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D’Artagnan had waited an entire day before he sat down to draught the first of many letters. There were things he hadn’t said, hadn’t felt able to say in case… Aramis had shaken his head at their youngest brother and then smiled with softened eyes when Porthos sat down and asked d’Artagnan to include a line about Roger missing his master.
“He should be here soon.” Porthos said as he stood and looked towards the entrance to the garrison for the umpteenth time that afternoon.
“You have the patience of a small child.” Aramis teased as he straightened the cloth covering the basket of bread on the table.
“I just…” Porthos began and then faltered but Aramis knew how the sentence would have ended.
I just want to know he’s okay. I just need to see him with my own eyes.
I just want him back.
“Aramis?” Treville called from above and Aramis turned and saw a flash of a moment past.
Blood, bright red and crawling up his forearms while Porthos tried desperately to help with panicked hands and d’Artagnan, with tears in his eyes, tried to keep Athos awake.
“Any moment Captain.” He called back.
They had fought about asking a priest to perform the last rites. Porthos had erupted the moment it was mentioned, all of his rage and anger streaming out while Aramis tried to reason with him. It was the blood, so much blood. It was all Aramis could think about. Athos looked like a ghost in the bed even when they tried rubbing life back into him, even with the fire roaring in the hearth.
Then came the bad days, the days Athos didn’t know who he was or who they were. The days he moaned and screamed and nothing they did helped. The day Lemay pulled Aramis aside to explain what was happening like he was a dazed child and Aramis cried silently all night long thinking of what he may have to do to his own brother.
“He won’t be able to ride a horse,” had been d’Artagnan’s first words when Aramis had sat them down.
“If you take that much of his leg, he won’t-“
“He will.” Porthos replied with a tone as firm as marble, “we’ll figure it out.”
There was no miraculous recovery. Minutes bled into hours and hours bled into days and Lemay’s frowns softened. Athos could bring a shaking glass to his lips and then sit up with help. The morning that Porthos and Aramis helped him to cross the room to an armchair, his leg dragging behind with no power below the knee, had been a morning of celebration.
Two weeks later he had moved to a small lodging house a few days ride away. It was located deep in a forest and was run by an old friend of Lemay’s who had seen the horrors of battle in a foreign land and returned to France and pledged his medical expertise to the recovery of men, body and soul. Lemay talked of therapies they didn’t understand, therapies that wouldn’t be possible at the garrison, and a low mood in Athos that appeared to darken each day.
The last letter Athos sent described the changing of the season and an hour spent swimming in the nearby fresh water spring. Aramis watched Porthos’ face light up when he heard the last line of the letter; Athos would be back with them before their response could arrive.
“Gentlemen?” The familiar voice called and Aramis could have wept.
A clean dismount although the left leg gave out a little as he hit the ground. A broad smile from Porthos as he and d’Artagnan rushed forward. Birds chirping, a horse’s hoof scratching the cobblestone, Treville’s footsteps on the stairs.
“To see you again…” Aramis glanced away as a lump caught in his throat.
“I know.” Athos replied, his voice gentle as he pressed a kiss to his brother’s cheek.