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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"

Here we are again with an entry into September's Fete des Mousquetaires Challenge. This month, the prompt was "annoyances" and well, this fit in perfectly with my own head-canon about Aramis and injury so here we are with a suitable tasting of h/c, whump, and angst. This is my first time every doing a 5+1 type thing and it was fun, but the chapters vary in length so...there's that.

This ficlet, as all of mine do, fits into a larger Musketeers universe that I'm crafting. The first multi-chapter fic of that 'verse is nearing the end of the beta process and then it'll be coming to you! So when you see mentions of characters that you don't know yet, well, that's why.

As always, enormous thanks to my wonderful beta  Arlothia  for her time, patience, and help to make these fics better than they would be without her!

Onward!

There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.
Erma Bombeck

August 1620

What a mess this day had been. Sent straight from the deepest bowels of hell, no doubt. What other sort of day would bring with it two assassination attempts within six short hours of each other? Mercifully, it was finally coming to an end. The king was safe; the threats dealt with. All that was left was to see to his men.

Treville moved wearily away from the king's chambers towards the ante room where his Musketeers were waiting. They had proven their worth today. For the first time since the birth of their regiment a few weeks prior, the five men chosen to serve as the king's personal guard had truly been put to the test.

They had performed admirably; more than admirably. They had excelled beyond expectation. They had shown everyone, especially the doubtful Cardinal, why they had been chosen and, more importantly, why the Musketeers were needed in the first place.

Treville's spine straightened and his chin lifted with pride as he strode through the doorway that led to his men.

They were spread throughout the room with varying degrees of visible weariness.

Etienne, arms crossed over his chest, leaned back against a pillar. His hat was pulled low over his eyes and his chin was almost touching his chest.

Dujon was pacing, as he tended to, but with a weary droop to his shoulders. And there was a measured purpose to each step as if he had to focus on each movement of his feet.

Thierry stood in a loose version of attention with a hand on his sword hilt, his fingers idly drumming against the pommel. But the slow, blank way he was blinking spoke to his exhaustion.

Tristan leaned sideways against the doorframe opposite the one Treville was entering through. His arms were also crossed over his chest and his eyes were closed, though the tension in his posture suggested he was very much awake.

Lastly, he looked at Aramis. The young Musketeer rested with a shoulder against the room's only window. His hands idly fiddled with the brim of his hat and his gaze remained fixed on the gardens outside. There was something stiff about his posture that had Treville's eyes narrowing. But then, there was something stiff about all of their postures.

It had been a very long day indeed.

"You did well today, all of you. I know the day was trying and not without its pains," he eyed the dried blood on Tristan's temple, "but I trust you've all survived it."

"Fine and fit, Captain," Thierry replied jauntily, a weary smirk turning up the corner of his mouth. "Nothing but a few sore ribs on my end."

"A knock to the head was the worst of it," Tristan put in.

Treville narrowed his gaze at him.

"But of course, I'll have Henri look me over to be certain," Tristan hastily added.

"How is that knee?" Treville asked Etienne with a nod towards the offending joint.

"A few days' rest and it'll be right as rain," the other man replied.

"Dujon?" Treville called for the man's attention and he dutifully stopped pacing to meet the captain's eyes.

"Nothing but weary. Could likely sleep for a week after this day."

"And yet you keep pacing," Thierry teased.

Dujon made a rude gesture with his hand and Treville sighed.

"Gentlemen," he scolded firmly before turning his attention to their youngest.

Aramis, though his body was still angled towards the window, had turned his head to regard them all as they spoke. His fingers still restlessly played with the brim of his hat.

"And you?" Treville prodded.

Aramis blinked at him, as if surprised to be asked.

"Nothing but annoyances, Captain," he replied dutifully.

"Have Henri see to your 'annoyances' and then all of you get some rest. You're dismissed."

He watched them all file out of the room and then sighed wearily as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. He would need to speak to the palace guard about their rotations for the night. Then he would join his men.

It was late when Treville finally arrived at the old butcher shop that served as their temporary command post while a new garrison was being built. He was expecting a quiet arrival and for all the men to be sleeping. Instead, every one of them was awake and displaying palpable worry in the main room.

Etienne had his arms tightly crossed over his chest, fingers drumming restlessly against his biceps as he shifted from foot to foot.

Dujon was pacing again, but this time with a restless agitation.

Thierry was pacing too, but it seemed more like a prowl, as if searching for something to take his worry out on.

Tristan stood hovering near the far door that led to Henri's quarters and their makeshift infirmary.

Aramis was nowhere to be seen.

"What's happened?" Treville asked sharply when none of them even seemed to notice his arrival.

It was Thierry who answered, still stalking restlessly around the room.

"The boy collapsed the moment we stepped across the threshold."

"Not a word of warning," Etienne bit out. "One moment fine, the next sprawled in a gangly heap."

Treville felt a brow creep up doubtfully. If he'd truly been 'fine', then Aramis wouldn't have collapsed at all.

"It seems his 'annoyances' were actually two stab wounds," Tristan explained darkly as he glanced over his shoulder at Treville.

"What?!" Treville snapped.

Stabbed?

How had none of them noticed?

"In his side. He'd stuffed an old shirt into his doublet to slow the bleeding," Thierry expounded. "Probably the only reason he was able to carry on as long as he did."

Treville stood stock still for a moment, hardly believing the evening had taken such a drastic turn. Then, without a word, he stalked past all of them and into Henri's quarters. He shut the door firmly behind him and approached the room's two occupants. The old physician was leaning over Aramis, who was sickly pale and unconscious.

"Henri?" Treville asked simply.

"He'll live," Henri assured immediately. "The wounds weren't overly deep. He lost a fair bit of blood, but the wounds are closed. Provided he avoids infection he'll be just fine." The physician moved away from where Aramis lay towards the door, no doubt intending to update the other four Musketeers on their friend's state.

After the door closed, Treville let out a slow, relieved breath and knelt next to the cot. He rested a hand on Aramis' unruly hair and was startled with the young soldier immediately stirred. When his brown eyes finally opened and focused on Treville, the captain made sure to keep his face stern and uncompromising.

"Annoyances?" he demanded lowly.

Aramis grimaced, eyes cutting away guiltily.

"Look at me, soldier," Treville commanded.

Reluctantly, brown met blue again.

"Care to explain yourself?"

It wasn't really a request.

"I didn't want to worry anyone," Aramis confessed. But Treville narrowed his eyes doubtfully. Aramis was an excellent liar, but Treville was learning to see beyond the façade. Something in the excuse didn't quite ring true.

"Try again," he suggested with a stern scowl.

Aramis huffed, looking annoyed.

"You realize you might have died?" Treville pointed out. "Then where would we be?"

"In need of a new marksman?"

Treville resisted the urge to reach out and shake him, barely. If Aramis didn't still look so weak and tired despite his cavalier attitude, he might have given into the impulse.

"Why would you conceal this?" Treville demanded. "What possible reason could there be?"

Aramis stubbornly stared straight up at the ceiling, mouth clamped closed.

"Aramis!"

"I didn't want to be weak!" Aramis blurted. Then, after a frustrated huff, "It was no less than I deserved anyway."

Treville raised both eyebrows in surprise and then shook his head, trying to decide which awful statement to address first.

"First of all, admitting to injury does not equate to weakness. Whoever told you it did was wrong."

Aramis wasn't looking at him, the boy's jaw was resolutely clenched shut and his entire body was thrumming with tension. Treville sighed, rubbed at his weary eyes and then rested a gentle hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"Aramis," he called softly, waiting until the young soldier reluctantly turned to meet his gaze. "Whoever told you that was wrong."

But Treville could see in the boy's eyes that this was a lesson learned too completely. Whoever had taught it to him had made sure he learned it well.

A battle for another time, though.

"And why on earth would you deserve to be stabbed?"

There was guilt in the marksman's eyes again as he reluctantly confessed,

"I let him get past me."

Confusion turned down the corners of Treville's mouth.

"Who? The man who stabbed you? The second assassin?"

"I should have stopped him. If I had, Tristan wouldn't have been hurt. Perhaps my replacement should have more close combat experience."

"Your replace… Aramis, you do realize he got past Etienne and Dujon before he even got to you?"

Aramis frowned.

"Should I replace them too?" Treville asked, waving a hand in exasperation.

Aramis' frown developed into a full scowl.

"If you are that uncertain of your place here then I've failed you."

"What? No, you haven't," Aramis jumped quickly to Treville defense.

"If you think yourself so easily replaced, then I have."

"But I failed." He said it like that alone should be reason to take away his uniform and send him back to the infantry.

"What you did was break the bastard's ribs, which weakened him enough that Tristan was able to stop him despite the head wound he suffered."

Aramis snapped his mouth closed against whatever argument he'd been about to offer. He obviously hadn't thought about it that way.

"You're not being replaced, now or ever." Treville felt like he needed to make that point crystal clear. "Now get some rest. You've got four brothers to answer to about why you collapsed on them with no warning and you better give them a better reason than you gave me."

Aramis slid a wary glance at the closed door.

"I'll hold them off till morning," Treville promised as he stood. "But then you're on your own."

"You'd abandon me to their mercy?" Aramis blinked at him with impossibly wide, innocent eyes.

Treville started for the door, answering over his shoulder.

"Without hesitation."

End of Chapter 1

This is 6 chapters in total and since the challenge ends on the 30th, we will have 2 chapters today, 2 tomorrow, and 2 on the 30th so that it's all up by the deadline but not all thrust upon you at once.

Thanks for reading! Hope you take a moment to let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

The greatest evil is physical pain.
St. Augustine

May 1625

Athos narrowed his eyes as he watched Aramis secure the splint around his sprained wrist. Perhaps he was imagining it, or it was a trick of the dim light, but Aramis looked a bit paler than he had when they arrived.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.

The question drew Porthos' attention where he sat nearby on a haybale, inspecting the neat new row of stitches in his thigh.

Aramis glanced up at him through his lashes.

"Hmm? Oh yes… Fine," he assured.

"You seem… pale," Athos challenged carefully.

Porthos was watching them both closely now, brow knitted together in concern.

Aramis straightened, relinquishing Athos' wrist back into his possession, and waved a dismissive hand.

"I got nicked in the fight, but it's merely an annoyance. I'll see to it later."

"Nicked?" Porthos repeated warily. "How badly nicked?"

Aramis hesitated, only for a moment, but it was enough to give away the lie that followed.

"It's nothing… A scratch."

Athos narrowed his eyes, glancing over at Porthos, who frowned back at him. Together they pinned Aramis beneath both their glares.

"It's nothing," Aramis insisted, a bit of a defensive growl rising in his tone.

"You're lying." Porthos sounded confused, as if he couldn't fathom why Aramis would do such a thing.

"I'm fine."

Athos ignored the strident defense and studied what he could see of his brother instead. His doublet, hastily donned and buttoned into place after the battle, hid his torso and thighs from view. But there was something in the way Aramis was standing, his left side turned slightly away from them, that suggested the injury was hidden there.

Athos opened his mouth to demand Aramis show them this 'scratch' when the barn door swung open, revealing a young, towheaded boy with a bucket grasped tightly in his hands.

Aramis whirled to face the door, hand flying to his sword, only to suddenly list one way, then stagger the other as he tried to catch himself.

Then he simply crumpled.

Across the barn a cow mooed.

"Oi!" the boy called, blue eyes wide and round as saucers. "What 'appened t' 'im?"

Athos and Porthos, both frozen in shock for a long breath, sprang into action. They scrambled across the barn floor and went to their knees next to their fallen brother. Porthos had to awkwardly stretch his wounded leg out to the side and Athos was restricted to one hand, but together they managed to roll Aramis onto his back.

The cow mooed again and the boy stood frozen in the doorway.

"Aramis?" Porthos tapped the marksman's cheek as Athos deftly attacked the buttons of Aramis' doublet with his working hand. Their brother didn't stir. "Aramis!" Porthos tried again, more firmly this time, and he was rewarded with a vague grunt.

Aramis' eyes blinked open dazedly just as Athos got the doublet unfastened and pushed the leather aside.

"Bloody hell," Porthos hissed, taking in the deep slash to the side of Aramis' abdomen. Blood had soaked into his shirt down into his breeches, a fact which had been hidden by the long leather of his doublet.

Athos murmured his agreement as he twisted, reaching with his good arm for the nearest of their saddle bags. He pulled it towards him and dug out the first piece of cloth he came across. He shoved it firmly against the wound, eliciting a sharp gasp from the wounded man, only to have Porthos take over the task a moment later, his touch considerably gentler.

"This needs needlework," Athos realized lowly as he met Porthos' gaze again.

Porthos, eyes wide, looked as helpless as Athos felt.

Just then, a sound at the door had them jumping, both having forgotten the boy was there.

He had set down the pail and was watching them with wide eyes.

"'e needs sewin'?" The boy asked carefully.

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos and nodded slowly.

"Me mum's a seamstress."

Athos grimaced. It was a grisly task to ask of a stranger, much less a woman.

"She…" The boy hesitated and then nodded decisively. "She'll help," he promised. He turned back to the barn door and then aborted the movement, looking back at them. The cow mooed in frustration. "Don' move."

Then the boy was gone.

Athos turned back to his brothers, focusing on the calming words Porthos was murmuring.

In reality, though his tone was gentle, his words were not.

"You're a bleedin' fool, you know," Porthos was saying soothingly. "If you die before I can properly kill you for this, I'll never forgive you."

Aramis grimaced, or perhaps it was meant to be a smile, either way, Athos rested a comforting hand on the marksman's shoulder.

"It was stupid and reckless," Athos added, though he failed to achieve the level of soothing Porthos had and his words came out a bit harsher than he'd hoped. Aramis narrowed his dark gaze, looking rebellious.

"It's–" he started, but Athos cut him off.

"If you say 'it's nothing', I will never speak to you again."

Aramis' mouth snapped shut.

"Why didn't you just say somethin'," Porthos asked, his tone still astoundingly soothing and calm.

"I…" Aramis hesitated with his reply and looked back and forth between them, only to have the rapid shifting of his gaze apparently make him dizzy. His eyes squeezed closed and he swallowed thickly.

He didn't have a chance to continue before the barn door slammed open.

"Told ya," the boy gasped around panting breaths as he pointed at them with one hand and pulled on a woman's hand with the other.

"Oh dear," the woman gasped, frozen in momentary hesitation at the sight of them all bloody and bedraggled.

"Madame, you are a seamstress?" Athos asked quickly.

"Athos, " Aramis scolded breathlessly. Then, stronger as he tilted his head to look at the boy and his mother, "Madame, accept my sincerest apology for disrupting your morning in such a way. I beg your forgiveness and mercy, but if you could find it in your heart to offer aide, we would be most grateful."

Athos rolled his eyes. Bleeding out on a dirty barn floor and Aramis still finds it in him to try charming his way through the situation. As it was, Athos wasn't surprised at all when that innate charm worked exactly as they needed it to once again.

"Oh, hush, you poor dear," the woman softened, drawing in a fortifying breath. "Well, what are you waiting for?" She gestured at them impatiently. "Get the poor thing off the dirty floor and into the house!"

Athos blinked, surprised by her forcefulness. Porthos, however, just smiled down at Aramis.

"Half dead and you've still got it," the large man murmured.

"Could be all dead, and still be more charming than Athos," Aramis hissed through clenched teeth. Porthos started to lift Aramis into his arms, but Athos stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Your leg."

Porthos glared at the injured appendage, as if it had committed the worst of betrayals against him.

"You can't carry him with that arm," Porthos challenged.

"Lever me up," Aramis panted. "Between the three of us, we can manage."

Athos and Porthos traded doubtful looks between them, but with no other option, they did as he said.

After a fair bit of grunting, various moans of pain, a few softly hissed French curses and one loudly stated Spanish one, they finally found their feet. The three of them, a tangled mass of limbs and leaning bodies, somehow managed to present a somewhat steady picture to the boy and his mother.

The woman, brow arched delicately over a set of sharp green eyes, scrutinized the lot of them as if they were nothing more than fools.

"Pierre," the woman pushed the barn door open further, "run back to the house. Clear the table and fetch some water and my sewing kit. Then get back here and see to that poor cow."

Bolstered by his new task, the boy, Pierre, took off at a run.

"Come on then," the woman urged, waving them forward, "before you all topple over."

When Aramis woke, the morning sun was high in the sky, bathing the small room in a warm glow. He was in a bed, which, though too short for him, was soft and comfortable. He had no memory of how he came to be in the bed, however.

"Lot of nerve you've got." The grumbling voice had him turning his head, blinking in confusion at Porthos' glowering face. Athos, seated next to the larger man, looked equally perturbed.

"What?" Aramis mumbled in confusion.

"Sleeping the day away while we've been waiting patiently to yell at you."

Aramis blinked, brow furrowing.

"Yell at me?"

"Why would you do such a thing?" Porthos rumbled.

Aramis frowned.

"Hiding an injury is as foolish as it is dangerous," Athos put in.

Aramis shook his head, pinning his eyes on the ceiling. How could he explain to them that it was instinct, bred into him by his father?

Pain is just weakness. It can and should be overcome. If an injury wasn't killing you, it shouldn't slow you. D'Herblays were not weak. And though he was a d'Herblay no longer, those lessons had never faded.

He knew it was the wrong way to think, he knew that. But it didn't change how he was trained.

They wouldn't understand, just as Treville never had.

"I hadn't realized how bad it was," he defended. The pulsing of pain in his side felt like a punishment for the lie. He'd known he was injured, known he was bleeding. But he'd refused to acknowledge it, especially not while his brothers had needed his care.

"You could have died!" Porthos snapped. "Then where would that leave us, eh?" He gestured sharply between he and Athos.

"With no one to yell at," Aramis replied with an, admittedly, inappropriate twist of humor.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Porthos' gaze ignited with fury and Athos' own eyes blazed.

Porthos opened his mouth, likely to start the promised yelling, but the opening of the door silenced him.

"What on earth?!" A tall, comely woman rounded on Athos and Porthos. She looked vaguely familiar but Aramis couldn't quite remember meeting her. "You would yell at a man who, only hours ago, you were both fretting over like worried little hens?"

Aramis' brow rose in amused surprise. Worried little hens?

Athos and Porthos exchanged a sheepish glance.

"No matter what you're angry about, neither of you can deny you'd be in dire straits if not for him!" she carried on his passionate defense. "He's more manners in his little finger than the two of you combined! Without him, I'd just as soon left you both in that barn and been done with it!"

Aramis pressed his lips together to hide his smile. A vague memory of their begging her help in a barn filtered through his mind. Other, more stilted, memories of her stitching his wound surfaced a moment later.

"You, with your injured arm. Suppose he'd not bound it up, hmm? Then where would you be? Likely having made it worse and in no small amount of pain!"

Athos shifted uncomfortably and his wounded arm twitched on his lap.

"And you," she rounded on Porthos. "With all that blood you left on my hay bales, you might have collapsed just as surely as he did if he'd not seen to you when he did!"

Porthos' cheeks darkened under the scolding, likely remembering how close he'd been to passing out while Aramis stitched his wound closed.

She huffed, pinning them both with a hard glare.

"Ungrateful," she accused. "The both of you!"

Then she strode over to Aramis and with a gentleness that contradicted the fire in her expression. She felt his forehead, checked his wound, and helped him take a drink. She gave him a mischievous smile and a wink before rounding on his brothers once again.

"Well don't just sit there!" she nodded at Athos. "There's broth in the kitchen. Fetch him some."

Athos hesitated, sent Aramis a glare that promised this was not over, and then left the room.

"And you, make yourself useful." She gestured at Porthos. "Help me get him up to sitting."

Porthos obediently limped to Aramis' side. When the woman moved off to a wardrobe to retrieve an extra pillow, the larger Musketeer leaned closer.

"You going to hide behind a woman's skirts, 'Mis?" he hissed, glare promising – as Athos' had – that they would not let the matter of his ignored injury go so easily.

Aramis smiled widely, patting his brother on the arm as he helped ease him up. Despite his obvious irritation, Porthos' hands were gentle.

"A good soldier takes cover wherever he can get it," he replied cheerfully.

Porthos' grumbling gave way to an affectionate shake of the large man's head.

"You'll have to venture into the open sooner or later," Porthos warned, the menacing tone in his voice bearing a hint of warm playfulness now.

"But not yet, my brother." Aramis grinned at his savior as she slid the extra pillow behind his back and fluffed it. "Not yet."

A glare from their hostess had Porthos retreating to his chair.

Aramis smiled contently as she patted his cheek in motherly affection.

He wasn't quite clear on how he'd gained her affection so completely, but he wasn't about to complain.

Yes, he was quite content to remain behind whatever cover she provided so long as she was inclined to provide it. He'd face the wrath of his brothers soon enough. Best put it off until he was better able to mount a proper defense.

As he'd told Porthos, a good soldier knew when to take cover. And if nothing else, he'd always been that.

End of Chapter 2

Hope you're enjoying yourself so far! See you tomorrow with 2 more chapters!

Drop me a line if you feel so inclined!

Chapter Text

This one is meant to be a small tag to series 1, episode 3: "Commodities"

Pain is just weakness leaving the body.
Chesty Puller, USMC

May 1630

Porthos couldn't sleep.

That is to say, he had been sleeping for some time, and was now mercilessly awake. The wound on his back ached fiercely, refusing to give him even a moment's respite. Searching for distraction, he looked around the dim room, lit only by the glow from the fire.

D'Artagnan was asleep in a chair. Bonaire was tied, hand and foot, to another, ensuring he didn't escape. But Aramis was awake, even if he didn't immediately appear so.

Porthos watched as his brother shifted in his own chair, seemingly unable to find a comfortable position. Then, abruptly, he stood. He hefted the chair up and shifted it closer to the fire, then put it down with a pained huff of air bursting from his previously clenched teeth.

Aramis moving closer to a fire was no surprise. He'd not stopped being cold since Savoy.

What surprised Porthos was the stiffness in his brother's back and the obvious discomfort in what little Porthos could see of his face. Aramis wasn't one to let pain show. He'd been brought up to think such a thing was a sign of weakness – a cruel lesson from a hard father.

"You alright, 'Mis?" Porthos asked before he could stop himself.

Aramis jumped, whirling so fast he almost unbalanced himself. He blinked with wide, tired eyes at Porthos as if shocked to see him there despite the fact that Porthos hadn't moved in hours.

"Porthos! You're awake!" Aramis whispered in surprise.

Porthos arched an eyebrow, eyeing his brother more carefully.

"You alright?" he asked again, very deliberately.

"What? Fine." Aramis replied with a confused shake of his head, as if Porthos were a fool for asking. Porthos narrowed his eyes.

His memory of the battle wasn't the clearest and there came a point where everything was shrouded in pain. But as he thought over the skirmish, he remembered something about a chain.

"Saw you take a hit," he pointed out to the marksman, who had drifted closer to check Porthos' wound.

Aramis hummed noncommittally and stepped back.

"Nothing to worry over, mon frere. An annoyance, nothing more."

Porthos frowned, recognizing he was in no position to challenge him.

"Where's Athos?"

Aramis had moved near to the fire again and glanced around over his shoulder.

"Facing his demons through the bottom of a bottle."

Porthos grimaced. No help there then. He looked over at d'Artagnan, but the boy let out a soft snore.

"You sure you're alright?" Porthos asked once more.

Aramis shot him an amused glance.

"Fine and fit, brother."

At the moment, too weak and tired to get off the sofa, Porthos had no choice but to believe him.

When Porthos woke again an hour later, Aramis was gone.

An instinct pulled at him, some hidden string that bound him to his brother and let him know when something was wrong.

He glanced at d'Artagnan, but the boy was still peacefully sleeping. Porthos chewed his lower lip and then painstakingly levered himself up. It wasn't easy, and once he was standing he nearly fell right back down. but through stubborn willpower, he kept his feet.

Then he began his slow search.

Through some divine mercy, Aramis had not gone far.

Porthos found him curled over a bucket, shoulders shaking with dry heaves as it seemed he'd already emptied his stomach of whatever it'd held. Porthos dropped heavily to his knees next to him, reaching out with his good arm to touch his brother's neck.

The heat surprised him.

"Aramis, you're burning up."

"'S nothing…" Aramis insisted, but he kept his head pressed into his forearm where it rested along the rim of the bucket. "You shouldn't be up."

Porthos squeezed his neck, mostly to get his attention.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Aramis."

"It's nothing," the marksman insisted. As if to prove his point, he stubbornly uncurled from around the bucket and sat up straight.

Porthos watched him go positively ghostly white. Then to Porthos' horror, his eyes rolled back and he folded in on himself, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Aramis collapsed away from him, and in his own weakened state, Porthos wasn't quick enough to catch him and pull him back. Instead, he was left to clumsily scramble around the bucket to get a hand on Aramis' neck, feeling – as Aramis had taught him – for a pulse. It was there, but brought little comfort when Aramis' skin still felt hot and he remained unmoving.

Porthos cursed in frustration and worry. Then he turned, bellowing as loud as he could despite his own weakness.

"ATHOS!"

Aramis came around to find something soft beneath his head. His back still throbbed mercilessly, but in his reclined position on his side, he found some relief. He felt the soothing properties of a liniment he kept in his saddle bags settling in across the worst of the assuredly impressive bruising across his lower back.

He realized abruptly it was not just his head that was resting on something soft, but his entire body.

He was in a bed.

It was a drastic change from what he last remembered and it sent a spark of adrenaline through him as his eyes snapped open, entire body tightening and igniting new pains throughout his back.

A hand landed heavily on the side of his neck even as he registered the blurry face in front of him.

"Don't," Porthos warned. "You'll regret it if you do."

Aramis let out a sharp breath through his nose, melting back into the bed with relief.

"Porthos," he realized.

His brother was stretched out next to him on the bed, both of them facing towards the center. They'd likely been positioned in such a way to prevent the exact adrenaline-fueled reaction that had nearly sent Aramis vaulting from the bed.

"You should be resting," Aramis stated, breaths a bit stilted as he sifted through the pain in his back. He reigned it in, forced it into submission and locked it away, just as his father had taught him.

"Apparently I'm not the only one. Your back is a mess," Porthos replied. "And I am resting."

Aramis quirked a brow in submission to that point and wrestled more of the pain into compliance.

"Don't do that. I hate it when you do that."

The soft admission drew Aramis' attention back to Porthos' face.

"What?" he asked, blinking in bewildered confusion.

"Pretend it doesn't hurt. You're allowed to feel pain, you know."

Aramis flinched, another voice rolling through his mind with a less forgiving opinion on the matter.

Pain is merely weakness. It can and should be overcome. Are you weak, Rene?

"Hey. Hey." The hand on his neck tightened. "Don't go there."

"Go where?" he asked in a strangled whisper.

"To him."

Aramis frowned.

"How did you-"

"You get a look," Porthos interrupted with a sigh. "Your eyes go dark and your face goes cold."

Aramis was the one who sighed now. He twisted his neck out of Porthos' hold and rolled carefully onto his back. Porthos let him go with a frown.

"Why do you still let him in your head?" Porthos asked.

"I don't," Aramis defended sharply. But it was a lie. There were some lessons not so easily unlearned.

Are you weak, Rene?

"You do," Porthos said lowly. "But you shouldn't."

Aramis closed his eyes, drawing in and then letting out a slow deep breath.

"He hated weakness," he finally murmured.

"You were never weak, Aramis," Porthos stated flatly.

Aramis hummed noncommittally, eyes still closed as memories played out across his mind's eye. Years of learning to channel pain, to push through it and ignore it. There was no place for the weak in his father's world.

"It's been so long… I don't even realize I'm doing it. It's just instinct."

"That's not instinct, Aramis. Your sixth sense about danger? That's instinct. Lockin' away pain and injury as if they weren't there? That's conditioning. He made you that way."

"It's not always a bad thing," Aramis reminded, rolling his head to regard his brother. "It's saved my life a few times. Yours too."

"I still hate it," Porthos stated.

Aramis turned his head away again, looking up instead.

They were both quiet for a moment and then Aramis whispered to the ceiling,

"I hate him."

Porthos sighed.

"Yeah… Me too."

End of Chapter 3

See you later today with chapter 4

If you have a moment, let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.
Lance Armstrong

July 1630

A gunshot.

Screams. A grunt of pain and a dull thud.

D'Artagnan stumbled mid run and spun, wide eyes searching for the brother who had been only a step behind him. Aramis had stumbled into the wall and curled in on himself, but he was still standing.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan gasped as his lungs strove to draw in extra air.

"I'm fine, go! Don't let him get away!" Aramis ordered even as he braced a hand on the wall and pushed off of it. D'Artagnan watched him sway and then have to lean back against the wall a moment later.

"You're injured!" D'Artagnan took a step back towards him.

"Nothing but an annoyance," Aramis assured as he straightened again. This time he didn't falter. "Now go! I'll be right behind you."

D'Artagnan hesitated a moment longer and then turned, sprinting after their target once again. He ran him down in relatively short order and tackled him. Aramis appeared over them and held out a rope to bind the mans' hands. That done, d'Artagnan pulled their prisoner to his feet and grinned at Aramis.

"Told you we'd find him."

Aramis flashed a breathless grin in response, but didn't say anything.

D'Artagnan frowned, taking in the shallow, breathy quality of Aramis' breathing, the sheen of sweat on his face. He knew Aramis could run just as fast and as long as any of them could, usually faster and longer than anybody but d'Artagnan himself.

He shouldn't be so out of breath.

"Are you alright?" d'Artagnan asked warily.

Aramis huffed a faint laugh and reached to grip d'Artagnan's shoulder.

And then just melted where he stood, muscles going lax and joints loose. D'Artagnan struggled to catch him before he crumpled to the cobblestone, cursing colorfully under his breath. Their prisoner tried to make a run for it and d'Artagnan kicked out, catching the man hard in the ankle and taking his feet right out from under him. The man landed in a groaning heap and didn't try to move again.

That dealt with, d'Artagnan carefully lowered Aramis to the ground. He shifted Aramis' doublet, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong when his hands came away wet with blood.

"What…?"

He found the ragged bullet hole low on Aramis' right side. He fixed Aramis' lax face with a confused look as his mouth gaped open in shock.

Athos and Porthos were going to kill him.

Athos watched d'Artagnan pace. Ten steps towards the infirmary door, ten steps away. Ten steps toward, ten away… Porthos was in with Aramis and while Athos would like nothing more than to be at his wounded brother's side as well, one look at d'Artagnan's agitated countenance and he knew he was needed here.

"He'll be alright, d'Artagnan," Athos pointed out. "Aramis always is."

"He was shot. He was shot and he still… He didn't… He kept on…" d'Artagnan shook his head in disbelief and resumed pacing.

Athos sighed.

"Yes," he agreed. "He does that."

D'Artagnan stopped, whirling to face him.

"Why? Why does he do this?"

Athos slowly swirled his wine cup and glanced at the infirmary door. When his silent, mental demands for an update on Aramis' condition yielded no results, he returned his attention to their youngest.

"Aramis and injury have a… unique relationship," Athos started vaguely. He wasn't sure how much he should say. Aramis wasn't exactly secretive about his father, not with him and Porthos at least. But d'Artagnan had been adopted into their brotherhood. He didn't think Aramis would mind Athos sharing a bit of the sordid story.

"What does that mean?" d'Artagnan asked, drifting over to sit next to him. Together they stared at the infirmary door.

"Aramis' father believed pain to be a weakness and succumbing to injury a sign of the same."

D'Artagnan frowned deeply.

"Aramis was conditioned to think that way as well, no matter how many times we tell him otherwise," Athos went on. "His father made sure of it."

"His father?"

Athos clenched his jaw, anger bubbling just thinking about the man.

"Julien d'Herblay," Athos revealed. "Porthos and I met him once. It was enough."

"What was he like?"

"Cold. Uncompromising. Hard."

"So nothing like Aramis, then?" d'Artagnan guessed.

Athos shook his head slowly, thinking of everything he'd come to associate with Aramis over the years: Bravery. Recklessness. Fortitude. Intelligence. Julien d'Herblay would likely wish to take credit for most of what made Aramis an exemplary soldier. But there was so much more that made him the man Athos proudly called brother. Warmth. Wit. Kindness. Forgiveness. Mercy.

"No," he told d'Artagnan softly, "nothing like Aramis."

End of Chapter 4

Are you curious about Aramis' father in my 'verse yet? ;)

See you tomorrow with the final two chapters! Hope to hear from you down below!

Chapter Text

My focus is to forget the pain of life. Forget the pain, mock the pain, reduce it. And laugh.
Jim Carrey

September 1630

Constance had no idea how this had happened.

She'd been rolling her eyes at Aramis, taking the fruits he kept picking up and putting them back on the cart in the market. He'd been chattering mindlessly about something, having delivered the message from d'Artagnan he'd tracked her down for. Ever since the mess with his friend Marsac and her small part in it – and her larger part in its aftermath – they'd enjoyed an easy friendship. There was no simmering something like there was with d'Artagnan. Aramis had proven kind and very sweet when he wanted to be.

And quite frankly, despite him having the attention span of a gnat at times, Aramis was quite entertaining to talk to.

She had been deciding if she should just buy the man a fruit so he'd stop handling all of them when Aramis had stiffened almost imperceptibly. She had frowned at him and watched him look across the market at something. He'd slowly replaced the fruit he'd been playing with and then beckoned her to follow him with nothing but a wave of his hand.

Confused, but hardly foolish enough not to trust a Musketeer's instincts, she'd followed.

She'd been shocked when no less than four men had broken away from the crowded market to follow them. Aramis had looked less surprised by the development and more annoyed.

A jumble of running, fighting and somehow she was here – alone in a dark, dank cellar, bound hand and foot.

There was a cacophony of thuds and curses somewhere above her and the cellar door swung open. There were stairs leading down to where she was but the foul-mouthed figure who joined her wasn't given the chance to use them. Instead, he tumbled gracelessly to the bottom where he landed with a groan and a hissed Spanish curse.

The door swung shut again, locking them in darkness.

"Aramis?" Constance ventured carefully. She couldn't see him, but she heard him shift at the sound of her voice, leather rustling as he moved.

"Constance?" he sounded a mixture of relieved and angry all coiled into one. "Are you alright?"

"A bit bruised," she admitted "but fine enough. You?"

He grumbled something under his breath and shifted again but didn't come nearer to her.

"Aramis?" she prodded, concern rising the longer he didn't reply.

"A few annoyances of my own," he grunted. "I was hoping they'd let you go… Worried they'd killed you."

She sighed. She'd still been struggling with them when one of them had knocked Aramis over the head with the butt of a musket. He wouldn't have known her fate until she made herself known down here.

"What do they want?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much," he replied with a wistful air that did nothing to hide the tension she heard in his voice.

"But not something you can give?"

She heard him let out a weary sigh.

"No," he confirmed. "I'm sorry about this. I should have led them away from you, not brought you with me."

"You couldn't have known what they wanted."

"Even so…"

"What if they'd been after me and you'd left me there? What then?"

He fell silent, apparently not having considered that.

"Besides," she went on softly, "it's better we're here together than either of us alone."

After hearing the horrible, sad story of Savoy, she hated the idea of him every being anywhere alone ever again.

"D'Artagnan will kill me for letting you get kidnapped," he mused with trepidation that even she could tell was faked. "Then Porthos will kill me again for letting me get kidnapped." The trepidation with that one was a bit less fake.

"And Athos?" she prodded with a grin.

"Athos won't so much do anything as just look extremely put upon for having to sort out this whole mess."

When three raging Musketeers burst into the cellar less than an hour later, neither d'Artagnan nor Porthos killed Aramis and Athos looked anything but put upon.

Instead, they all – Constance included – stared in horror at the pool of blood that had collected underneath where Aramis lay, still sprawled near the bottom of the stairs.

Porthos let out a wounded, strangled shout and all but flew down the stairs, Athos not a step behind. D'Artagnan followed but leapt off the side to get to her instead, immediately cutting the ropes binding her ankles and wrists.

"Nobody get…" Aramis had to pause and take a breath, "dramatic or anything… Just a flesh wound."

"You said it was an annoyance!" Constance nearly shrieked as she used d'Artagnan's offered hands to haul herself up and then half drug the young Musketeer along with her to get to Aramis' side.

With the light spilling down from the open door above them she could clearly see the knife imbedded in Aramis' shoulder. Athos was busy wrapping his scarf around the hilt to keep it in place.

"An hour we're down here and you don't say a word!" Constance accused hotly even as she gently pushed the sweaty hair off of Aramis' clammy forehead.

"Didn't want to worry you," he defended with an eerie breathiness to his words that set her heart pounding.

"We need to get him back to the Garrison," Athos stated firmly, glancing at Porthos. The two exchanged a quick but silent conversation with their eyes and then Porthos was sliding a hand under Aramis' knees and another under his shoulders. Aramis muttered a few more curses, in a few different languages, but mostly took the manhandling with good grace.

Then he and Porthos were gone, Athos following closely behind, and she was left standing with d'Artagnan.

"Constance, are you alright?" he asked gently.

She looked sharply at him, then down at the blood on her skirts from where she'd knelt next to Aramis.

"He said it was an annoyance," she stated blankly, feeling suddenly shaky and weak.

D'Artagnan wrapped an arm around her and guided her to the stairs.

"Yeah," he sighed. "He does that."

End of Chapter 5

I really need to get around to writing the rest of the tag to The Good Soldier I have half done in my files lol

Final chapter headed your way later today!

Drop me a line if you feel so inclined!

Chapter Text

Thanks to everyone who has commented on this! Love you all! Enjoy the last chapter!

All of us have ways in which we mask and cover our pain.
Iyanla Vanzant

December 1630

Silence had never been a part of their lives, so to speak, but since the three of them had come together in brotherhood, silence had been nothing but a distant memory.

Aramis didn't do silence, at least not well. He could, if he had to, be absolutely still and quiet. But those times were rare and always tied to the use of his musket. But every other waking moment of the day he was moving or talking; usually both. Even in sleep there was rarely silence found because he talked then, too, usually in a mixture of languages and usually making very little sense.

Silence just wasn't something they'd had for any duration of time since Porthos, and then Athos, had come to know the marksman.

But silence is what they found themselves trapped in now.

They sat, side by side, next to the bed that held their still and silent – so silent – brother.

It had started as a headache. Aramis got those often enough none of them had worried over it. They'd tried to keep him out of the sun, had forgone shooting practice in favor of weapons maintenance. It wasn't until Aramis had fumbled and dropped his whetstone, accidentally slicing open his hand with his dagger, that any of them had realized something more was wrong.

The fever had struck hard and fast after that.

What could be done, had been done, and all they could do was wait.

He would either be able to fight off the fever or he wouldn't.

"Somebody say something," Constance said abruptly from her place sitting near the fire. D'Artagnan, who was sitting cross legged near the hearth poking the smoldering logs with a stick, glanced at her then over at Athos and Porthos.

Porthos shifted in his chair, leaning forward to check Aramis' fever for what felt like the millionth time.

"He'd be going crazy if he was awake… All this quiet," he commented.

Athos' lips quirked slightly.

"He'd have launched into one of his stories by now," d'Artagnan agreed.

Porthos chuckled. And then, in his best impression of Aramis,

"Have I told you about the time I fought a pirate in Calais and was nearly abducted?"

D'Artagnan grinned and added his own impression.

"Have I told you about the time I thought myself surrounded in a small cabin only to realize in the end…"

"It was a flock of pigeons," all of them, even Constance, finished together. They all shared a laugh about that one.

"He's a wonderful storyteller," Constance decided. "Even when you've heard it before, somehow it's always better in its retelling."

"That's because he takes a certain liberty with the truth," Porthos pointed out with a grin.

"That's half the fun of it," Constance replied. "Sitting there listening and trying to sort out what's truth and what's not."

"He certainly has a flair for the dramatic, our Aramis," Porthos agreed with a weary grin. He reached out again, pushing the limp sweaty curls off of Aramis' forehead.

"You'd be surprised, I think, how much of it is truth." They all turned in varying states of surprise to see Treville standing in the doorway.

"Was he really nearly kidnapped by pirates?" d'Artagnan asked.

Treville's expression momentarily lit with memory and he nodded once, sharply.

"In Calais. Quite a mess, that one."

"What about the one with the horses in Rouen?" Constance asked.

Treville nodded again.

"Truth."

"The pigeons in the armory?" d'Artagnan wondered.

Treville's lips twitched at the memory.

"Truth."

"The cat and the river?" Porthos spoke up now.

An actual grin flitted across Treville's face this time before he schooled his features.

"An unfortunate truth."

D'Artagnan was shaking his head in awe, apparently stunned that Aramis was not as habitual a liar as he thought.

Constance was smiling fondly as she looked across the room at the ill musketeer.

Porthos stroked his hand absently through Aramis' hair, chuckling softly to himself.

But Athos was looking at Treville, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"The soldier and the deserter who turned out to be a spy?" he asked quietly.

The captain's expression softened ever so slightly and a fond light lit his eyes.

"A fortunate truth."

"What's that one?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"A story for another time," Treville replied. "Ask Aramis when he's well. He'll tell you."

"It would be interesting, though, to hear the soldier's point of view," Athos said with a challenging quirk to his brow.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened.

"You're the soldier?"

"Settle in, pup," Porthos grinned. "This is a good one."

Treville's storytelling abilities were a few shades less thrilling than Aramis' but the story itself kept them all riveted, even Athos and Porthos who had heard Aramis tell it before. By the time Treville finished, early dawn was breaking through the window.

"That young spy then became one of my first Musketeers, one of the original five to wear the uniform that you all wear now."

"It was Aramis," d'Artagnan realized with a proud smile. "That's how you met Aramis."

Treville nodded once.

"And he's not had a day of peace since," a weak, tired voice rose from the bed.

The ensuing jubilant reactions took several minutes to calm.

"What happened?" Aramis asked as Porthos helped him sit up a bit in bed.

"A fever," Athos explained, eyeing the marksman warily as if expecting him to faint on them again.

Aramis frowned, obviously not remembering much of how he came to be so sick.

"How do you feel?" Constance asked worriedly as she hovered behind Athos and Porthos, with d'Artagnan at her side.

"Well…" Aramis took a moment to take stock of himself, "a few more notable annoyances, but nothing more."

Porthos breathed a relieved chuckle and Athos' lips quirked in a wry grin. Constance smiled warmly and d'Artagnan sighed as if releasing all anxiety with that breath. At the door Treville just shook his head in fond exasperation.

Not one of them called Aramis on the obvious lie.

They had never been so glad to hear it.

End of Just a Flesh Wound

Hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing! :D Hope to be bringing my first Musketeers long-fic to you guys soon! At the very least, see you next month for the next challenge and go read the rest of the fics in this month's and vote for your favorites!

Drop me a line if you have a moment!