nodded immediately, not even needing to look at Athos to know he would agree with what Porthos said next.

"Alright then. Let's go."

Aramis' gaze snapped around to them.

"No," he denied firmly. Then, in the face of their shocked hurt, he went on. "I need… It's not…" he blew out a frustrated breath and then drew another back in slowly. "She's from before," he explained. "Before Paris and the Musketeers, before my father… She was all I had. And I left her."

Porthos could hear years-old pain in that confession. He could hear the sad little boy who had been forced to leave his beloved máma behind. They knew a bit of this story. Aramis had told it to them after the sordid reunion with his father, Julien d'Herblay, last year.

"I need to do this alone," Aramis stated quietly, but firmly.

"Alright," Athos agreed calmly. "We'll wait for you here. Do what you need to do."

Aramis gave him a grateful nod and Athos returned the gesture, backing away. Porthos lingered though, eyeing Aramis in concern.

"I could go with you," he offered. "I'll stay back when we get there if you want…but maybe alone's not the best way, eh?"

Aramis offered him a warm, affectionate smile in return and Porthos knew he'd been right to make the offer again.

"Thank you, mon frère, (my brother,) but this is something I need – I want – to do on my own. I owe her that at least."

Porthos nodded in reluctant understanding.

"Just be careful, alright?"

"I'll be fine," Aramis promised. "It's not so painful a wound anymore, but perhaps one I can finally properly heal."

Porthos nodded again.

"Best get going then," he urged gently. "When can we expect you back?" he asked as he watched Aramis swing up into Esmé's saddle.

"By sundown at the latest."

Porthos offered up a hand and Aramis reached down. They gripped each other's forearms tightly in farewell.

"Be careful."

Aramis chuckled and turned Esmé south.

"You said that already."

"Yeah, well, with you it doesn't hurt to double up."

The breeze carried Aramis' answering laugh back to Porthos even as the marksman road away.

Aramis had been only ten years old when he left the small coastal town of Saint-Pierre. But still, as he gently urged Esmé down the main road, memories began to surface. Moments from his childhood that time had dulled and blurred, now sharpened and cleared as his gaze roamed over the town he had once called home.

Time was a cruel mistress.

The shops, once bustling and pristinely kept, stood nearly empty, shingles missing, paint faded and shutters hanging loosely. The people he could see milling about looked as tired and worn as the shops.

The bakery, which had once boasted the finest wooden porch to be found in town, now presented only broken slats and splintered wood. He remembered putting his foot through the floor of it once after falling from where he'd been climbing in the wooden beams that had once supported a fabric awning. Now only torn pieces of that colorful cloth blew lightly in the breeze. Monsieur Baschet, the baker, had chased him all the way back to the brothel. His mother had guarded him then, scolding Baschet for terrorizing a child. However, Aramis had been made to help repair the damage and his right ankle still bore a faint scar from where the wood had torn into his skin as his foot had broke through it.

An old man with a hunched back and white, wispy hair was watching him through the cracked window, bushy brows drawn together in a dubious scowl.

Aramis hesitated and then urged Esme towards the shop.

The old man visibly tensed, eyes narrowing suspiciously as Aramis slid off Esme's back and draped her reins over the hitching post without binding her to it. He knew she wouldn't wander.

"Monsieur Baschet?" Aramis guessed as he stepped up onto the rickety porch.

The old man retreated a step further into his shop, a bit of fear flashing across his otherwise stern expression.

Aramis paused, holding up a gloved hand in a gesture of peace.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he assured.

He had thrown a dark cloak around his shoulders before arriving, concealing his pauldron and leathers. He'd forgone his hat in favor of the cowl provided by the cloak. The shadows it provided hid his features well. He supposed he presented a rather intimidating figure, especially since his weapons were all very clearly in view.

Still holding up a calming hand, Aramis reached up to push back the hood, letting it drape loosely around his shoulders.

"Perhaps you might remember me." He drifted a step closer.

Baschet's gaze swept over his face but bore no hint of recognition.

"I put my foot through that porch once when I was eight years old; bled everywhere," Aramis prompted. "You made me scrub the wood with a brush for hours when I came to help repair the damage."

A spark lit up the old man's gaze.

"You're that little Spanish hellion." Baschet's voice was rougher than he remembered, but still bore the same note of disdain it had held every time they'd spoken when Aramis was a child.

"I prefer Aramis," he replied with a cheery, sarcastic smile.

"The Spanish whore's bastard."

Aramis let the smile fall away, expression shifting towards anger instead of false geniality. Baschet swallowed nervously at the change and looked away.

"I'll forgive you for that comment as you can't help the small-mindedness you were born with. But you would do well to not speak of her in such a way again."

Baschet's attention twitched down to the sword and pistol visible at Aramis' waist. He raised his gaze again and nodded. Aramis let his posture soften a bit and glanced over his shoulder towards the rest of the town.

"What happened here?" Aramis asked. "When I left the town was thriving."

"A sickness swept through some years ago," Baschet revealed grudgingly. "Killed dozens. Dozens more left to start over somewhere else."

Aramis wondered if this illness was what had taken his mother; if his brother and sister had died too, or had moved on. Or they could still be here, for all he knew.

"My brother and sister, Vincent and Sabine…" he trailed off with a curious tilt of his head.

Baschet sighed deeply, apparently terribly inconvenienced by answering Aramis' questions.

"Gone. And I don't know where!" Baschet snapped.

Aramis held up a calming hand again, recognizing that he'd worn out whatever meager welcome had been offered.

"I've one last question and then I will leave you in peace."

Baschet scowled but jerked his head in a nod.

"My mother – was she buried here?"

Baschet nodded again.

"Up on the ridge. Same as her Spanish kin."

His abuelos (grandparents). He had never met them, given that they'd died long before he was born. But he had visited their graves many times with his mother.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Aramis offered politely, tipping his head into a slight bow.

Baschet just grumbled something and turned away, disappearing back into the kitchens. Aramis retreated to where he had left Esmé and slid his hand along her neck as he prepared to remount. A tingling at the back of his neck had him pausing.

He was being watched. This, itself, wasn't a revelation. The townspeople had been staring suspiciously at him since he arrived. It was the feeling behind this stare. Something in his gut tightened in warning as a vague sense of malice seemed to bleed into the air around him. Aramis cast a wary glance around as he hauled himself up into the saddle, but couldn't identify the source of his sudden unease. He rolled his shoulders to try and shake the feeling and flicked the hood of his cloak back up to cover his head and shadow his face.

Then he nudged Esmé back onto the main road and went to see his mother.

End of Chapter 1

This is complete and fully beta'd. You'll get a chapter a day until it's all up (which will be in 4 days cuz it's 4 chapters long lol)

Drop me a line if you like!

Chapter Text

I think that humans have a huge capacity to carry pain and sadness. There are things that haunt us our entire lives; we are unable to let them go. The good times seem almost effervescent and dreamlike in comparison with the times that didn't go so well.
Henry Rollins

The tree was bigger than he remembered. It sat a bit apart from the rest of the small forest, closer to the edge of the ridge that overlooked the water. It was a beautiful place and he had spent many hours here with his mother, hearing stories about the grandparents he would never know.

He pulled Esmé to a stop and slid to the ground, leaving her free to graze. He made his way to the four grave markers nestled beneath the tree's large bows. Three were identical – small and modest white, wooden crosses.

His abuela and abuelo (grandmother and grandfather) were marked by the two closest to the water.

The third was Samuel Kaplan, his mother's husband. He had died only days after her parents, taken by the same fever.

It was the fourth marker that he knelt before. A plain wooden cross, the chipped, splintered wood was unpainted and sat at an odd angle. It seemed the same care had not been taken for her burial as had been for the three who came before. He felt a stirring of anger at his absent siblings, but quickly shoved it aside. That wasn't why he was here.

Aramis pulled off his gloves, pushed back his hood and reached out, lightly running his fingers over the rough edges of the cross.

"Hola, Mamá," he greeted softly. "Te he echado de menos." (Hello, Mama. I've missed you.)

A swell of emotion rose in his chest, lodging somewhere in his throat. He had longed to be reunited with her as a youth. He had dreamed of hearing her voice again, of feeling her arms around him, her fingers in his hair.

His father had forbidden his return, no matter how many times he had asked. And it wasn't until he was sixteen, while he and his father were in the midst of what would be their final argument for many years, that he learned of her death. His father had known she was dying, but had kept it from him. He'd denied him the chance to see her one last time, to say goodbye. Of all the lies his father had told, this had been one Aramis would never forgive.

He pulled his old, worn wooden crucifix out of his shirt and lifted the simple cord over his head. He had carved it himself in the first weeks of his time at his father's estate. It had been to remember her, and the faith she had always clung to. He closed his hand around it now, feeling the worn, smooth edges pressing into his palm.

"Nunca te olvidé. Si lo hubiera sabido, habría venido." (I never forgot you. If I had known, I would have come.) He reached out, curling the fingers of his other hand into the grass over her grave. "Siempre estuviste conmigo. Yo-" (You were always with me. I-)

The back of his neck tingled.

He stiffened, head raising and eyes searching. Slowly, he stood, the cross dangling from his fingers by its chord. His other hand drifted to the pistol on his hip.

He was being watched again, he was sure of it. His eyes scanned the trees around him, searching for a sign of his pursuer. He shifted a foot back, moving into a more defensible stance as the trees seemed to dance before his eyes.

"Come on…" he muttered as memories of snow covered branches and frozen bodies started to impose themselves on the forest around him. "Not now."

It had been over a year since Savoy. He had come so far since those early days when memory and reality so often mixed themselves up. He hadn't had a true episode in months. But now his breathing sped up and his heart started pounding. He fought for control, to suppress the panic and banish the memory.

He closed his eyes against the snow-covered battlefield his mind was conjuring and drew in a deep breath.

"It's not real," he whispered to himself. "I'm not in Savoy."

It worked. Sort of. He calmed his racing heart and slowed his breathing. But the unease creeping down his spine would not fade. He wished Porthos was here. His brother had always been able to ground him after moments of lost clarity.

A twig snapped.

Aramis' eyes flew open and widened at the sight of a figure bearing down on him with a large club.

He didn't have time to draw a weapon; he barely even had time to move. He turned and ducked, curling an arm protectively over his head and baring his back to take the brunt of the blow.

The club landed hard, sending him to one knee and sparking sharp pain across his shoulders where it had struck.

But Aramis had been taught to channel pain when it could be used, and ignore it when it couldn't.

He shifted, swinging an arm up and over the club, locking it to his side as he pushed up to his feet and turned to face his attacker. He slammed his fist into the man's nose and stripped the club out of his hand, shoving him away. The man staggered, holding his nose as blood poured from it. Aramis weighed the crude weapon in his hand and then tossed it aside. Then he focused on his attacker and shifted his hands to his weapons.

Blonde hair, skin tanned by sun, and brown eyes. Familiar eyes.

Aramis tilted his head, cocking his brow in surprise. His hands paused before drawing the pistol he'd reached for.

"Gil?"

Gilbert Ménard. They had grown up together in the brothel. But there was no warmth in his old friends' eyes. Instead, they held nothing but bitter malice.

"You shouldn't have come back," Gil hissed.

Aramis only had time to frown before Gil rushed him. The other man's shoulder caught Aramis low in the stomach and the force of the tackle brought him hard to the ground and the momentum sent them crashing into the marker over his mother's grave. The crooked cross cracked and broke beneath their combined weight, splintering against Aramis' back. His leathers protected him from the sharp shards of wood, but did little to lessen the impact of the hard landing.

The air rushed from his lungs and for a moment they seemed to forget how to draw it back in.

He felt Gil move and latched onto him with both hands. Even as Aramis fought to pull in air, he grappled with his attacker. There was a blur of sharp elbows, bony knees, and clenched fists exchanged between them until Gil finally shoved himself away and dove for the club.

Aramis scrambled after him, twisting his hands in the man's shirt to try and pull him back. But Gil got his hand on the club and spun, putting most of his bodyweight behind the swing.

Aramis got an arm up to protect his head, but the blow still landed hard, knocking him into a sprawling heap on the ground with ringing ears and twisting vision. He pushed up to his hands and knees and drew his pistol, turning his head to look for Gil.

He saw a flash of brown wood and then another swing of the club caught him across the temple. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Aramis woke with a start, pulling instinctively at the ropes holding him captive. He was laid out on his side, wrists tethered behind him and ankles tightly bound. His weapons' belt was, of course, gone, along with his doublet. But he could still feel the hard line of the knife he kept in his boot.

He shifted, closing his eyes against the pain pounding in his head. He was ready for it when his stomach rolled, nausea rising like a wave. He pushed his shoulder against the floor and fought to get his knees under him. Then he succumbed to his body's usual rebellion against head injuries. Once his stomach was empty, he tried looking around, blinking blearily into the dark room.

Memory pulled at him and he recognized immediately where he was.

The brothel. More specifically, the attic of the brothel. He and the other children had played up here often when they needed to be out of sight and the weather wasn't fitting for outside play.

He frowned. He knew where he was. He knew who had brought him here. What he didn't know was why.

The only way to find out was to ask. And to do that, he needed to find his host.

He sat back on his rear and then wriggled and shifted until he could pull his bound hands under him and thread his legs back through them. It was easy after that to retrieve his hidden blade from his boot and set to work on freeing himself. Once the rope fell away from his wrists, he made quick work of the one around his ankles.

He stood slowly, using the wall for support. His stomach turned and for a moment the room swam around him. He took a deep breath in through his nose and waited for the world to settle. When he was reasonably certain he could walk without falling flat on his face, Aramis started for the door.

He reached for the handle, but grasped at only air when the door suddenly swung open.

Gil blinked at him in shock. Aramis gave a rueful shrug and lashed out with his knife. The blade caught Gil shallowly across the chest and the man stumbled back, one hand going to the new wound and the other still clinging to the door. Aramis quickly moved past him to the staircase only a few steps away. He stepped down the first one when he felt a hand in his shirt, yanking him back.

He turned, attempting to dislodge the grip. Gil held firm and instead ended up drawn in close. Aramis tightened his grip on his knife. It would be an easy thing to use it lethally and be done with this.

But, no matter how good he was at killing, it would never be an action he took lightly. Gil hadn't yet done anything worthy of death.

The moment of hesitation cost him. Gil shifted his grip and shoved and Aramis stepped back instinctively to keep his balance, even though he knew there was nothing but more stairs behind him. Aramis reached out and tangled his hand in Gil's bloody shirt. If he was going down the stairs, he was taking his captor with him. He saw Gil's eyes widen in panic and then they were both tumbling down in a tangle of limbs.

The stairway, hardly wide enough for a full-grown man to walk up normally, was unforgiving in their descent. Aramis felt ribs break and his shoulder got jarred out of its socket. His head, already reeling from the blow he'd taken earlier, somehow managed not to take another hit. Even so, when they finally sprawled at the bottom, Aramis had to close his eyes against the pounding pain behind them. Having landed in his side, Aramis rolled to press his aching head into the floor. He knew he needed to move, to regain his wits before Gil did. His knife had been lost in the fall, and finding it would require opening his eyes.

He drew in a breath and forced himself to move.

Tucking the arm of his wounded shoulder carefully against his abdomen, he pushed up to his knees. He felt the blood drain from his face as broken ribs ground together. Gritting his teeth, he reached out to brace his good hand against the wall and continued the journey to getting his feet under him.

His breath came in short, pained gasps, but he refused to give up. Instead, his father's voice rang out in his aching head as clearly as if he were standing right next to him.

Pain is merely weakness.

He got one foot under him.

If you can't stand on your own, you don't deserve to stand at all.

He drew in the best breath he could to prepare for the final push to standing.

Are you weak, Rene?

He clenched his jaw, pushing off with the foot he already had planted. An arm suddenly snaked around his neck from behind, pulling his head back and yanking him off balance. His arms flailed and he was unprepared to offer resistance when a cold glass bottle was pressed to his lips, cracking painfully against his teeth, its contents upended into his mouth.

Aramis sputtered, coughing and choking. He knew that taste.

Laudanum.

He threw his weight backward, trying to unbalance this new attacker. Gil was stirring weakly at the bottom of the stairs. The man behind him just held on tighter and locked a hand around Aramis jaw, forcing it open. He poured more of the opiate into Aramis' mouth and then clamped a hand over it, pinching Aramis nose closed.

If he wanted to breath again he would have to swallow.

He reluctantly let the liquid slide down his throat and only then was he released. He staggered away, using the wall to hold himself up.

"Don't let him get away!" Gil's strained cry rose up from behind him.

Aramis steadfastly kept stumbling away as quickly as he was able.

"He won't get far," came the calm reply.

Aramis cursed under his breath and felt the relaxing effects of the drug already taking hold. His muscles loosened and he slid into a graceless heap on the floor. His last thought before darkness took him was a prayer for his brothers to prove themselves the overprotective worriers Aramis knew them to be and to come find him.

Leagues away, Porthos felt a sudden wave of dread and frowned. Aramis had been gone for several hours already and wasn't expected back for several more. So he wasn't sure why he felt a sudden urge to chase after his brother and make sure he'd kept out of trouble.

He looked across the table he was sharing with Athos at the inn, curious if he'd felt something similar. The swordsman's brow was furrowed a bit and he was staring pensively into the bowels of his wine cup, but otherwise his expression gave nothing away.

Porthos opened his mouth to say something about perhaps taking a ride in the direction Aramis had gone, but shouts from outside drew their attention. Porthos looked towards the inn's front window, then back at Athos. They locked eyes for a moment and then stood together, moving to look through the glass.

There were people moving around at the corner, pointing at something. Then, a riderless horse came careening into view. Porthos watched through wide eyes as the familiar beast, covered in foamy sweat, continued down the middle of the street and reared onto her hind legs, letting out a terrible noise of distress.

Porthos stared, his feeling of dread suddenly turning into total terror. He heard Athos' breath catch and the swordsman breathed out a single word,

"Esmé."

Chapter Text

There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.
Gilbert Parker

Aramis woke to pain. But it was…blurred.

His eyes felt heavy as he forced them open. His chin was resting on his chest and his arms were pulled uncomfortably behind him, tied around a wooden post. His shoulder throbbed, but he knew it should feel far worse. His ribs should be causing breath-stealing pain in such a position. And his head…well his head shouldn't feel so…light.

"I think he's awake."

Aramis didn't jump, though he hadn't realized there were others in the room. How to be unflinching… Another lesson from his father.

He rolled his head back to rest against the post he was bound to and for a moment he just stared at his feet.

"You took my boots," he stated blankly, still blinking at his bare toes.

"Can't have you trying to escape again." The voice was unfamiliar. Aramis shifted his focus, loose as it was, to the man who had spoken. He scowled at him, searching his jumbled mind for any hint of recognition.

"I don't know you," he decided. "I know him," he slid a look over at Gil where he leaned against the wall. "But not you." He turned his gaze back to the stranger crouching in front of him.

"We've not met," the man replied.

Aramis blinked at him.

"Well that explains it." He feigned surprise as condescendingly as he could manage. The stranger glowered at him. "What it doesn't explain is why I'm here."

"Oh, you haven't worked that out yet?" Gil shot back in a superior tone. "And they always said you were the smartest one of the lot."

"Forgive me," Aramis began with a sarcastic grin, "but you've seen to it that I can't manage to form much in the way of coherent thoughts. So deducing your motives is beyond my current capabilities. Perhaps you should air your grievances so we can all be on the same page."

"My grievances?" Gil scoffed.

Aramis frowned at him, still confused by the bitter hatred in Gil's eyes.

"We were children together. We were friends." Aramis shook his head in confusion. "Why are you doing this?"

"I deserved a better life!" Gil snapped. "You got one!"

Aramis arched a brow.

"Jealousy," he realized. "Motivation as old as Cain and Abel. And still as petty."

Gil huffed sarcastically.

"Petty? Sure… But what else have I got? Hmm?" He gestured around as if to encompass the whole town. "You've seen this place. The town died years ago and the living are still trapped in it, myself included."

"Then leave," Aramis challenged, pleased to notice his head was starting to slowly clear. And though the pain was starting to sharpen as well, he welcomed the clarity.

"And go where? Paris? Like you? Not all of us have commissions waiting to be handed out to us!"

Aramis bit back a defense that he had earned his commission through blood, pain, and years of service. Instead, he turned the tables.

"So you did recognize my uniform," he stated. "And yet you still abducted me? Even knowing I was of the King's Musketeers?" He tsked mockingly. "So you're a fool as well as petty."

He was ready for it when Gil stalked forward and backhanded him across the mouth. Aramis just chuckled and spit out blood onto the floor.

"Volatile, too?" he mocked. "Or just sensitive?"

"Enough!" the stranger stood and pushed Gil back before he could lash out again. "He's trying to bait you."

Aramis had to give this other man some credit. He was right: Aramis had been hoping to draw Gil in close enough to headbutt him. He hadn't come up with much of a plan beyond that but he operated best when he relied on instinct anyway.

Gil, though no longer intent on physical harm, was now vibrating with pent up emotion.

"What's your plan here?" Aramis asked, honestly baffled by them both. "You know that I'm a Musketeer. If the rest of my regiment doesn't kill you for this, the king will surely see it done."

He did not mention his two brothers who were hopefully bearing down on them even now.

Gil glanced nervously at the stranger. The other man shifted uncomfortably and tried to look confident.

"It'll go according to plan, Gil, you'll see."

"So you do have a plan?" Aramis gasped in dramatic shock. "Do enlighten me."

"Ransom," the stranger revealed proudly.

Aramis stared at him for a long moment and then burst out laughing. He wheezed in a breath and rested his head back as he tried to combat the fresh wave of pain.

"Please, my ribs… Don't make me laugh."

"It's a good plan! You said so yourself, you're a Musketeer! Worth a fair bit of coin, I'd say," the stranger defended.

"And your father!" Gil added. "He was wealthy! If the king won't pay, I bet he will. Then we can finally get out of this town."

Aramis huffed a sad chuckle, in deference to his ribs, and rolled his head back and forth against the post he was tied to.

"My father would laugh in your face," he replied. Then he pulled his head up again and regarded them. "So this was your brilliant plan?" he asked the stranger.

The man shrugged.

"Gil wanted to just kill you."

Aramis eyes widened.

"Good God, why?" he demanded. "Because I left? I was ten! I didn't even have a choice in the matter!"

"You still got out!" Gil shouted.

"You think I wanted to leave?" Aramis challenged. "This was my home. I was a child and I was forced to leave everything I knew, everything I loved, behind. My mother sent me away and I never saw her again!"

Aramis was horrified to feel tears stinging his eyes. He dropped his head back against the post, breathing hard. His ribs protested fiercely, but he hardly felt it.

"Whatever hell you've imagined for yourself here," Aramis went on more quietly, "I've lived through my own."

"This is where he was born?" Porthos asked quietly as he and Athos rode into Saint-Pierre. They looked around at the decrypt town, swallowing awkwardly at the weary, bitter stares following them as they rode down the street.

"I imagine much has changed since he was here," Athos replied lowly. "He was only ten when he left. Many years have passed."

"Still." Porthos shook off the eerie feeling the town was giving him and nodded toward the small church at the end of the street. "Seems a good place to start."

Athos nodded and together they brought their horses to a stop before it. They dismounted and both took a moment to stretch. They'd only taken the time to see to Esmé before riding out. They'd pushed Fort and Roger to move quickly, but hadn't ridden them into the ground. It would do none of them any good to have no way of escape if they needed one.

That also meant it had been over eight hours since they'd seen Aramis. That alone had both their guts tight with worry.

The church was empty save for an old priest hunched down in prayer at the front.

Athos and Porthos exchanged an uncomfortable glance. While they both respected Aramis and the faith he held, neither put much stock in religion.

"Speak your mind, my sons. These old knees can only take so much waiting." The old priest slowly stood from his knelt position and turned to face them, beckoning them closer.

With one last shared look, they moved down the center aisle and stood before him.

"I am Athos." He inclined his head a bit in greeting and then motioned towards Porthos. " This is Porthos. We are of the King's Musketeers."

"Father Chabert," the priest replied. "What can I do for you?"

"We're looking for another Musketeer who rode in this morning. A man called Aramis," Athos explained. He frowned when the priest's face blanched and he slowly sank onto one of the pews.

"Aramis?" Chabert repeated softly. "He's come home?"

"His home is Paris," Porthos corrected sharply.

The priest looked up at them with wide, watery eyes.

"He became a Musketeer?"

"He is of the first and finest of the King's Musketeers," Athos replied steadily. "You didn't know he was back?"

Chabert shook his head, covering his mouth and still looking quite emotional over this new information. Athos and Porthos shared another look. Porthos had thought this would surely be one of Aramis' visits.

"Though, I'm not surprised he did not come to see me," Chabert revealed suddenly.

Both Musketeers focused on him once again.

"Why do you say that?" Athos asked curiously. Porthos frowned. For Aramis to avoid a priest must mean some very bad history.

"Well, he never set foot in this church when he lived here, so it would make no sense for him to start now," Chabert explained.

Porthos' mouth gaped in surprise. Aramis, their Aramis, never setting foot in the only church in his hometown? The very thought seemed absurd. Athos' shock was given away only by the slight arch of one of his brows.

"Forgive our surprise," Athos apologized after a moment of awkward silence. "We have always known Aramis to be quite devout."

"Oh he was. The faith of a child is a beautiful and pure thing," Chabert replied. "But it was not I who fostered that. It was his mother."

"His mother," Porthos repeated.

"Esperanza de la Cruz," the priest explained. "She, too, was quite devout."

"But not here," Athos guessed, gesturing around at the church.

There was no mistaking the shame and regret in the priest's eyes now.

"You turned her away, didn't you," Porthos realized. "When she became pregnant with Aramis."

"A widow with two small children now carrying a bastard?" Porthos flinched at such a term being used to refer to his brother. The priest shook his head. "The town would have rebelled against me had I not turned her away."

"So you left her on her own? Let the town turn on her?" Porthos growled. "When she had little mouths to feed and another on the way?"

He knew what Aramis' mother had turned to so she could provide for her children. Aramis could have had a whole different life if the people here had chosen kindness instead of judgement.

"To my great shame," Chabert confessed. "As you can see, I and the town have reaped the consequences of such hardheartedness." He motioned around at his empty church and they both thought of the desolate broken down street they'd just ridden down.

"Where was she buried?" Athos asked, his voice cold in a way that told Porthos he was just as put off by the whole story as Porthos had been. "Not in the church cemetery I imagine."

"She was laid to rest by her other two children. There is a small stand of trees up on a ridge just south of town. It overlooks the water. Esperanza's parents and husband were buried there."

Athos nodded smartly and glanced at Porthos. With one last glare at the priest Porthos followed Athos to the door.

"School your expression, Porthos, or everyone out there will think you've just murdered him," Athos warned lowly.

Porthos made no such effort to conceal his fury.

"Let them fear me," he snapped. "What they did to her…" he shook his head. "If they hadn't, if their life had been better, he might never have left with his father. He might never have been subjected to years with him."

"And he might never have become a Musketeer. Nor met either of us. I shudder to think where I would be now if that hadn't happened," Athos reminded.

Porthos sighed. If that were the case, Porthos might never have left the Court at all. It had been Aramis who had inspired him in the first place, though the young Musketeer hadn't known it, let alone Porthos, at the time.

"Let's go find him," Porthos grumbled.

"She begged me to go!" Aramis shouted in frustration. "How could I refuse her? If you want to hate me for that, then I can't stop you. I've never had much luck stopping stupidity!"

Aramis huffed out a frustrated breath. They were arguing in circles and getting nowhere.

"Well it was your own fault, wasn't it?" Gil hissed. "Your own fault she sent you away?"

Aramis frowned.

"What are you talking about? She wanted a better life for me. She hoped my father would provide it. How is that my fault?"

Gil paused and then chuckled. He glanced at his friend and then laughed fully.

"He doesn't know," Gil realized.

"Know what?" Aramis snapped, annoyed.

"She didn't send you away for a better life. She sent you away because you had attracted attention," Gil revealed with another annoying chuckle.

Aramis frowned in confusion. He was aware that he tended to draw eyes wherever he went, a result of both his looks and personality. It was a gift he used to his advantage when necessary. But he had only been a child when he left his mother and, while charismatic, had not yet realized it.

"What do you mean?" he asked warily.

"I heard her talking late one night. I've always been so good at listening." Gil smiled slyly.

Aramis arched a brow at him. He remembered that Gil had always prided himself on his eavesdropping ability.

"What did she say?" he couldn't help but ask. All she had ever said to him on the matter was that his father could give him a life she never could. He could get schooling, training to be a proper gentleman. He could have a future beyond their small town. He hadn't wanted to go, but she had begged him.

"The Madame had some inquires about you specifically," Gil revealed with a malicious grin. "She was ready to put you to work and your mother found out."

Aramis felt himself go pale.

He wasn't what one could ever consider innocent. He pursued and slept with married women. He had lovers in towns and cities across France. He had always been a bit more open than most to new experiences.

But he was a grown man. He only ever engaged in activity with women who had reached adulthood and had been willing participants.

He had been a child when he left; an innocent child. The very thought that someone had seen him and…desired was horrifying.

"It's funny," Gil went on, "my mother probably would have just been happy with the extra coin."

Aramis hardly heard the bitter words. All he could think of was his mother. He thought of the tears in her eyes as she had held his face and whispered the last words she would ever say to him.

Sé valiente, mi pequeño aventurero. Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero. Sé amable, mi pequeño amor.

( Be brave, my little adventurer. Be strong, my little warrior. Be kind, my little love.)

He hadn't known then that he would never see her again. He hadn't known he would never hear her voice but in his dreams. Had he known, he would have hugged her longer. He would have told her how much he loved her.

He had gone because he thought it was what she'd truly wanted.

But…but it had only been to protect him. She had sent him away at the risk that she would never see him again. Or perhaps…she had known that all along. But she had done it anyway. All to protect him. To protect him from the life she led. To give him a chance at a future, any future, that wasn't like hers.

He was pulled sharply from his thoughts by Gil's taunting voice.

"She was heartbroken, you know," he hissed, leaning close.

Aramis continued to stare straight ahead at his bare feet and refused to meet Gil's gaze.

"She was never the same after you left. She sent letter after letter, but you never wrote back."

Aramis closed his eyes. Another thing he would never forgive his father for.

"She cried all the time, never smiled anymore…" Gil shook his head mournfully and leaned closer still. "What a waste," he whispered.

Aramis opened his eyes and snapped his head forward, connecting with Gil's nose with a crack.

Blood splattered across Aramis' shirt and Gil gasped, falling backwards.

"Broken that time, I think," Aramis observed coldly.

Gil sputtered, spitting out blood, and then dove towards him. Aramis curled his legs up and slammed his heels into the other man's chest. Gil collapsed, coughing.

His friend, whose name Aramis still did not know, strode forward, shoving away Aramis' legs as he tried to kick out at him too. He took a fistful of Aramis' hair and drew his head forward. Then he slammed it back into the post with enough force that Aramis lost time.

He came back around to a vile tasting liquid sliding down his throat for the second time. He coughed, sputtered, and then spit whatever was left in his mouth at the blurry face above him.

A solid punch to his jaw stunned him. In the time it took for him to recover, the drug started creeping over his senses, pulling him under once again.

Chapter Text

I'm fascinated by the way early experiences haunt and revisit you, remain present in your life for decades and decades - they can even shape who you ultimately become.

Khaled Hosseini

Athos and Porthos stood before the broken cross that sat splintered in the grass.

"Well this doesn't look promisin'," Porthos muttered under his breath as he knelt and shifted the broken pieces of wood as if looking for a way it could be mended.

"He was taken from here," Athos surmised. He glanced around at the disturbed earth around them. "He fought back."

"Of course he did." Porthos grinned wolfishly.

Athos shifted further away, crouching to look at some dark flecks on the grass. He saw Porthos reaching for something in the grass out of the corner of his eye.

"This is blood," Athos announced. "It could belong to Aramis or his attacker."

Porthos didn't respond and Athos glanced over at him. The larger man was staring down at something in his hand.

"Porthos?"

Instead of responding, Porthos shifted his hand, letting something small tumble from his hand only for it catch on a leather cord that was hooked around his finger.

A hand carved crucifix.

Athos recognized it immediately.

"He's not taken this off since Savoy," Porthos revealed quietly, eyes shifting to the larger, broken cross on the ground.

Athos stood abruptly, a fissure of rage slicing through him. Somebody had attacked and taken their brother while he stood over his mother's grave. Aramis had not even been allowed to say a final goodbye in peace.

"Somebody in town must know where he is," Athos decided. "We'll question every one of them if we have to."

Porthos stood too, the small crucifix clutched in his hand once again.

"We'll start with that bloody priest."

"I told you! I don't know where he is! I didn't even know he had returned!" Chabert defended.

"Really got a handle on your community, don't you?" Porthos growled sarcastically as he paced up and down the aisle.

"Was there anyone with a grudge against Aramis? Someone who would want to do him harm?" Athos asked in a comparatively calmer tone.

"I don't know," the priest shook his head. "The boy was charismatic. He was well liked as well as reviled, often both by any given person from one breath to the next."

"Who could ever dislike Aramis?" Porthos snapped. "He's the kindest person to ever walk this earth!"

"Porthos," Athos warned calmly.

"Well he is!" Porthos barked back, pacing away again.

"Yes, but this is – was – a wholesome Catholic community and he was a ba-"

Porthos whirled, pointing a threatening finger at the priest.

"Call him that word again and it'll be the last thing you say," he warned lowly.

The priest held up a submissive hand.

"And he was also half Spanish," Chabert went on.

Athos arched a brow.

"Are you not within a day's ride from the border? Was a Spanish child so rare?" he asked.

The priest sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

"In our town, yes," he answered reluctantly.

"Enough of this," Porthos growled. "We need to find him."

Athos nodded, focusing on Chabert again.

"Is there anywhere in town that a grown man could be hidden? Somewhere a struggle wouldn't be heard?"

The priest looked thoughtful and then shrugged helplessly.

"The old brothel house perhaps? It has been abandoned for years and is off the main road."

Athos shared a look with Porthos.

It was a good starting point.

Porthos strode back over to them, pinning Chabert beneath his dark gaze.

"Tell us exactly where."

"Aramis."

Aramis's eyes twitched but didn't open.

"Aramis…come now, mi pequeño amor, open your eyes(my little love.)

He knew that voice. He knew it so deeply that he would never forget it.

"Mamá?" he whispered, forcing his heavy eyes open and lifting his chin from his chest.

He watched through an unfocused, watery gaze as she glided towards him, kneeling at his side. Her hand reached out to gently comb through his wild hair and then rested on his cheek.

"Hola, mi hijo." (Hello, my son.)

"Mamá?" he breathed out again, hardly believing what he was seeing.

"You have grown so big," she observed warmly. "So strong, just as I knew you would."

"How…" he shook his head, grasping at his fleeting focus.

"Oh mi amor, what have they done to you," she lamented softly, her fingers gently caressing the hair across his temple.

"Are you real?" he asked, hardly daring to hope.

Her smile was soft and warm and exactly as he remembered it.

"No," she admitted gently.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"The laudanum," he realized aloud.

He snapped his eyes open, worried that she would vanish when he wasn't looking.

"Perhaps I am not real," she allowed. "But I have never left you. I have been with you, always. Here." She pressed her other hand against his chest.

"I'm sorry, Mamá. I never should have left you," he confessed, eyes stinging.

"I sent you away," she reminded. "I would always protect you, mi amor, no matter the cost."

"He lied to me," Aramis revealed. "He stole your letters. He never told me you were sick. I would have come, Mamá. I would have come," he promised fervently.

"Shhh," she soothed, stroking his hair again. "I know," she assured. "I know your heart, pequeño amor. I always have."

"Te quería Mama," he whispered. "Más que cualquier cosa." (I loved you, Mama. More than anything.)

"I know that too," she comforted.

His gaze snapped around to the door when he heard shouting beyond it.

"They're coming for you," she whispered with a smile.

"¿Quien?" (Who?) he asked

"Tus hermanos." (Your brothers.)

She smiled once more, sad, but warm and full of love.

"Mi pequeño amor… Tú eres mi corazón." (My little love… You are my heart.)

"Mamá…" he watched her stand and start to back away. "No te vayas." (Don't go.)

"Nunca te dejaré," (I will never leave you,) she promised gently.

"Mamá…"

She retreated further, blurring before his eyes. Or perhaps that was just his tears.

"Sé valiente, mi pequeño aventurero." (Be brave, my little adventurer.)

"No te vayas," he pleaded, but she continued to fade away.

"Sé fuerte, mi pequeño guerrero." (Be strong, my little warrior.)

"¡Mamá!"

She was gone now, and he was left with nothing but her voice floating around him.

"Sé amable, mi pequeño amor." (Be kind, my little love.)

"No…" he dropped his head back against the post, feeling fresh anguish building in his chest. How could he have lost her all over again?

He didn't notice when the door to the attic burst open. He just continued to rock his head back and forth against the post in denial.

He didn't feel hands on him. Didn't notice the too tight rope around his wrists being cut away. He just continued to call out for her.

"Mamá," he pleaded, "don't go."

After Athos cut away the ropes holding Aramis, Porthos gently pulled him away from the post. He caught the marksman's lulling head and carefully let him rest against his chest. He frowned, barely making out the Spanish mumblings escaping his brother's blood-crusted lips. He had started to pick up a few of Aramis' more common Spanish phrases, but the only words he recognized now were 'mamá'. Aramis didn't even seem aware that they were there with him.

"Aramis," he called gently, trying, but failing, to get the marksman's dazed eyes to meet his.

Athos frowned at them and then reached forward, carefully taking Aramis' jaw in his hand and turning his head so he could properly look into his eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" Porthos asked, voice tight with concern.

Athos sighed and released Aramis to rest against Porthos again.

"He's been drugged."

Porthos jaw clenched.

"Wish we hadn't killed the man down below…I'd like to kill him again, more slowly this time."

Athos hummed his agreement and pressed his lips together, regarding Aramis in concern.

"I'll carry him," Porthos volunteered.

Athos nodded sharply and stood, crossing the room to retrieve what Porthos now noticed to be Aramis' boots, doublet, and weapons.

"His pistols are gone," Athos announced.

Porthos frowned, pulling Aramis more securely against his chest as he prepared to lift him. The marksman continued to murmur in Spanish.

"Fellow downstairs didn't have them," Porthos replied.

"That's because I do."

Athos spun sharply, his own pistol drawn in a flash. Porthos shifted, shielding Aramis with his own bulk and reaching for his pistol with his free hand.

They both glared at the blonde man standing in the doorway. His face was tanned by hours spent in the sun, and below two brown eyes was a misshapen, swollen, and bruised nose. He held both Aramis' pistols in his hands, one pointed at each of them.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

"Athos and Porthos, of the King's Musketeers," Athos introduced, his voice sharp enough to cut glass and cold enough to freeze a flame.

"Musketeers?" the man growled. "You killed my friend!"

"You kidnapped ours!" Porthos shot back.

The man glared at them, guns starting to waver as his arms grew tired.

Porthos hadn't realized Aramis had fallen silent until he suddenly shifted, drawing away from Porthos enough to peer around him at the man in the doorway.

"Gil…put them down." Aramis sounded exhausted and hurt and sad all at once, but even so the request was firm.

Both guns shifted to point at Aramis. Porthos tensed, ready to throw himself between them and his brother if needed.

"I should have just killed you," Gil hissed.

Aramis' weight subtly settled more heavily against Porthos, but his voice was steady as he responded.

"Perhaps you should have."

Gil's jaw clenched and something in his eyes shifted.

Aramis went rigid a moment before Porthos realized what was about to happen.

"No!" Aramis lurched against him even as Gil turned one of the guns to press against his own head and pulled the trigger. His body tumbled backwards down the stairs, the guns clattering after him.

Across the room, Athos' eyes went wide and he slowly lowered his pistol.

Aramis dropped his forehead to rest heavily against Porthos' shoulder, letting out a ragged breath. He only allowed himself a moment before drawing in a slow, fortifying breath.

"Help me up," he requested quietly.

"Are you s-"

"Yes," Aramis snapped, drawing away and visibly pulling himself together. Any signs of weakness were carefully hidden behind the mask of unflappable strength that Aramis always wore. Porthos hated when he did that, when he pretended that pain and injury didn't exist.

Porthos sighed and stood, hauling Aramis carefully up with him. He frowned when Aramis paled, a hand shifting to support his left side. His other arm hung limply at his side. Still, his expression remained stoic and unruffled.

Athos joined them. He had Aramis' weapons belt hooked over his shoulder, his doublet folded over his arm, and his boots held in his hand.

"Please tell me this town has a physician." The swordsman sighed. "Before those injuries you're failing to pretend don't exist kill you."

Aramis just pretended not to hear him.

Porthos chewed the inside of his lip as he stood next to Aramis. Athos stood on Aramis' other side and together they watched the marksman stare at the brand new, crisply painted, smoothly sanded cross that had been erected to mark his mother's grave.

"You didn't have to do this, Athos," Aramis offered eventually.

"I know. I did it because I wanted to," the swordsman replied evenly.

Aramis shifted, abruptly stilled, and stood rigidly for a few moments. Athos, Porthos, and the old physician Dupont – who had apparently been here since Aramis was a child – had all pleaded with him to rest for a few days. In the end, all they'd managed to force him into was a few hours past dawn.

The injury tally had amounted to a few broken ribs, a badly separated shoulder, a concussion, and a handful of bruises and scrapes. But for all Aramis' posturing, one would think he'd suffered nothing but a few bumps and bruises.

Porthos was used to it by now, but thus far it hadn't gotten any easier to stomach. It made more sense now than it had in the beginning, ever since they'd met his father. But he still didn't like it.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, unable to help himself.

"Fine," Aramis replied predictably, but his expression spoke of inner turmoil not yet put to rest. He absently reached up to toy with the crucifix that Porthos had returned to him.

"What did he want?" Athos asked. "This 'Gil'?"

"Recompense, I suppose…" Aramis mused distractedly. "For the life he thought he deserved…or thought I had… He wasn't quite clear on the matter himself."

"And the other one?" Porthos wondered.

Aramis shook his head slightly.

"I never even learned his name."

Porthos shifted, glancing at Athos. Something was still troubling Aramis, deeply enough that it was showing in his face.

"What did he say to you that you can't let go?" Porthos finally asked bluntly.

Aramis sighed shallowly and twitched a shoulder dismissively.

"He merely shed light on something from my past. But it doesn't matter… It did nothing but confirm what I already knew."

"And what is that?" Athos prodded gently.

Something in Aramis' expression broke, but only briefly, before he steeled himself. But there was a sheen of moisture in his eyes that told the truth of how deeply affected he was.

"That she would have done anything to protect me. That she loved me. So much so that she would risk never seeing me again just to keep me safe."

Porthos exchanged a startled look with Athos behind Aramis' back.

"What do you mean?" he asked in concern.

But Aramis shook his head.

"It doesn't matter now," he answered with a sigh.

Another glance exchanged with Athos and they let the matter drop.

"Let's go," Aramis decided suddenly.

Porthos glanced at Athos and the swordsman lightly cleared his throat.

"Are you sure? We can linger a while longer…"

"No," Aramis refused, stepping back away from his mother's grave, though his eyes stayed on the white wooden cross. "She gave me up so that I could escape this place and the people in it. She would've been happier if I'd never returned, I think."

He let his eyes linger on the grave marker a moment longer before turning away. Athos and Porthos followed.

"Are you sure you can ride?" Porthos worried as they made slow progress back to the horses.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Yes," he answered sharply. But then, more quietly, "Perhaps slowly, stiffly, and very carefully, but yes."

This time, it was Porthos and Athos who rolled their eyes. Perhaps one day they would stop being annoyed by Aramis' inability to accept the gravity of his own wounds…but it was unlikely that day would ever come.