Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It no longer mattered who the man had been, what he had done. What mattered now was that he was skewered on the point of a sword, his face betraying every ounce of shock he felt as he stared up into the face of his killer. There had been a time, exactly one year ago, when he could have beaten the young man before him into the ground without even a sword to aid him. There was a time their roles would have been reversed, but not now; not today.

Treville watched all that occurred from the platform outside of his office, the man currently kneeling, dying on the ground outside was one of the Musketeers. If he was honest, he wasn't unhappy to see the man die. He had, a time ago, been a Red Guard, but due to being a favourite of the King when he had been ousted from the Cardinal's troop the Musketeers had been stuck with the man. Now, he was dying at a younger man's feet, and Treville decided it was time to intervene now that the younger man seemed to be leaving as he pulled his sword from the man's stomach.

“You!” His voice was commanding, causing the young man to halt and look up. “You are aware that duelling is illegal?”

“Is it?” It seemed the young man was merely faking his confusion, as opposed to being truly ignorant of the law. “Well, that's very inconvenient. I rather wish someone had informed me of that before I came in here, and announced I was to duel that man.”

The young man offered Treville a ready grin, full of mischief and the surety of invincibility that came with young age, though there was something different about his. The boy's ebony eyes held an odd darkness that did no befit his age.

“I'm sure you are well aware of the fact, and also that it will lead to you being hanged.” Treville said, his face stony as he watched the boy carefully for his reaction.

It was well hidden, a mask fell around the boy's face as he met Treville's gaze steadily. “Are you sure there is not some other alternative?” He asked calmly, he evidently knew that if Treville did intend to have him hanged, he would have had a couple of Musketeers drag him away to the dungeons by now.

“There is, perhaps, one.” Treville said slowly, as though he were unwillingly considering it. “You have some skill with a blade, boy.” That was an understatement, the duel had been over so quickly that Treville's hadn't realised there'd been anything amiss until a cry arose from the Musketeers in the yard. Even if the man hadn't been one of the finest Musketeers by a long shot, it was still incredible that such a young man had managed to kill him with such apparent ease. “And I take it you know how to use that pistol?” He continued, gesturing to the decorated pistol holstered at the boy's hip.

“Well now, there wouldn't be much point in my carrying it if I couldn't use it, would there?” The boy answered, carefree grin having returned to his face.

“Then, in exchange for your freedom, you can have the option of becoming a King's Musketeer.” Treville said, then added. “Of course, I cannot guarantee when your commission will be granted, nor whether you shall even receive one, but I suspect it would be better than the alternative.”

The boy took his time to mull over his options, before nodding slowly and grinning at Treville. “I accept your offer, good sir.” He said, and bowed with a flourish.

Later, in Treville's office, the young man was standing in front of his desk, the unruly curls of his chocolate brown hair falling in his face as he stood impatiently, waiting for Treville to complete the paperwork.

“Name?”

“Aramis.” Was the short reply, causing Treville to glance up and raise an eyebrow.

“I need your full name.” He said, waiting patiently as the boy seemed to struggle with the request.

“René d'Herblay. But I'm known by Aramis now.” Aramis said finally, running his free hand through his dark curls in a way that betrayed nerves, the other tapping his hat against his leg.

Treville wrote it down, then said: “and your age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two... That's rather a young age, isn't it?” Treville asked.

“Yes... sir.” Aramis said, nodding. “That's not a problem?”

“Well...” Technically, it wasn't, the Musketeers had no clear guidelines about age limits, and the boy had certainly shown himself to be capable enough. “No, no.” Treville said finally, adding that to the paper.

That was really all the official information Treville needed, but he proceeded with his usual questions anyway. “What can you do, Aramis?”

“Sir?” Aramis asked hesitantly, not quite understanding.

“Any extra abilities? You don't just become a Musketeer, and in the mean time we will need other ways to keep you occupied.” Treville explained, “anyway, it is useful for any, er, unique missions.”

“Ah,” Aramis tugged at his curls again. “Well, I can speak Spanish-”

“Fluently?” Treville cut in, his eyebrow raised once more.

“Yes... sir.” Aramis nodded, “and Latin, some Greek, a little English.” He rubbed his temple with a thumb, “I can sew, along with some physician work. And, of course, I can read and write. Also ride a horse.”

“You're a doctor?” Treville asked, this boy was becoming more interesting by the second.

Aramis nodded, “of a little skill.” He said, and it was hard to tell whether he spoke of modesty or nervousness.

“Well, we do already have a doctor, but it always helps to have another.” Treville said with a small smile, “and no doubt your language skills will be of some use in future.”

Treville stood from his seat, taking one more look at the young man stood in front of his before reaching a decision. Aramis was perhaps a little taller than average height, and he was certainly well muscled; the kind of muscles grown from hard labour, endured every day for a long period of time. He held himself with a steady assurance, probably developed from a long held confidence in his own abilities. Though, with all his attributes that hinted at maturity, his tender age was betrayed by his clean shaven face which showed young and angled (though undeniably handsome) features.

“Very well,” Treville said, “welcome, to the Musketeers, but before you start, get a haircut.” He added with a grin, gesturing to Aramis' hair, which just brushed his shoulders.

That was certainly not how Aramis had planned on this day going, when he had set out from his rooms that morning he had known he would either end up dying; but for the right reasons, or living; but as a hunted man. Aramis had never once entertained the idea of becoming a Musketeer, not even an ordinary soldier, especially not within the few years he had spent with the clergy and certainly not in all the years spent being prepared for the life of a monk.

As he left the captain's office, he wondered how his life would proceed now, Aramis had spent the last year training in the art of fencing each day in order to get his revenge on the man who had mistreated him. It had been at a time when Aramis was still part of the clergy, and he had been spending time in the house of a certain young woman, apparently in some relation to the Cardinal. That particular Red Guard had found him in the young woman's bedroom and had taken him out, onto the street and beaten him in front of a cheering crowd, on that day he had sworn he would have his revenge. Because of that Red Guard, Aramis had been forced to leave the clergy; his entire life had been tipped upside down, again, and the only thought that forced Aramis to wake up in the morning was that he would take from the Red Guard what he had so easily and mercilessly taken from him.

It did not take long for Aramis to become one of the regiment, he joked easily with his brothers in arms, proved his loyalty more times than some of the most veteran Musketeers, and never turned a man away when in need of stitches, whether it was for a shirt or wound. And it wasn't just the men that took a liking to him, Aramis quickly acquired a reputation amongst the women of Paris; especially those of high nobility and power. Though, this did cause a few problems as most of these women were married. Close as he was with most of the regiment, save those jealous of his natural skill with guns and the ladies, his closest friend was certainly Marsac and the two were all but inseparable over the growing weeks and months that Aramis spent with the Musketeers.

Sooner than Treville could have predicted, the young man was fully commissioned into the Musketeers for saving the lives of three other Musketeers, with great risk to his own, from a group of hostile Spaniards while delivering a powerful nobleman to Paris. Treville believed that Aramis would have gained commission sooner, had he sent the young man out on more missions more often, but he was still at a relatively young age and though already a good soldier, still required training.

A year passed and from the look of Aramis, you would have thought he had chosen to become a Musketeer, rather than being all but forced into it, because of how well the job seemed to fit him. He had grown, in more ways than one. Now, at twenty-three, he had developed yet more, leaner muscles and still held himself with the same, steady assurance, but now from confidence in those that surrounded him instead of relying purely on his self. His skills with weapons and in horse riding had also improved. In his spare time, he read and practised his languages; not wanting to allow such skills to slip. Aramis had also grown a beard and moustache, thanks to the constant teasing of the regiment that mostly seemed to suggest he couldn't, he had also had his hair cut to a better length and his curls now ended around his ears.

"Aramis!" A Musketeer, who Aramis recognised as Baudin, jogged down the steps from Treville's office towards him. "Captain Treville wants to talk to you."

Aramis groaned as he stood from the table where he'd been cleaning his musket; glad of the brief respite from the erratic autumn rain. Treville probably wanted him to lead something, possibly a training exercise, and he really didn't want to do that; Aramis didn't exactly have a problem with leading per se, he just thought there were others who were more suited to the job. With a sigh, Aramis nodded to Baudin and grabbed his rather battered brown hat then headed up the steps, taking them two at a time.

"I rather think Chevalier would be good on this one, sir." Aramis informed the captain as he sauntered into his office.

"What?" Treville frowned at Aramis from where he sat behind his desk. "What are you talking about?"

"You want me to lead some kind of training exercise, don't you?" Aramis asked uncertainly, removing his hat from his head and tapping it against his head.

"No. Whatever gave you that idea?" Treville asked, shaking his head at the young man. "I'm asking you to pay a visit to the palace and enquire as to how many guards they require for the King's dinner next week."

"Ah," Aramis nodded, "of course, sir." He grinned, giving a flamboyant bow before turning and striding out of the room.

The ride to the palace was short, the conversation about the guards needed for the dinner shorter still, and as such it was barely evening as Aramis rode back through the streets of Paris to the garrison. Just as he was cantering through the streets, he heard a commotion in front of him, Aramis slowed his horse to a walk and squinted through the dusk and light drizzle of rain. By a tavern, and not a particularly respectable one, he noted, a fight seemed to have broken out. Now, technically Aramis was off duty, but through the weather he could make out the uniform of the Red Guard, and any opportunity to ruin their fun was welcome to the Musketeer.

"Gentlemen!" He called, dismounting from his horse and summoning a jovial grin. "What on earth is all this fuss about?"

"'E cheated at cards!" One member of the Red Guard cried, pointing wildly and best he could at the man who currently had him in a headlock.

"That hurt," the large man growled, shaking the man.

As Aramis neared the group, he could make out two or three men (they were all bundled on top of each other) lying in a heap on the ground, the Red Guard in the large man's grip appeared to be the one with the least problems.

"And that's also slander," the Musketeer added as he came to a halt a few feet away from the large man.

"He attacked us!" The Red Guard squeaked.

"No no no no no." Aramis said with a frown, almost tutting at the Red Guard. "One man attacking four... is it?- Four Red Guards just doesn't sound right. What I think is far more likely is that you four did in fact lose, very badly, at a game of cards, then attempted to slander this man, and when that didn't work out; lost your tempers and attacked him. I know which way the judge would see it, at least. Especially with the reputation that the Red Guard has been gathering recently."

It was only now that the man seemed to realise Aramis was a Musketeer, and his face twisted into a sneer. "Musketeer scum..."

Th large man, who had been silently watching the proceedings, apparently decided now was the time to do something. His fist connected with the Red Guard's face and the man crumpled to the ground, out cold.

Aramis raised his eyebrows and looked at the large man, who bared his teeth at him in a wolfish grin. "Got tired of his talking." He said by way of an explanation.

"I see," Aramis said, eyes sweeping once more over the now four collapsed bodies in the street. "And did you deal with all of them?" He asked.

The large man paused for a moment before answering, "yeah, but you were right, they started it."

Aramis nodded thoughtfully, "that's quite impressive." He said finally, looking to the large man, who shrugged.

"Thanks. And, uh, thanks for not arresting me, I guess. 'M name's Porthos." Porthos said, holding out a hand.

"Aramis," said he, taking the other man's hand. His grip was tight and the dark skin of his hand calloused and rough.

"You know," he said casually, releasing his grip. "Skills like that could get you a place in the Musketeers."

Porthos snorted and shook his head, "that's a nice story, maybe something out of a fairytale. But real life doesn't work that way."

Aramis shrugged lightly, "suit yourself." He said, lifting his hat to Porthos before turning and walking back to his horse; he still had quite a way to ride before he returned even to the garrison.

Chapter Text

“Up up up! Aramis! Rouse yourself!”

Aramis smiled slightly as he cracked his eyes open, he lay on his bed; clothed only by a loose shirt and trousers, and was still a little tired from the previous evening's fiasco.

 “Aramis! The King's Musketeers will not wait for you if you're late!” That would be the son of his landlord, Curtis, a meek-looking boy with a surprisingly loud voice.

“I'm getting up!” He called back to him, Curtis' only reply was to grumble about how he'd missed his chance at breakfast because he'd slept so late. Aramis glanced at the sky outside his open window, it couldn't be past nine.

After splashing water over his body to qualify as a wash; Aramis dressed; gathered his sword, pistol and dagger; grabbed his trusty hat and jogged through the streets of Paris to the main yard of the Garrison, however, he was still late.

The captain was indeed angry at Aramis for being late, and when he protested that it was the captain who had sent him to the palace in the first place the previous night, and that he'd broken up a fight on his way back (the story of which may have been slightly embellished) Treville merely fixed him with a look and told him to go and clean the tack room.

It was ridiculous, Aramis thought; having discarded his leather long coat and hat as he scrubbed at a saddle, that he should be given this punishment above all others. Cleaning the tack room was the kind of job given to new recruits who had started taking themselves too seriously, not to commissioned Musketeers with a year's experience under their belt who had been late once in the past month, and Aramis knew there was others in the regiment who were late more regularly than he was. By the time he had finished, he was in an undeniably bad mood, and this was only encouraged when he discovered he had been selected as one of the Musketeers to attend the King's dinner. It was going to be a long week.

The dinner lasted longer than Aramis was happy with, though he had at least been able to have a few drinks, grab some nice food and dance with a particularly friendly lady. It was past midnight by the time the Musketeer was stumbling homewards, a hand on his sword at all times; no doubt there were many footpads and pickpockets lurking in the shadows of Paris' alleys. Just as Aramis thought this, a group of men, all dressed in ragged clothing and clutching at rusted; yet undoubtedly sharp, daggers and knives gathered around Aramis, sneering at him and smirking at each other.

“Well, what do we have 'ere, boys?” One man, who appeared to be the leader, said, his lip curling as he looked at Aramis. “A Musketeer, out after dark and in our part of the city.”

Aramis drew his sword, albeit a little clumsily, and quickly scanned the group, brilliant: six of them and one of him. Though it was true he was better trained and generally stronger than then the lean, thin thieves, but they had the advantages of numbers and sobriety. However, Aramis wouldn't go down without a fight, he thought about grabbing his pistol, but it would take too long to load and there was no guarantee he would hit any of them anyway. Obviously tired of waiting for Aramis to make his drunken assessment, one of the footpads lunged forward, waving his knife wildly at the Musketeer and he managed to parry the blade away, only to have another thief come up behind him.

“Hey!” There was a shout behind Aramis, his first hopeful thought was that it was a fellow Musketeer, his second, not-so-hopeful thought was that it was a Red Guard; in which case he was probably doomed.

As it turned out, it was neither.

“P-Porthos?” The leader stammered, his widening as he recognised the man who was striding toward them. “We're just working!” He said defensively.

“Not this one, Warren.” Said the deep voice, that Aramis did now recognise as Porthos. “Helped me out in what coulda been a tight spot.”

“Sorry, Porthos.” Warren said quickly, “I-I guess we'll get going.” He added, gesturing swiftly to the rest of the group and they receded into the shadows.

“You alright?” Porthos asked, coming into Aramis' shaky line of sight as he returned his sword to its scabbard.

Aramis nodded, “my thanks.” He said with a smile, “it seems we are fated to run into each other when being set upon by hostiles.”

Porthos bared his teeth in a grin, “seems so. You alright to get home?”

“I should think so,” Aramis said with a nod, glancing down the street towards his lodgings. “Well, I've said it before, but you would make a good Musketeer.” He added over his shoulder as he continued down the street.

The next morning, feeling perhaps a little worse for wear, but better than he could have been, Aramis rapped on the door to Treville's office.

“Enter.”

The grinning Musketeer stepped into the office to find the captain sitting at his desk, hunched over yet more paperwork.

“You need to get out more, sir.” Aramis said easily. “All this paperwork will take the soldier out of you.” He added, his tone still respectful as he completely aware it wasn't true.

“What do you want, Aramis?” Treville asked, a small smile tugging on his lips which he managed to resist.

“I have an idea for a new Musketeer, sir.” He said, removing his hat from his head and tapping it against his leg.

“Really?” Treville leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at Aramis in a way that was very familiar. “What idea is this?”

“There's this man... Porthos, I've run into a few times of late, and he's demonstrated exceptional brawling skills and surprising loyalty.” Aramis began, watching the captain carefully for his reaction.

“I see... And it is purely from these few experiences that you believe this Porthos to be Musketeer material?” Treville asked.

Aramis nodded, tugged at his hair, then added: “and he may have saved my life last night.”

The captain hummed and nodded slowly. “Do you know where he can be found?”

“I believe he resides somewhere in the Court of Miracles.” Aramis said, having done a little poking around before coming to see Treville.

“A thief, Aramis?” Treville asked, his face betraying momentary surprise. “That is brash, even for you.”

“An honourable thief,” Aramis insisted. “He saved my life when he could have merely continued as he was.”

“An honourable thief...” Treville repeated, his voice a murmur as he studied the Musketeer standing in front of him closely. “Very well, Aramis.” He said after a minute's silent debate. “I'll look into it, but I can't promise you anything.”

“Thank you, sir.” Aramis said, grinning cheerfully at the captain and, after giving a quick bow, exiting the office.

Aramis spent the day with Marsac, the two practised their swordplay, their aim and even tried a bit of hand-to-hand; something Marsac was rather skilled at. Morning soon turned to afternoon and after a relatively uneventful day, Aramis headed back to his room, determined to arrive on time the next.

Morning rolled around and found Aramis in the yard of the garrison, musket in hand and, having set up a target, refining his aim in the quiet of the early morning. His peace was disturbed, however, as a man strode into the yard.

“I've been summoned,” a familiar, deep voice said drily, “to see Captain Treville.”

Aramis turned and got his first proper look at Porthos, due to the fact that their previous encounters had been at night in shadowy places and they'd both been rather distracted by their opponents. The man was tall, definitely reaching six feet and perhaps more, his muscles were bulky, even in the loose shirt he wore, and there was a golden hoop in his left ear. All of his clothes appeared old, and as though they had been stitched up over and over again, though that was not surprising to Aramis; considering Porthos' background. He didn't appear to be carrying any weapons, though the Musketeer supposed that Porthos didn't really need any due to his skill in brawling, and he could have easily hidden a few knives.

“Ah, good!” Aramis declared, and walked over to Porthos, clapping him on the shoulder. “Then follow me.” He jogged up the steps to Treville's office, then knocked on the door quickly.

“Enter.”

Aramis did as ordered, glancing behind him to check that Porthos was still following him before stepping into the office.

“Porthos here to see you, sir.” Aramis announced, nodding to Treville by way of thanks.

“Yes, thank you, Aramis.” Treville said, looking up at Porthos and indicating that Aramis should leave.

“I, ah, I'll leave you to it.” Aramis said, flashing Porthos a grin before and giving Treville a small bow before hurrying out of the office.

The young Musketeer left him and the captain alone, Porthos stood uneasily in the office, letting his arms hang loose and ready by his body as he looked at the captain; still unsure of why he'd been asked to come to the garrison in the first place.

“I'll get straight to the point,” Captain Treville said, lacing his fingers together on top of his desk, “you don't seem to be the kind of man that would appreciate me dancing around the matter. You've been asked to come here because I believe you could have the ability to become a Musketeer.”

Porthos stared incredulously at the captain, he had thought maybe he'd been asked to come to the garrison because he had stolen something of a Musketeer's (though now he thought about it, that request probably wouldn't have been quite so civilised). It had never once crossed his mind that he would be given the opportunity to become a Musketeer.
“Why?” He asked, eyes narrowed.

“Someone recommended we take a look into you,” Captain Treville said. “I did, and decided you have the basic skills required to become a Musketeer. Before you make any decisions though, you should know that there is no guarantee you will become a Musketeer immediately, it will take time for you to receive your commission.”

Mind still whirling from even the prospect of getting away from the Court of Miracles, Porthos had to take a minute to gather himself together. “I'm gonna need to think about this.” He said gruffly, and was surprised when Captain Treville nodded with what appeared to be understanding.

“Take a week,” he said, “and return to me with your decision then.” And apparently then Porthos was dismissed, as the captain returned to his paperwork and acted as though he wasn't even in the room.

The walk back to the Court of Miracles was a long one, Porthos knew what decision he was going to make long before the end of the week, what made it hard to follow through was Charon and Flea. When he told Charon that he planned on leaving to become a Musketeer, he was angry, at first.

“So you're leaving us?!”

“No... Charon, it's not like that-”

“Oh really, well I don't see it being any other way!” His friend's face was screwed up in anger, his fists clenched at his side as he glared up at Porthos.

“I don't... belong here, Charon.” Porthos said, trying to keep his tone gentle; this was not how he wanted them to part.

“We're brothers, Porthos. You can't just give up on that! We've been running the streets since we could walk!” Charon said, his voice cracking slightly as he grew desperate.
“And we'll always be brothers, you know that, Charon. But I need to do this. Please, understand.”

Charon breathed hard and fast for a few seconds, as though he had just run away from the Cardinal's Red Guard, clenching and unclenching his fists; for a moment Porthos thought he was going to go for the knife he wore at his belt.

“Alright...” Charon said slowly, swallowing thickly. “But you have to come and see us still, don't you dare forget about us.”

Porthos' face broke into a relieved grin, “thank you, Charon. And I won't, you know I won't.”

His friend nodded, though Porthos suspected it was more out of reflex than anything else. “Have you told Flea yet?”

“No,” Porthos shook his head, brow furrowed. “I'm still tryin' to work out how, I don't want her to kill me.” He added with a weak grin.

Telling Flea was worse than telling Charon, and Porthos hadn't thought that was possible.

“Flea, I'm leaving... to become a Musketeer.” He said nervously.

Her only reaction was to sit on the bed she'd been standing next to, her face oddly calm as she breathed out a soft “oh.”

“I don't belong here, Flea, and I think you know that.” Porthos said, sitting down next to her, trying to take her hands, but she moved them just out of reach.

“No, I know, Porthos.” Flea said, not looking at him, and her voice still that soft, calm and absolutely heart-breaking tone.

“You could come with me, we could leave here together. I could make you into a lady.” He said, he already knew what her answer would be, but he had to try.

“No, Porthos.” Finally, she looked at him. Her aquamarine blue eyes met his obsidian ones. “I'm meant to be here, always. It's my home.”

“It's my home too,” Porthos said quickly, desperate for her to know how much she meant to him, how much they all meant to him.

Flea shook her head slightly, but held his gaze. “Maybe once, a long time ago. But now, we're set on different paths, you and me.”

“I'll send letters,” he said. “I won't forget you.” He added.

“I know you won't,” she said, and suddenly lost the sad soft tone and was Flea again. “Anyway, how do you know you'll learn how to write?”

“Name?”

He was back in Treville's office, exactly one week later. He'd packed the few possessions he'd thought he might need, and left the rest behind; the Court would need it more than him now anyway.

“Porthos... Porthos du Vallon.” He said, finding a strange new confidence along with his new name.

The captain nodded, “age?”

“I... uh,” Porthos thought for a moment, he knew his age roughly. “Twenty-five.”

“Mhm,” Treville wrote it down, then looked to Porthos. “I hear you're quite the brawler.”

Porthos nodded hesitantly, “yes... sir.”

“Good, you'll be a help, I think everyone's a bit out of practice with brawling.” The captain said, “I'm going to assign one of my Musketeers to show you the ropes. I think you'll get along well, mind you, you're going to have to get along with everyone in the regiment, these men are your brothers now.”

The would-be Musketeer smirked a little as he followed his new captain out of his office, he knew how the rules of brotherhood worked very well.

It turned out his mentor, that seemed to be the best name for it, was someone he was already acquainted with- though he was unsure of whether the captain knew that.

“Aramis! You'll be showing Porthos how things work around here.” Treville announced as he stepped into the yard, and Aramis broke away from the large group of Musketeers he'd been talking with and walked over to the captain.

“I see, pleasure to finally meet you formally, Porthos.” He said with a grin, even giving a small bow. “Welcome to the King's Musketeers, finest regiment in the whole of France.”

Aramis' cheeriness was infectious, and Porthos found himself grinning back despite himself, maybe; even after leaving Flea and Charon, he could find family again here.

The months passed quickly for Porthos, and he found himself settling to Musketeer life well. Having sold all the stolen trinkets and items that he had brought with him, he had gained a good amount of money. With the money he bought himself a proper sword, a schianova, a broadsword of Italian design and much larger than most of the regiment's; including Aramis' trusty rapier. Porthos also bought himself some new clothes, some more fitting to the life he now led. Over the months spent with the regiment, Porthos learned to ride a horse, shoot a pistol and musket, use a sword as more than just a hacking tool, and to read and write. For all the improvements he made and all that he learned though, Porthos still wasn't quite welcome within the regiment. It seemed the men almost feared him, his skin colour and past combined were more than any man within the Musketeers had probably thought they would ever deal with in their lives. He did have some friends, however, Aramis was one of them, the two had grown extraordinarily close in a relatively short amount of time, and this certainly helped boost Porthos' reputation within the regiment, because the more time Porthos spent the with Aramis, the more time he spent with Marsac. The two men were possibly the most popular in the whole of the Musketeers and it seemed they sang his praises whenever possible, soon enough Musketeers started asking Porthos if he would show them some brawling moves, or whether he would teach them a new knife-throwing technique. As time went on and another few weeks passed, Porthos finally felt fully accepted into the Musketeer brotherhood.

One day, after having been beaten by miles by Aramis with muskets and pistols, and beaten fairly in swordplay, Porthos had an idea.

“I can't help but notice that you've not including any brawlin' in your training with me,” he said with a wicked grin.

“That, my dear friend, is because I am training you, not the other way around.” Aramis said with a laugh as he slid his rapier back into its scabbard.

“Hardly seems fair, c'mon, it won't take long.” Porthos urged.

Aramis raised his eyebrows at his friend, “why so eager, Porthos?”

“Why so scared, Aramis?” Porthos taunted. Now, usually Aramis wouldn't fall victim to such an obvious taunt, but they day had been long and other Musketeers were starting to take notice of their conversation.

“Go on, Aramis!” One called.

“Yeah, beat him into the ground, Porthos!” Another shouted with a laugh.

“We've got an audience now,” Porthos said with a grin at Aramis. “It would be rude to let them down.”

His friend sighed heavily and shot him a dirty look, “fine, fine! I shall stoop to your lowly level, and I'll fight you.” Aramis said, shrugging off his long coat and draping it over a free table.

Porthos chuckled and slapped him on the back, taking off his own leather jacket. The two unloaded their armoury of weapons onto the table and, with reverential care, Aramis placed his battered brown hat on top of his pile.

“Anyone touches this,” he warned, “anyone, and I'll blow their brains out.”

“Stop stallin',” Porthos called from the middle of the yard.

Aramis gave one last warning look before walking to the centre of the yard, standing opposite Porthos.

“Don't worry,” Porthos smirked. “I'll go easy on you.”

It didn't look like it. He feinted to left, as if to punch Aramis in the shoulder, then dropped low and drove a fist into his friend's stomach.

“Oof!” Aramis staggered back, only to have the front of his shirt grabbed and yanked forwards whilst his legs were kicked out from underneath him. He landed on the ground, blinking dust out of his eyes and letting out a low groan.

“Aramis,” Porthos said, shaking his head and tutting at his friend. “I'm embarrassed for you.” He said, grinning wolfishly at his friend while holding out a hand.

Aramis reached out and took it, was lifted halfway off the ground before being dropped back down again; which was met with a chorus of laughter from the surrounding Musketeers.

“That was...” Aramis paused to regain his breath as he stumbled upright, “a little unnecessary... don't you think?” He asked, in between gasping in air.

“I think you need to get some more practice in,” Porthos teased good-naturedly, steering his friend back towards their possessions.

“I think you're getting ahead of yourself.” Aramis countered, “I'm still the mentor here.”

Chapter Text

Another few months passed and soon spring arrived, it found Porthos, Aramis, Marsac and Baudin on a country track, delivering a small caravan full of gifts to a noble friend of the King. The air was crisp and sharp, the sun was shining but no real warmth reached the four men as they rode.

“I'm going to scout out behind us,” Aramis announced and, after receiving a nod from Marsac, he turned his horse about and cantered back along the track.

Porthos watched his friend's receding figure for a moment before facing forwards again, “he's easily bored, isn't he?” He said to Marsac with a smile.

“Yes, give him a musket and he'll lie on the dirt covered ground without complaint for as long as you like, try to get him to spend more than two peaceful days in the country, however, and he acts like a caged animal.” Marsac said with a small laugh.

“How much longer is it?” Porthos asked, “out of interest.”

“About another day, maybe a little longer.” Baudin chimed in helpfully, “as long as we don't come across any surprise delays.”

Porthos nodded his thanks to the younger man, he was a gentle-looking fellow; yet surprisingly cold when it came to wielding a weapon, and a fully commissioned Musketeer. Unlike Porthos. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever receive his commission, he'd been with the Musketeers for almost six months and it still seemed there was no commission in sight for him. With a grimace, Porthos turned his mind away from his negative thoughts and returned to the task at hand; there would be plenty of time for moping when sat in the dark corner of a tavern back in Paris. For now, he tried to appreciate what it was like to be in the country. Before he'd joined the Musketeers Porthos had never left Paris, the whole experience was still relatively new to him and he always tried to make the most of it.

When, in half an hour, Aramis hadn't returned, Porthos was beginning to get a bit worried. “Shouldn't we be looking for him?” He asked Marsac, who, in Aramis' absence, seemed to be their leader.

“I don't think so, not yet at least,” Marsac replied. “Aramis can look after himself; he's probably just going a bit over the top in his scouting. You know how he is.”

Porthos nodded in agreement, Aramis did sometimes get a bit too invested in their missions. Marsac was probably right; Aramis would be back soon.

However, another half hour passed and Aramis still hadn't returned, the other three had set up a small camp and had gathered around a fire as dark began to set in.

“I'm gonna go after him,” Porthos said, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

“We should all go,” Marsac said, beginning to move.

Porthos shook his head, “no, you and Baudin need to deliver the gifts, they need to be delivered by commissioned Musketeers. I'll go and find Aramis,” he said, strapping on his schianova.

He didn't look happy with it, but Marsac had to admit there was logic in what Porthos had said. “I suppose,” he said reluctantly. “But don't take any stupid risks, Aramis will kill me if you get killed.” Marsac said with a small grin.

“And we wouldn't want that to happen,” Porthos said with a smirk, mounting his horse and giving a mock salute to the other two, before riding back down the rough track.

After following the track to where Aramis had turned back, Porthos kept an eye of the tracks of the horses' hooves. Four were heading towards the camp, along with wheel tracks, and one lot heading back; which was Aramis. It remained that way for a while, until another two tracks appeared; and they hadn't been there when the Musketeers had first ridden out. Porthos frowned; he didn't like the way this appeared to be going, and it only got worse. Porthos kept following the track, and then there was a disturbance on the soil of the track, as though something had fallen onto it. Porthos leapt off his horse and crouched by the disturbance. He was relieved the find there was no blood, but he noticed this was where one set of tracks ended. He stood and looked around, searching for any signs or clues that might help him locate Aramis. There was a faint trail from the disturbance, as though something (or someone) had been dragged off of the track and into the grass and woods beyond.

Leaving his horse where it was (it was a trained Musketeer's horse, it wouldn't leave the area Porthos left it in) Porthos followed the trail, he didn't want to take the horse because it would make him too easy to hear or see. The trail continued into the grass, as some of it was a little flattened Porthos managed to follow it without much difficulty; his eyes constantly switching from checking to trail to scanning the area around him in case of an ambush.

After another ten minutes or so of walking, an old, derelict barn came into view. Outside of it stood two men, neither of them Aramis, wearing nondescript clothes and hats that covered their faces. As Porthos drew closer, keeping low in the long grass, their voices carried over the wind towards him. They were talking in a language unknown to Porthos. Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention if he could help it, Porthos decided to check around the back of the barn, even if there wasn't a door it probably wouldn't be too hard to break in somehow.

At the back of the barn was a low window, the tall man easily hauled himself up and over the rotting ledge and into the dark barn, with the only sunlight filtering in from the boards on the roof and through the window. Against a wall, his hands and feet tied, was Aramis. His head was hanging forward and his entire body looked limp.

“Aramis!” Porthos hissed as he ran over to his friend. “Aramis, are you alright?”

There was no reply from the other Musketeer, and as Porthos knelt in front of Aramis he saw he was unconscious, there was a large bruise on his forehead with a trickle of blood running from it. Porthos swore under his breath, shot a furtive glance to the door and began to slice through the ropes binding Aramis with a boot knife. With a small grunt he hefted his friend up and, tugging Aramis' arm over his shoulders, shouldered his weight.

“Porthos...?” Aramis murmured weakly, his eyes cracking open.

“It's me,” Porthos replied, his voice low. “We've got to get out of here, can you walk?”

Aramis took a long moment to think, before shaking his head, it seemed even that small movement caused him a some degree of pain.

“Alright then,” Porthos muttered, coming to a decision. “I'm going to sit you back down against this wall, and then I'll be right back for you. Understand?” He asked as he gently set his friend back to the floor.

“Wait,” Aramis grabbed feebly at Porthos' sleeve. “What're you going to do?” He asked, his words slurring together slightly as he squinted at Porthos.

“Just clear the way out,” Porthos said with a grin, removing Aramis' hand and striding to the doors. He threw them open and the two men outside yelped in surprise.

“Quién eres tú? Cómo llegó ahí?” One of the men demanded.

Porthos suspected he they might be Spanish. For a moment he pondered why some Spaniards would have kidnapped a Musketeer; France wasn't at war with Spain, it made little sense. However, he quickly pushed the thoughts aside as he focused on the more immediate problem: both men were going for their swords.

Porthos drew his schianova and grinned, “who's first?” He asked.

He doubted the men would understand French, but they appeared to grasp the meaning of his words as the man on the left started forwards. He was quick and small, but Porthos easily knocked his sword from his hand and then delivered a blow to his jaw that would leave him with a nasty headache when he woke.

The second man appeared more wary, having seen his companion so easily dealt with. He and Porthos circled each other at first, as they both judged the other, Porthos, having grown bored, leapt forward, hoping to take the Spaniard by surprise. The man dodged to the right, having seen there would have been no way to successfully block Porthos' attack. Porthos attacked again, the clanging of metal on metal could be heard for miles in the quiet French countryside as the two men matched blows. Eventually, Porthos decided the fight needed to be sped up. Feinting at the man's shoulder, so that his guard was raised, he then swept out with his leg at the man's legs, sending him crashing to the dusty ground.

“It's a good thing I need to know why you're here,” Porthos growled, placing his sword at the man's neck. “Otherwise I would kill you for hurting my friend.”

Quickly, with brutal force, he switched his grip on the sword so that he could use the hilt to knock the man out.

“Nine... no! Fifteen Spaniards!” Aramis declared, “and he beat them all without so much as breaking a sweat.”

The whole regiment had gathered in the training yard of the garrison, everyone gripping a pint of ale. After Porthos had rendered the Spaniards no longer a threat, he had fetched Aramis and they had ridden back to Marsac and Baudin. From there Aramis had shaken off his concussion and they had sent Marsac and Baudin to finish the mission while Porthos and Aramis took the Spaniards back to Paris for questioning. It had turned out they were Spanish fanatics of a kind, seemingly fixated on a war with France, their plan had been kill off as many Musketeer's as they could, seeing as the King would not stand for such things happening to his favourite regiment, and they may well have completed their goal. It turned out there was more of the group than just the two Aramis and Porthos had encountered. The group had been dealt with ruthlessly and efficiently by the Cardinal from that point on.

Then, for commendable loyalty to a comrade and being key in uncovering a plot effectively against the King, Porthos had received his commission. This was the celebration for his commission, and Aramis was retelling the story of why Porthos had obtained his commission, though he may have been slightly exaggerating it.

The celebration continued long into the night, and it was past midnight by the time Aramis and Porthos were heading to their lodgings.

“You never told me,” Porthos said just as Aramis was about to enter his room. “What happened with the Spaniards?”

“We talked,” Aramis said, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut as he leaned against a doorway for balance; they had all drunk a lot.

Porthos' brow furrowed, “how? Did they speak French?”

Aramis shook his head, “no. We talked in Spanish?”

“You know Spanish?” Porthos asked, “how?” “My mother's Spanish,” Aramis explained. “But my father was French, my brothers and I were brought up with both languages.”

Porthos nodded and the two men said their good nights, it wasn't until the morning, in the midst of a terrible hangover, that Porthos thought again about Aramis' wording the previous night.

Chapter Text

Before anyone realised, a year had passed and summer had arrived and one particularly hot morning found Aramis, having set up the targets, practising with his rifle. The air was searing and the Musketeer had discarded many layers of clothing, as he wasn't technically on duty. Aramis ducked his head as he fired, once again hitting the bullseye and grinning to himself with satisfaction when he saw.

There was the sound of boots on stone and Aramis turned to see a man walking into the courtyard, shifting his hat on his head as he walked, Aramis approached the stranger.

“What's your business here?” He asked politely, lifting his hat to the man.

The stranger, who's face had previously been hidden by an expensive-looking yet worn hat, lifting his head to meet Aramis' gaze. “I'm here to see Captain Treville,” the man said softly, pearly grey eyes cool.

“Well then,” Aramis said, maintaining his cheerful demeanour. “I'll show you the way!” He said, turning and leading the stranger up the steps to Treville's office.

“Captain!” Aramis rapped on the door, “there's someone here to see you.”

Instead of just calling them in, like he usually did, Treville opened the door. “You have leave today, Aramis.” He said, raising an eyebrow at the young man.

“I was getting some practice in,” Aramis said innocently, eyes wide. “Is that not allowed?”

Treville sighed and was very tempted to tell him that no, it wasn't allowed, and he should go to a tavern and enjoy himself with friends. But, he didn't, instead the Captain merely shook his head slightly and waved the stranger in. The stranger, who had observed the exchange silently, stepped into the office, not even sparing Aramis a backwards glance.

“You must be Athos,” Captain Treville said, seating himself back behind his desk.

“Yes,” Athos nodded, removing his hat to show choppy, chestnut hair.

“I'll need your full name, just for the paperwork- you understand.” Treville said, looking expectantly at Athos.

“Olivier Athos,” he said.

“Good, good.” Treville nodded, “and your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

'Fives years older than Aramis,' Treville thought to himself as he wrote it down. 'And yet his eyes seem older still.'

“You're previously the Comte de la Fère,” Treville stated, looking to Athos for confirmation.

An odd look crossed the man's face, but it was gone within the second and he nodded. “Yes, and I would prefer it if that were kept quiet.”

Treville nodded understandingly, “of course. There are many men here who would rather their past were kept secret for one reason or another, you are no different.” Treville set his quill. “Now, I know everything else about you I need to know.” He continued, “and seeing as Aramis is here, we may as well make use of him.” He said, standing and walking out of his office.

In the time Athos and Treville had spent in the office, Aramis had moved on to swordplay and was currently practising on one of the straw stuffed sacks that was hung from the beams of the stables.

“Aramis!” Treville called, in that all too familiar way.

“There's no point in my leaving-” Aramis began defensively, turning to face Treville.

Despite himself, Treville smiled, it was hard not to with Aramis around. “I wasn't going to ask you to, I need you to show Athos around. And to his lodgings,” the Captain said, handing over a slip of paper with the address written on it.

Aramis tilted his head curiously, hat sliding to a slight angle as he accepted the note. “Sir? He hasn't been commissioned yet...”

Treville raised an eyebrow at Aramis, “are you disobeying an order, Aramis?”

The young man shifted, “no, sir, it's just...”

“Athos has, in fact, been commissioned already.” Treville said, “and is simply awaiting the arrival of his pauldron.”

Aramis shrugged, “alright... sir.” He looked to Athos, “come on then, I'll show you the delightful place that will be your home until you desert or get killed in battle.” He said cheerfully, leading the way out of the garrison.

“He's a very good soldier,” Treville said as Athos shot him a raised eyebrow.

Athos looked around his new room, Aramis had disappeared off somewhere without an explanation and had left him to look after himself. The room was bland, the walls white and peeling in some places, a bare bed pushed against the wall and a small table by the window. It was certainly a step down from his old accommodations, but Athos reminded himself this was the life he had chosen for himself, there was no going back now. Unless he deserted like Aramis had too cheerfully spoken about. Or if he died, but he felt that would only be physical. He hadn't brought with him any of his old possessions, instead just several purses of money to buy whatever he'd require. Unfortunately, Athos had a very limited knowledge of Paris and its shops, but he had a feeling he had already encountered someone with knowledge of the area.

Aramis was back in the courtyard, working on his swordplay. Athos paused and took a few moments to observe the Musketeer. The younger man's style seemed to rely mostly on movement, that and then striking a single point on the 'body' which would effectively kill someone.

“You're very precise,” Athos called, causing Aramis to spin around and face him. “But you shouldn't be afraid to stand your ground a little.”

The Musketeer considered him in silence for a few seconds but then shrugged lightly and smiled. “Very observant, perhaps you could show me your own swordplay.”

Athos' lips twisted into a wry smile. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But for the moment I simply wished to know whether you recommend any ample tailors.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows, “I could.” He said slowly, and then grinned brightly. “And if you'd give me a moment then I'll show you myself.”

Reluctantly, Athos agreed, although he wasn't sure how much more of the cheery Musketeer's company he could take.

Aramis led Athos through the bustling Parisian streets with an ease born of years of practice, to the older man's surprise, the younger no longer appeared to be in the mood for incessant chatter and instead only pointed out what he seemed to think were important landmarks.

“This is the tailor I use,” Aramis announced, and Athos looked up to see not a shop but a house.

At Athos' questioning look, Aramis gave a small laugh. “Not a proper shop, I know, but the woman is a marvel.” With that he knocked at the door, only to come face to face with a short, weedy-looking man.

“What do you want?” He snapped.

“A pleasure as always, Monsieur Bonacieux.” Aramis greeted, the crinkles around his eyes betraying his amusement at Bonacieux's irritation. “Is your lovely wife in?”

“Why do you ask?” Bonacieux demanded, squinting suspiciously at Aramis.

“Well, I've brought her another client.” Aramis revealed, gesturing to Athos. “You can understand why we'd like to see her.” Grudgingly, Bonacieux stood back from the door and waved the two men inside.

“What do you want now, Aramis?” Constance sighed as she bustled into the front room. “Honestly, you can't need new clothes already! And you know well enough how to mend them yourself!”

“Your calm words are music to my ears,” Aramis said sincerely. “But it is not me that needs clothes. Madame Bonacieux, may I introduce Monsieur Athos, a new recruit of the King's Musketeers. Monsieur Athos, may I introduce Madame Bonacieux, the finest needlewoman in all of France!”

Constance shot him an exasperated look, one Athos suspected stemmed more from affection than real annoyance and curtsied to Athos.

“It's a pleasure, Madame.” He said, giving a small bow.

“Oh please,” she said, waving away his words. “Call me Constance, Aramis just likes to make things more exciting for everyone.”

“I'm an exciting man,” Aramis said offhandedly, but was wise enough not to interrupt her.

Athos allowed a minute smile to grace his features, “I'm sure he does.”

After their meeting with Constance, Aramis showed Athos back to his new home and then excused himself. But not before first offering Athos a chance to go with him to the tavern, and then pointing out a few nearby taverns that Athos might like to visit by himself, and describing the way to the garrison for the next day.

Having declined the first offer and thanking Aramis for the advice, Athos was left alone for the remainder of the evening.

His thoughts turned to Aramis, among other things. It appeared that his first assessment of the Musketeer had been somewhat misguided; he had put the young man down as immature, and rather too talkative for his tastes. But in the streets Aramis had been concise with his words and even allowed Athos to think in relative quiet, perhaps that was how he acted when he was on a mission. However, as Athos was unable to spend much more time considering Aramis and his personality, he decided it would be a much better idea to get practising; it was a long time since he'd attempted sword work properly and seeing as he was now a Musketeer, some training wouldn't go amiss.

Meanwhile, in a tavern often frequented by Musketeers, Aramis, Porthos and Marsac were drinking.

“I'm just saying,” Aramis said diplomatically. “Geese are far more deadly than dogs.”

“No they're not!” Porthos spluttered, “dogs 'ave teeth! And they can jump!”

Aramis scrutinised Porthos for along moment. “As opposed to geese,” he said slowly. “Which are well known for having no aerial capabilities at all.”

“But what do you think, Marsac?” Aramis asked, turning to his other friend.

Marsac sighed and tilted his head thoughtfully, “I'm afraid I can't comment.” He said at last, “I have never had much personal experience in either.”

Porthos looked shocked, “how?” He demanded.

“He's a city boy,” Aramis explained. “He has no knowledge of how the real world works.”

“I was raised in the city.” Porthos pointed out, “are you sayin' I don't have real experience of 'ow the real world works?”

“No.” Aramis said quickly. “No. You weren't pampered and and waited on for your entire life. Marsac grew up in a pleasantly sized house with his parents, a little sister and and no dogs.” He paused, then quickly added: “or geese.”

Marsac scoffed and pushed Aramis' shoulder, “and where did you grow up?”

“I grew up...” Aramis considered for a moment, but before he could speak, Marsac interrupted.

“You grew up in Herblay, north of Paris.” He said pointedly. “Not so far from the city yourself.”

“With geese. And a dog.” Aramis clarified.

“Were they your geese?” Porthos asked, leaning forwards on the table.

“No,” Aramis said distastefully. “Of course not. We did have a dog though.”

“What was it called?” Marsac asked, apparently intrigued.

“She was called Marian.” Aramis said, and stood up abruptly, swaying slightly. “I'm going to go now,” he announced.

Marsac and Porthos exchanged looks, Porthos rolled his eyes and stood, following Aramis out of the tavern.

“What're you doing?” Aramis asked, squinting at Porthos.

“What I always do,” he replied easily, slinging an arm around his friend's shoulder and steering him towards his lodgings.

“What's that?” Aramis enquired, glancing up at Porthos.

The bigger man grinned, “takin' care of you, obviously.”

Athos' immediate commission into the Musketeers led to rather mixed reactions; some felt it extraordinarily unfair, and seemed to spend every free moment they had complaining about it, some decided not to judge the new soldier too soon and instead opted to see what he was made of, and others simply didn't care. Whatever anyone could say about his commission, everyone had to admit that Athos was by far the best swordsman they had, and would be a perfect leader; if he stopped acting as though he were so far above them all, or if he took a moment to talk to his fellow Musketeers.

“What 'e needs,” Porthos muttered to Aramis one day as Athos beat yet another fencing opponent into the ground, “is to realise that once you're a Musketeer, it doesn't matter where you came from.”

Aramis shrugged as he peeled an apple with his knife, “he simply needs time to settle in. No one fits in here immediately. Apart from me, of course.” He said, grinning as Porthos rolled his eyes.

“I just hope we don't get sent on any missions with 'im.” Porthos said.

“Who knows what God has planned?” Aramis asked mysteriously.

Porthos shook his head at his friend, “'s not God I'm worried about.” He told Aramis. “It's Captain Treville. I reckon he's plannin' somethin'.”

Aramis took a thoughtful bite of his apple and glanced up at the balcony where Treville was leant against the railing, watching over the Musketeers. “He does have that look.” He admitted.

At that exact moment, Treville called down to the courtyard. “Aramis, Athos, Porthos! My office!”

Aramis raised his eyebrows at Porthos and hopped up from the table. “Looks like you were right.”

“'Course I was.” Porthos replied. “I'm gifted like that.”

“What do you think he wants us and Athos for?” Aramis asked, popping another piece of apple into his mouth.

“I don't know the answer to everythin'.” Porthos replied, nudging at Aramis as they bounded up the steps.

The ensuing tussle ended abruptly as the two reached the door to Treville's office, at which point Aramis gestured for Porthos to enter first, and managed to get in one last kick at his friend's feet before he followed. Athos entered a few seconds later, giving the pair a withering look; evidently he had seen the whole thing.

“Close the door,” Treville said to Athos, who complied wordlessly. “I have some grave news for you all, which I don't doubt you'll hear soon enough anyway.” Unusually, Treville appeared to be having a difficult time saying what he needed to. “Marie de Medici's forces have gathered in Les Ponts-de-Cé.”

There was silence in response, until Aramis cleared his throat and said, “there's going to be a battle, then.”

Treville nodded. “We march at dawn tomorrow, the journey will take us about ten days. Our regiment, of course, will ride with the nobility.”

Athos looked at Treville critically. “Why tell us, what about the rest of the men?”

“They will find out in just a few minutes.” Treville returned. “You three are of the most popular in the regiment, you will see that the men have no problems with this news as they prepare for battle.”

Aramis glanced at his companions, with an especially doubtful look from Treville to Athos, and then back at Treville. “Is that it?”

Treville levelled his gaze at Aramis. “This is of the utmost urgency, Aramis. There isn't any more to say.”

“I-” Aramis was going to continue, but Porthos nudged him and Athos shot him a cool look so he decided against it. “Of course, Captain.” Aramis amended his original statement.

With that, they were dismissed. The three left the office and hurried down the steps to gather the men together.

Chapter Text

They were three days into the ride to Les Ponts-de-Cé, and surrounded by the French army. Aramis was torn. He revelled in the action and adrenalin of the march, this was the reason he loved being in the Musketeers; the adventure. But, this would be the first real battle that Aramis had ever partaken in, and so, lingering at the back of his mind was fear. By now, Aramis had been with the regiment for three years, almost since it first began, but never before had something like this happened. He looked around him, his brother Musketeers rode beside him, and Aramis decided that what he needed at that moment was distraction.

“So tell me, Athos,” Aramis began, picking the man riding next to him. “Will this be your first battle?”

Athos barely spared him a look, but he nodded all the same.

“I see. Nervous?” Aramis continued.

“Of course he is,” a voice interrupted before Athos could reply. “He's doing the silent and brooding thing again.”

Aramis grinned at Marsac, who had spoken. “You make the finest swordsman in our regiment sound like a hen, my friend.

“And besides,” he added. “I don't believe I have ever seen Athos as anything other than silent and brooding, save for when I introduced him to Madame Bonacieux. I believe I may have had the privilege to see a smile then.”

Marsac raised his eyebrows and studied Athos appraisingly. “I had no idea you could even perform such an action, Athos.”

Athos glanced at Marsac disinterestedly. “Only when I find myself in pleasant company.”

There was laughter from behind them as Porthos brought his horse into line with the other three Musketeer's. “That's you sorted for the day, Marsac.” Porthos continued to laugh.

“I'm a reasonable, honourable man.” Said Marsac, shrugging lightly. “I won't take offence.”

“Good thing too,” Aramis said, chuckling. “Athos' sword is even sharper than his tongue.”

Marsac shook his head. “But all the same, I can see Baudin and it looks as though he hasn't been laughed at enough today.” He said, and spurred his horse forwards towards the unfortunate Baudin.

With Marsac gone, the remaining three Musketeers rode in silence for a few minutes.

“Have either of you ever been in battle before?” Athos asked, surprising both Porthos and Aramis.

Aramis took the lead. He shrugged, “eh. Not really. Not to this degree, at least.”

Porthos nodded. “We've been in skirmishes.”

“Altercations.” Aramis said.

“Disputes.”

“Scrimmages.”

“Even a few tussles.” Porthos finished with a grin.

Aramis nodded sagely. “But never a battle.”

Athos stared at the pair in something like disbelief. For a second, he looked away from the and at the countryside the army was riding through. He imagined that birds were singing, though it was impossible tell from the heavy, constant steps of the march, and the sun was shining brightly enough to make him thankful for the shade his hat provided. “And yet still you can joke.” He said eventually.

“Well,” Aramis adjusted his hat. “We have to pass the time somehow.”

Two days later, the army had camped for the night. Any men whom nerves hadn't reached before, succumbed to them now. The all too real realisation that within two weeks they could be dead was leading to disruption in the ranks. Some were considering deserting, and the fear was infectious, spreading from one man to the next like a plague. Aramis took to praying with those whose fear overwhelmed all else. Athos had been fencing with Porthos, teaching the man more finesse in his movement and in turn being taught how to incorporate brawling into his fencing style. The two were returning to their bedrolls to get some sleep before the next morning, when they heard Aramis' voice. He was kneeling with a man neither recognised, on a bedroll that was not his own.

“-relying on your infinite mercy and promises,” Aramis was in the middle of saying, which was then echoed by the man next to him. “-I hope to obtain pardon of my sins, the help of your grace, and life everlasting,” Aramis continued.

The other man repeated again, faltering slightly. “And life ever- ever...”

“Everlasting,” Aramis reminded him gently, and carried on with the prayer. “Through the merits of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Redeemer.”

The man followed Aramis' lead, and together they finished with “Amen.”

Aramis and the stranger opened their eyes, and the stranger smiled at Aramis gratefully. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, as Aramis stood and placed his trusty, battered brown hat on his head.

“Not at all.” Aramis replied, smiling and lifting his hat. “God be with you.”

“And you.” The stranger replied, before returning to his own business.

Aramis walked away, and looked up to see Athos and Porthos watching him. “Gentlemen,” he said, grinning. “I'm aware of how handsome I am, but really, there's no need to stare.”

“Who was that?” Athos asked, as the three Musketeers fell into step.

“I have no idea.” Aramis replied. “But he was scared, and he knew that I know my prayers. So he asked if I would pray with him.”

Athos studied Aramis. “I didn't know you're religious.”

Instead of replying, Aramis responded with a question. “And you are not, I take it?”

A sour smile twisted Athos' face. “Not anymore.” He said, before turning to go to his own bedroll, which he had situated as far as he could from anyone else's.

“I still don't like 'im.” Porthos muttered to Aramis, as the pair walked to their own bedrolls.

“Weren't you just practising with him?” Aramis queried, raising an eyebrow at Porthos.

Porthos dropped himself down onto his roll and pulled off his bandanna and hat. “Only 'cause you were busy bein' pious.”

“You could've practised with Marsac,” Aramis pointed out, gesturing to their friend sleeping next to them. “I'm sure he would've stayed awake long enough.”

Porthos grumbled and lay back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I think that, in fact, you're warming to Monsieur Athos.” Aramis said, voice light with amusement as he lay down and cushioned his head with his arm.

“And I think that that's a load of bollocks.” Porthos replied. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Aramis smiled to himself but said no more, and instead entertained himself by gazing at the stars. The night was warm, as it should be in summer, and it quickly induced Aramis into a comfortable haze of drowsiness. As the silver pinpricks began to blur together, Aramis was mindful enough to pull his hat down over his eyes, and seconds later he was asleep, the background noises of the camp having faded to a dull murmur.

The next day, on the road again, and Marsac, Aramis, Porthos, and Athos were riding together in a line, as was the routine that they had now fallen in to.

“Didn't we bring the Duke of Luçon to Paris to avoid exactly this?” Porthos asked suddenly, interrupting everyone else's thoughts.

“Maybe the arrogant bastard didn't do his job as well as he should have.” Aramis suggested.

Marsac shook his head with a put upon sigh. “And now we have to clean up the mess.”

“Wait,” Athos looked intrigued. “You escorted the Duke to Paris? You three?”

“Not all the way.” Aramis clarified. “We met him about halfway from Avignon.”

“Bloody long ride.” Porthos grumbled, and Aramis and Marsac hummed in agreement.

Athos turned his head away from the three in wonderment. Did they not realise how prestigious that mission must have been? How trustworthy they must be to Captain Treville, and the King himself? And then, their only conclusion on the matter was that the Duke was arrogant. “The Treaty of Angoulême was supposed to be the official end to the civil war,” he found himself saying to Porthos. “But I suppose Marie de Medici wasn't satisfied with that.”

“She's never been satisfied with anything.” Marsac said. “Especially when it comes to power.”

“You sound as though you knew her well.” Aramis teased his friend.

Marsac nodded with mock severity. “We were very close friends.”

“Really?” Aramis gave Marsac a disappointed look. “Friends? That's what you went for?”

“I don't know.” Marsac responded. “What kind of idiot would want to even claim that they were intimate with the Queen of France?”

“Idiot?” Aramis questioned again, in the exact same tone of voice. “I think you mean genius.”

“No.” Porthos interceded. “He means idiot, and I agree.”

Aramis scratched his eyebrow with his thumb and refused to look at his companions. “None of you have any sense of adventure.”

That earned him an incredulous stare from Athos. “You do realise that we are currently riding to battle?”

“He likes to live in his own little world.” Marsac told Athos, with a smirk at Aramis.

“I do.” Aramis nodded, throwing a dirty look at the other three. “People always agree with me there.”

“Sounds like a terrible, terrible place.” Porthos decided, sharing a grin with Marsac.

Aramis gazed in front of him until his eyes alighted on a familiar figure. “I'm going to spend some quality time with Chevalier.” He told the others, his pride evidently hurt, as he urged his horse on and away from them toward the unsuspecting Chevalier.

The army was just two days from Les Ponts-de-Cé, and Athos and Aramis were riding next to each other. Porthos and Marsac had been selected for a duty that may have been scouting, given how close they were to Marie de Medici's army, and the remaining two Musketeers had been riding largely in silence. Athos himself had been wallowing in his thoughts, and wished he had a bottle of wine for company, when suddenly Aramis spoke.

“Why did you give up faith?” Aramis asked, looking at Athos with his head slightly tilted.

Athos looked at him narrowly for a moment, uncomprehending. “In what?”

“God.” Aramis replied, and Athos was reminded of the few nights ago when he had declared his non-belief.

“I'd rather not talk about it.” He said shortly, determinedly focusing on anything but Aramis.

Aramis was quiet only for a second. “But there is a reason.” He deduced. “Was it love?” He guessed. “Many men lose their faith that way.”

Athos must have tensed, because Aramis said something akin to 'ahah!' and continued talking. “Was it your family?” Aramis asked. “Or a woman? Your best friend, perhaps?”

Athos turned and glared at his fellow Musketeer who, for once, looked a little taken aback. “If you must know,” he said through gritted teeth. “There was a woman.” And with that, Athos spurred on his horse and left a bewildered Aramis staring after him with more questions than before.

Chapter Text

The Night of the Sixth of August, 1620

The camp was eerily quiet. The horses nickered softly to one another. Somewhere in another section of the camp, the faint sound of water boiling was carried over by the breeze. The thin hiss of a whetstone sharpening Athos' blade had become a rhythmic accompaniment to the background noise of the camp. In the distance against the inky blue of the night sky moved the black shadows of Marie de Medici's army, their torches a feeble imitation of the stars above.

Aramis was kneeling, his back turned to the fire and his companions, and his lips moved soundlessly in prayer.

Heavenly Father,

Somewhere, though Aramis might have imagined it, he thought he heard Treville mutter an order to a Musketeer.

Forgive those who trespass against me,

Behind him, Aramis sensed Marsac shift on his bedroll. He imagined his brother would be frowning, attempting to imagine the thin material beneath him as something more wholesome. Like a mattress.

For they know not what they do.

The rhythm of Athos' sharpening jerked and stopped, and it took several seconds until he continued his work. Aramis did not think that Athos' expression would have changed in the slightest during the brief interlude.

Protect us from evil,
and shield us from harm.

Aramis' mind wandered to the enemy camp, but then retreated back behind friendly lines. He thought of the camp that sprawled out around him; of the men that tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, he would trust with his life; of the inevitable battle that drew closer with every passing minute.

You are my armour, my protection, and my sword.

Almost silently, Porthos stepped around Aramis, with nothing to signal his presence other than the feather-light touch to the shoulder. Aramis listened as Porthos settled down next to him, probably rolled onto his side to face him. He felt his brother's eyes on him like a suit of armour.

Preserve us in our hour of need,

Aramis thought back to Paris. He thought of his King and Queen, whom he fought in this war for. He thought of the garrison, almost empty now, save for the cats that prowled and the rats that hid. He thought of Herblay, of his mother and his brothers.

In Jesus' name.

Aramis felt his rosary beads hanging around his neck, and for a second it was as though he carried the weight of all the soldiers around him with them, but as soon as the feeling arrived, it was gone.

Amen.

With his prayer finished, Aramis felt lighter than he had during the entirety of the journey to Les Ponts-de-Cé.

Athos glanced up as Aramis shifted from his kneeling position to lying down on his bedroll. He saw him murmur something to Porthos, saw Porthos reply, then saw both of them settle down to sleep.

There was nothing else to see, and Athos returned to sharpening his sword. With every stroke of the whetstone, the reflection of their dwindling fire in his sword grew a shade brighter. Athos watched, mesmerised, as the flames smouldered in his blade, until he blinked suddenly and the image was lost.

As quickly as he had blinked, the emptiness returned. His chest hollowed and Athos had to blink back the tears that surged to his eyes, trying to tell himself that it was nothing more than that they were dry because of the fire. It seemed the whetstone had dropped from his hand, and Athos instead reached for the chain around his neck and found the clasp, considering, not for the first time, simply dropping the locket in the fire. However, as with every time before, his hand instead fell to the locket and opened it. Athos ran a calloused thumb over the pressed forget-me-not inside before he snapped it shut.

Anne flitted through his mind, as she always did, with flowers threaded through her hair and a smile dancing across her lips. She always smiled. She had always smiled, until one day she didn't. Anne hadn't smiled for a long time by the day she died. No, since the day he'd killed her.

He did not care, Athos decided, if he died in the battle. He would not care. He did hope his death would be quick. Although it would be more than he deserved, more than he had given Anne. If he died then at least he could apologise to her, something he could never do in this life, Athos' muddled mind told him. If he died tomorrow, he could apologise to Anne.

Suddenly, dying didn't seem like such a bad idea at all.

The Morning of the Seventh of August, 1620

The two armies were drawn up in lines, facing each other from opposite hills. Dawn had barely been blow away by the breeze, but that was for the best. No one in their right mind wanted to fight a battle in the midday heat, what with the already significant threats from muskets and swords. The Musketeers were not stationed in the front lines. As cavalrymen, they were stationed further back with the infantry on the first line.

Treville trotted up and down the lines of his men. A battle-hardened Captain, his face was pulled into a grimace as he examined the Musketeers, but that didn't stop him from pausing by every other man to offer a few quick words of advice and encouragement.

Aramis, Athos and Porthos had been placed next to each other in their line. Aramis' hands were alternating between his rosary and his pistols, and he caught Marsac's eye more than once; the two exchanging nods and mouthing words at each other. Porthos and Athos were far less fidgety than Aramis. Aside from occasionally rolling his shoulders, Porthos was settled back in his saddle, and Athos barely moved a muscle. From where Treville was looking at him, Athos resembled the statues of men on horseback around Paris. In fact, to look at him from the side, he bore a startling resemblance to the statue of King Henry IV on the Pont Neuf bridge. Treville opted to keep that thought to himself.

Then, suddenly, there was noise. Bugles and trumpets were blown, orders streamed like a waterfall over the soldiers and Treville found himself giving his own orders in crisp, clipped commands. The horses stirred, pawing at the soft grass beneath their hooves before heels were driven into their sides and they started forward. Treville wheeled his own horse around and led the charge of the Musketeers, his thoughts suddenly devoted only to the enemy and his men.

Hours later...

Somehow, more quickly than he could comprehend, the battle was over in a mindless rush of adrenalin and blood. Aramis found himself back at the camp, with Marie de' Medici's forces defeated and his own to tend to. Aramis, along with countless others, devoted himself to caring for those injured in the battle. Of course, that meant every soldier in the army, excluding those who had been killed.

He stitched as he had never done before, wrapped bandaged first with linen designed for the purpose and then with whatever scraps of clean cloth he could find. At one point, someone pointed out a wound of his own; a sword slash on his left shoulder. Had it been just a few more inches to the right, and he would have died out on the field. As it was, Aramis allowed himself to be bandaged and resolved to stitch it later. He lost track of time, but kept count of the men whose faces were covered with a respectful cloth and then moved out of the tent dedicated to the wounded and onto the carts bound for Paris.

Eventually, Porthos found him and took him aside. Porthos, Aramis was glad to see, was relatively well. He had a bandage wrapped over his left eye, but he assured Aramis no harm was done to his actual eye, just a slash down it.

“Have you seen Marsac?” Aramis asked, when they had both assured each other that they fine, within reason.

Porthos nodded, face grim. “I was told he'll be fine.” He received a questioning look from Aramis. “Got himself stabbed near the stomach, in his side.” Porthos caught Aramis' arm, careful to make it his right, when his friend started to move away. “He's fine. Really. You know how 'e is, milkin' it in case any nurses turn up.”

That managed to raise a flicker of a smile from Aramis. “And Athos?” He enquired.

Porthos blanched at the question. “You 'aven't seen him?”

For a moment, Aramis thought that Porthos was surprised Aramis hadn't seen Athos in the tent. From Porthos' expression, though, it quite quickly became clear that he hadn't seen Athos either.

“No.” Aramis said, a crease forming between his brows as he frowned. “No, I haven't.”

That left them with the rather unlikely option that neither of them had seen Athos within the tent for the wounded. However, after asking after him and walking it from one end to the other, there was still no sign of him. Of course, there was always the possibility that Athos had been completely unharmed after the battle and had instead gone to some other part of the camp, but both of them found the notion unlikely.

“You don't think-” Aramis began, but Porthos interrupted him.

“No. 'E can't be.” Porthos rubbed the back of his neck. “Per'aps he's still on the field. Wounded...”

Despite the fact that they were hardly close to Athos, the thought still made the two men sick to their stomachs.

Aramis' hand went to the bandage at his shoulder. “There are people looking.” He reasoned, mouth turning down at the corners.

“They might not find 'im in time.” Porthos replied, both glancing toward the battlefield and the countless bodies strewn across it.

The income of soldiers to the tent had slowed, Aramis noticed. Things were calmer after the hours he'd spent there, and dusk was gathering at the edge of the day. Soon, it would be too dark to search for any surviving men left behind, and there was no guarantee that they would live through the night.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks, and Aramis nodded.

“Give me one moment,” he said, turning to fetch his coat from where he'd discarded it in the tent. Aramis pulled it on over his bloody shirt as he returned to Porthos. “All for one.” He said, summoning something resembling a grin.

Porthos clasped his shoulder, and they stepped onto the battlefield once more. “And one for all.”

Chapter Text

The Evening of the Seventh of August, 1620

Whenever he opened his eyes, strange shapes wavered and shadows hovered at the edge of his vision, but try as he might, he couldn't force them to be still. There was a buzzing at his ears, but when he tried to move his hands to cover them, he found they were leaden.

Unless...

A wave of panic hit him as the awful possibility entered his mind. Did he still have hands? What if they were gone? How would he hold Anne again? How would he wield his sword? The shadows at his eyes grew darker and larger, threatening to overwhelm his as his chest became sore and began to ache.

Trapped in a cage of his own breathing and pounding blood, he didn't hear the voices until they were directly above him, and even then he had to strain to understand.

"... Found 'im! Aramis, he's here."

After a pause, another voice was above him.

"He's barely conscious. We have to move him now."

"No, you don't. Not with your arm. I can carry 'im, you lead the way."

Gently, oh so gently, he felt himself lifted up. Then he was moving, every step sending a jolt of pain through his head.

"'M sorry, but if you wouldn't get yourself knocked on the 'ead then you wouldn't 'ave a problem in the first place."

Apparently his discomfort was not in silence.

"The man is wounded, Porthos. Have some sympathy."

"We're all wounded 'ere."

The voices kept talking, low, a little amused and mostly relieved. Encased by the warm sounds, he allowed the shadows to cloud his eyes.

The Eighth of August, 1620

Athos awoke slowly, and wrinkled his nose as he was assaulted by a very unpleasant miasma. He tried to inhale, but the smell was so bad that in his eagerness to exhale he began to cough. The pain that accompanied it from his ribs was horrendous, and he found his eyes watering as he gasped through it. Then there was a warm hand easing him upward and rubbing up and down his back in a steady motion. Eventually, the cough eased and Athos blinked until he could make out the face of his saviour. Once he could see again, Athos found himself looking into the concerned and exhausted face of Aramis.

Wordlessly, Aramis offered his a water-skin. Athos accepted gladly, about to drink as deeply as he could, but before he could Aramis snatched it back and raised his eyebrows.

"If you want to avoid another coughing fit, I'd suggest drinking it slowly. Little sips."

With a begrudging look, Athos nodded and did as Aramis recommended.

"You look terrible, by the way." Aramis said as Athos finished drinking.

Although he was sure Aramis was right, Athos couldn't let it go.

"I could say the same of you."

His claim wasn't without evidence. There were dark shadows underneath Aramis' eyes, there was mud and blood splattered over his face and hair, and one look at his hands told Athos, in far more detail than he needed, about what Aramis had spent the past hours doing.

"I've been busy." Aramis replied, looking positively delighted with Athos' insult.

"So have I." Athos said, encouraged by Aramis' bright expression.

"Busy sleepin'." Porthos wandered over to the two of them, also looking tired, but less so than Aramis.

Aramis sighed heavily. "I told you that you could only see him if you wouldn't upset him."

"And I said that I'd do what I like and that you should be restin'." Porthos batted back, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Porthos-"

"Go." Athos received two surprised looks for intervening, which he thought was perhaps a little unnecessary.

"Honestly, Aramis. Go and sleep. You've done enough." He added, when Aramis still didn't look ready to leave.

Porthos gave Aramis a hand up. "Don't worry. I'll even give 'im the list of what's wrong with 'im."

With Aramis gone, Porthos took his seat beside Athos. For a long moment there was an awkward quiet.

Athos cleared his throat. "So. What exactly is wrong with me?"

The fact that Porthos withheld from making a joke was so clearly written across his face that Athos actually had to repress a smile.

"Well, you got a nasty lump on your 'ead that'll make itself known for a while. And you've got a few broken ribs. Other than that, not too much."

Still alive, then. Athos thought with a grimace. How lucky I am.

Again, quiet fell, and Athos thought back upon the battle. He'd been fighting hard, he knew he'd taken down many of the other side's men, and then... Someone had ridden by on a horse and he'd been knocked on the head. After that, things became difficult to recall with any kind of clarity. There were mere glimpses.

"You two came back for me." Athos said, surprising himself with the emotion in his voice.

Porthos looked at him with an unusual solemnity. "We couldn't leave you. We're brothers, and that's how it works." He reached out and briefly rested his hand on Athos' shoulder.

Blinking hard, Athos turned his head and stared at the canvas wall of the tent, and focused on the sounds of the men around him in varying states of consciousness. When he looked back around, Porthos was still there, hands clasped in his lap and looking out at the camp outside the tent.

The Eleventh of August, 1620

Over the days it took for the army to recollect itself, neither Athos, Porthos, or Marsac saw much of Aramis. He flitted up and down the tent for the wounded, checking wounds and offering spiritual guidance for those that asked for it. As the days went by, he saw fewer and fewer men pass away, and more and more show signs of recovery. Whilst those well enough to ride began the long trek back to Paris, he remained with those who were not.

Amongst those were his friends, and Aramis made a point of securing a cart for them all to travel in. Athos was walking around for short periods, but Aramis absolutely forbade him from riding a horse, conceding instead that every so often Athos could walk beside the cart instead of sitting in it. Porthos had managed to avoid riding back by saying he might veer off course with one of his eyes bandaged, so also sat in the cart. Marsac had been bemoaning his wound so much that most people had him travel in the cart so that they couldn't hear him, if nothing else. Aramis rode alongside.

"Hey, Aramis."

Aramis looked at Porthos expectantly.

"That was our first battle."

It was Marsac who replied. "And the last of some."

Although the four of them had been lucky enough to survive the battle, not all of their brothers had been so fortunate. Both Baudin and Chevalier had been killed, and a blanket of melancholy settled over the little group.

"Their sacrifice will not be forgotten." Athos said, as though stating a simple fact.

They travelled in companionable silence until they reached Paris. Each was careful to ignore the fact that there was more than a hint of mistiness to Porthos' eyes, and that Aramis' hand stayed at his rosary for hours on end, and that Athos seemed to sleep, save for the crease of his brow, and that Marsac did nothing more than gaze at his hands.