Chapter Text
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“I...I needed the fresh air...”
The open space was vital, his room felt too much like an entombment. Having been attacked out in the open one would think the opposite, but the fortification was impregnable in comparison to the woods. Tents in tatters came to his mind, spread over the ground like carcasses having been sacrificed to predators. Knowing he was within the secure grounds of the fort gave him the confidence to view the border, and to gaze at the land that almost claimed him.
“Aramis, son – ”
The concern in his voice threatened to break through Aramis’ resolve; he was tempted to divulge everything to the man. There would be consequences, but he knew there’d also be a measure of assurance, and the paternal nature Treville bestowed on them whenever they were hurt.
The wounds he carried now required more than those familiar comforts.
“May a man not wander? It’s not as though I may exit the fort,” he was careful to keep his tone light when he interrupted, but respectful, posing the question to Treville as if he were asking what Serge had concocted for dinner, “surely you’ve given orders I am to be stopped.”
“You’re not a prisoner, Aramis, but your injury remains of concern. There’s no reason for you to leave here while you recover.”
Not confirmation of an order, but Aramis took the meaning of the words for what they signified. He would remain without duties until Treville judged him fit to serve and he’d not be at liberty otherwise until then. The injury to his head, and the exposure to the cold, might have caused the obstruction to his vision and he’d no experience to compare this to. Which meant he’d need a resolution before he could confess to what he saw, or more accurately what he was seeing that robbed his sight.
“Aramis, if you – ”
“I merely need the air, Captain.” He moved his head from side-to-side, hoping he appeared to be glancing at the ground in contemplation rather than disorientation. “After so long confined? Surely you understand the need to...to not sit and, and think, I...”
Fractions of what he’d been avoiding thinking on threatened to crowd his mind, and given the blur of his vision he could not endure memories on top of the worries of his compromised sight. He nearly tried to meet Treville’s eyes, a confession would certainly prove easier without actually having to see the compassion on that trusted face. Aramis held back, out of fear or selfishness, or some other unwanted emotion, but he could not lose the hope that he’d return to Paris and that he could salvage something of the loss and ruin of their mission.
If he were to be the only survivorthen he could not fail in remaining a musketeer. He owed himself that chance, and he owed it to the men who’d been lost.
“It’s all right.”
An inhalation at the moment Treville’s hand curled over his shoulder hid the stiffening of his back and the exhalation, he hoped, relaxed his tensing muscles enough to pass as unremarkable to the captain.
“You owe me no explanation but dinner’s still a ways off and you might consider joining Balland and I.”
“Perhaps.”
Aramis tilted his head in the captain’s direction, a polite acknowledgment aloud, but left the implied decline unspoken. Treville had made the offer several days this week. Or so he believed. Concussions were tricky conditions; an injured man could not always trust what his mind told him and it was best to keep him observed. He thought Treville had been keeping a closer watch, he knew he’d strayed from his room and become turned around in some of the lower sections of the fort. What he’d more difficulty keeping track of was when it had happened, where he’d actually been, and where his mind was suggesting he’d visited. The doubt that weighted nearly every memory was whether it had happened at all or he’d dreamed the experience.
If this new affliction didn’t resolve Aramis would only have to maintain the ruse that he was unaffected until Treville left for Paris. All he needed to do, in that case, was return to his room without appearing impaired. A stumble he could excuse away as originating from his head wound, and if his compromised sight persisted he could negotiate traveling back to Paris in a cart.He’d make his excuses until then, and he’d little guilt in exploiting his circumstances to gain his desired end. If he were to be forced from the Musketeer regiment then he’d at least see his brothers laid to rest as one of them.
“Don’t remain out here too long, the valley grows too cold once the sun lowers.”
He nodded, keen to avoid the cold and grateful he’d dressed before exiting his room. Whether a dream or a memory, he had departed his quarters in his linens more than once.
“Thank you, Captain.”
After a light application of pressure Aramis was alone, his shoulder feeling the absence of the ungloved hand despite his doublet and wool cloak. He would miss Treville most of all were he dismissed from service. There were so few men he’d encountered in his life that he could claim were a privileged to know and it would be a loss keenly felt. Many teased that Treville was as much a father to his men as he was a leader, but it was those same men who could not fathom the loyalty he garnered nor could they earn such for themselves.
Aramis knew Treville would not be unkind, that he would indeed be fair were he to be told, but Aramis couldn’t risk a compassion that could see him decommissioned before returning to the city. He didn’t wish to resign his position at all, but there was no faking sight. If the brightness grew, if it spread to cover all of the world that he saw? He wondered if the fractured light would burn away to give over to darkness. He’d never asked if a blind man only saw darkness. Could such a man perceive any light? Was this how it began?
He kicked at the ground, wanting to stomp further across the bastion, but he’d give away his ruse should he trip. The shift of weight needed to lift and drag his foot gave him pause, he stepped further right than he’d intended when he went to set the heel of his foot back down. One adapted to a dark room, or even temporarily closing his eyes, but this partial state, being able to see a small percent of the world was somehow more disorienting than a blindfold.
The residents of the fort moved like any other, efficiently and all within knowing their obligations. Forts, like garrisons, ran by their own clock. Their schedule dependent on order, and there was a peculiar comfort in that even in their downtime. Practice bouts, cleaning of weaponry, even conversations with fellow soldiers were routine activities, and the clang of iron or the nickering of horses were so common they were a comfort. All offered a sense of belonging to a larger purpose: the collective regiment. As a wounded man in an unfamiliar fort, he was the one who’d no place; he was the disruption to order with nothing to offer in recompense.
Tamping down panic was innate for some, a learned skill for others, and some men would always run, but nature could be overcome. Any man that claimed calm in the face of cannon fire or the screaming attack of an ambush was a liar, or he was dull-witted. Aramis’ earliest experience with soldiering had pitted the rush of excited nerves against the tingle of fear that accompanied any brush with death. He’d learned to let his mind overtake any nervous instinct to seek a solution, a means to win or escape depending on the nature of the attack. As with tending a wound, calm settled over him and prompted him to keep seeking the best answer to meet the challenge, the next step to resolve the crisis.
He tried to apply this to his current ailment. Having encountered, and lived through, wounds to his person and his head before he knew his main concern was his sight. Blurred vision was expected and always cleared, but he’d never been subject to such a perverse distortion of light against his eyes before this.
Clinging to the hope of the unknown he considered the manner in which he could slip back to his room without garnering attention.
“Aramis?”
It took a moment in which his heart felt constricted in his breast before he recognized it was not the captain’s voice. He lacked the composure at present to speak calmly, or fake honesty, to Treville. A recruit, however? Even one he’d no quarrel with? A man he’d found amiable whenever they’d moments to speak between guard changes or swapping horses before a mission. Him he could address without thought to much consequence. Uncharitable on his part, but in the aftermath of an ambush that claimed so many men he felt entitled to a bit of selfishness.
“I wish to be alone.”
“Didn’t ask that.”
“Yes,” refusing to turn and give any clue as to his problem, he relied on words to dismiss the man, “why would you care what I wish for.”
“Rather not see you come to harm.”
“Oh?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
Aramis bristled at the hint of curiosity, and the genuine care he could imagine he heard in the inquiry.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Have to differ with you there.”
“Leave,” ordered Aramis. He turned his head to the side, giving the man his profile, but not looking directly at him.
Removed from duty or not, he was the musketeer and this man the recruit. He would not be ordered about save by Treville himself.Wounded, yes, he was – worse than anyone knew – but he was no invalid and he didn’t need a monitor.
“Coming to fetch me for breakfast? Happening to stumble upon me in the hall after sundown for dinner? Sent to my room to fetch a ‘forgotten’ needle or bandage of Balland’s?”
His memories were unsorted, and often he recalled the incorrect action on the correct day, or an event that occurred in the morning to have happened at dusk, but he knew this man was around more than was necessary. More than he should have been. More than Aramis likely warranted given his unlikely ability to continue soldiering.
“You’ve no need to shadow me, I’ll gladly assure Treville that I’d no need of you tonight.”
He’d have to speak to the captain regardless but, if this block to his sight did not clear, the chances were greater that a nurse would be imposed on him. At least in order to return him to the city. If he could no longer be a soldier Aramis held little doubt that Treville would aid him in being settled elsewhere. At least he knew he’d not be left to become a beggar; he was not a man made for relying on charity, or the worst of sentiments – pity.
“Didn’t think you the sort to lie to the captain, not when it don’t involve red guards, or a lady, that is.”
“Vital confidences need to be kept,” contested Aramis.
“Not debating that, but something’s not right with you.”
He owed this man no explanations. He’d no need to justify himself to anyone save Treville, and God. Possibly the king if he were by some means called to account for events, and he’d sooner be flogged than offer any evidence of what had occurred to Richelieu. The cardinal would have little sympathy for the regiment; for the men all but murdered as they slept. A recruit was low on his list of men he’d a need to explain himself to.
“I’m not lying to him,” defended Aramis, irritated with himself for uttering that much in response.
As if pulled by the force of his insistence he turned more fully to the other man, but found himself unable to make out his features. Recalling Porthos was taller, fractionally, and had a broader build he was comforted that the shape around his personal sun was approximately of the size he expected. He could only judge Porthos’ position by the edges of his frame that were visible around the broken bits of light blotting out the man’s features.
“You didn’t tell him what’s ailing you.”
“There’s nothing – ” He bit out the words before cutting himself off, angry with himself more than the recruit for speaking.
He was wounded! Was that not worth anything in gaining his own way? Why would this man even care? He was affable, that Aramis had seen, but guarded and he’d rarely gone out of his way to engage the musketeers. The recruits had been kept busy with their assignments, and the musketeers were sent to their own duties about the palace and on extended missions. Few duties saw them cross paths, even though Treville attempted to integrate the new men into the regiment, as in recent months he’d needed the musketeers for overnight and extended missions.
Aramis was of no greater consideration than any of them. If the glare imposed on his vision didn’t clear he’d be worth less than that; he’d be of little value to anyone should he lose his sight. Even his most esteemed acquaintances, however ardent their affection or desire for him, would place no value on a man who’d lost his position.
“That’s you leaving bits out again. Yer barely looking at me, and when you do you’re fixin’ on points that don’t make sense. I’d guess yer tryin’ to make it appear you’re looking past me, but you’re skipping yer gaze on my chin or shoulder first. Soldier with aim accurate as yours ain’t that careless.”
“Maybe I prefer the view of the landscape rather than you, hmm?” Swiveling his head back around Aramis stared toward the horizon, the scale of the sheer wall of the Alps providing him a reference point.
If he refused to leave Aramis refused to hold back his frustration. He’d little patience for pleasantries when he faced not being able to see. A private hell that he would have to disclose, a weakness he’d have to go stumbling to Treville with, and admit that he’d not survived unscathed after all.
“Not a coward from what I’ve seen. Ignorin’ a man rather than confronting him isn’t – ”
How dare he! Aramis had been generous, he’d even taken time to advise stance and grip, to assess the man’s skills when he’d had the chance. Most of his missions kept him from interacting with their latest recruits over the past year, but he’d spared moments when he could to learn of the new men. He’d liked this man well enough from casual exchanges, and Treville had praised him in Aramis’ presence, expecting he’d prove a musketeer in little time.
“What would you know of me!”
He’d hid the tension building within him from Treville, but he’d no care if this man saw his rising anger. If this man knew he wasn’t welcome it made no difference to him; Aramis owed him nothing.
“Perhaps I’ll be taking up the cassock after this.”
“If that’s what you want, but don’t make a decision because yer too scared to confront the problem.”
“What the hell would you know?” He dug his heels into the dirt, shoving his boots down so he wouldn’t turn and throw a punch into the man’s jaw. Or the general direction of his face. The thought stoked his upset, because there was a far greater chance he wouldn’t be able to properly direct his strike if he chose to vent his anger in a physical demonstration. He clenched his hands into fists, but kept them at his sides. “You weren’t there! You didn’t fight with them, for them, you didn’t hear or see – ”
“You did.”
Aramis bit so hard against the scream he wanted to release that he tore the thin skin of the side of his cheek. He’d rather be tasting blood as the result of a blow dealt him in return to his own, but he expected he’d have to get used to battles of wit and word.
“You fought. Don’t run now.”
“What are you rambling about?”
He seethed at Porthos for making the statement, but he placed more blame on himself for the exasperation in his voice. It sounded to his own ears like his resistance was fading. He didn’t want compassion from anyone and he didn’t want to be commended, not when he’d been hidden. Striking their leader had been a minuscule victory, but he’d been dragged away in the end. He’d won nothing.
“Face me and I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t cede to demands,” sneered Aramis, his anger swelling back within him.
“Not demanding, just curious why y’won’t look at me.”
Porthos waited a few moments, presumably expecting Aramis to offer an explanation. To account for himself. If Aramis could turn with any hope of hitting his target he would punch the man directly in the mouth. As it was he gathered his arms across his chest and folded them; whether he was shaking with rage or uncertainty didn’t matter to him and wouldn’t be discernible to Porthos.
“Yer actin’ like a wary fox,” Porthos hummed behind him, sounding closer than earlier, “no, more like a petulant child with the way yer ignorin’ me.”
Risking proving the accusation of petulance Aramis twisted around and then caught his leg from stomping forcefully against the earth. Porthos had provoked him into turning, and demonstrating what he seemed to already suspect. He’d no choice now but to disguise his retreat as annoyance, and he closed his eyes in what he hoped appeared to be irritation. In his mind’s eye he was attempting to recall the terrain of the bastion, to map where precisely he’d been standing when the bending of the horizon and sparks of light had intruded. Tensing his shoulders in a rigid line that would be clearly visible through the folds of his cloak, he stalked to his right and what he hoped was the direction of the bastion’s wall.
“Wait!”
Keenly aware of his limitations Aramis instinctively halted, trusting the note in Porthos’ voice. Except where he’d anticipated he’d been heading to breaking his ankle or tripping on a root, Porthos was trying to spare him from his own misery. Persistent as he was curious Porthos, or at least the shadow that he could see of the man, came around and stood where he could guess was slightly to the left of center in front of him.
“You can’t, can you?”
Aramis said nothing, choosing to maintain the pretense he was staring at the Isere and the horizon that separated them from Savoy. Already committed to the ruse and as weak as his body was he didn’t feel inclined to admitting there was truth to Porthos’ concerned guesses.
“It’s not the confusion Treville warned about, but what yer seein’; something’s wrong with yer eyes.”
Bristling at the captain’s paternal inclination to see him looked after he didn’t appreciate the divulsion of his condition. Then he supposed the symptoms of head wounds were common and the other man could have guessed that on his own. He wouldn’t know that Aramis’ sight was compromised entirely, but he might think him experiencing the blurriness or doubled vision that often persisted after head wounds. Even if he were guessing on nothing else than by observing Aramis’ behavior. Especially since he’d been assigned to do that: to watch him.
“And if I solve your puzzle for you? Will you leave once you have your answer?”
“I’m not leavin’ you alone if you’re injured.”
“You’ve not left me in peace for more than a few moments!”
“Hardly a surprise then, is it?” Porthos’ bulk appeared outside the circle of light on one side, and Aramis guessed from the little movement he could see that he’d shrugged or shifted his weight.
“Hardly welcome,” he protested with the only defense left to him, his words.
“A man could take offense to that, but I’m not most men.”
He might’ve guessed that a man of Porthos’ stature wouldn’t abandon his goal because of a few barbed phrases.
“No, you’ve been ordered to my side. An assignment.” He blinked against the glare of light, unsurprised when it didn’t clear, and wondered if he charged at the man if he could push past him through the sheer force of startling him. “Well I don’t require companionship I did not ask for, and nor do I want it.”
“Except you need it, so that – ”
“If you’re so eager to curry favor with the captain I can list you numerous methods, far easier, to accomplish such.”
Were he not convinced that Porthos would make a grab for him if he attempted to stalk past the man, he would’ve headed for the stone wall. Aramis wanted more time to reflect, to ruminate on what this affliction meant and how it would alter his future path. He didn’t care what Porthos thought he knew, or what he’d inadvertently revealed, he wished nothing more than to be alone.
“If that’s what I was out here for that might be a great offer. It’d be a damn sight easier than arguing about it with you.”
Aramis’ mouth curled in satisfaction at the raised voice, the frustration bleeding into the growl underpinning the words. Maybe he could still drive Porthos from him. It would be far easier to get the man to leave than to convincingly depart first, and once he was reasonably certain the other had gone he could devise a way to return to his quarters. If he could get to the edge of the wall he could use it to locate an entrance to the lower level and navigate back to the barracks well before dark.
“His orders ain’t what’s keeping me out here.”
Aramis crushed his lips together, and tried to fix his features into a mask that would encourage Porthos to abandon him. His most recent statement sounded too much like an admission, and there was too much softness infused in the words.
“Now what’s wrong with yer eyes?”
Caught off guard by the entreating rumble, and absent any visual cues Aramis’ denial sounded weak to his own ears.
“Who says there’s – ”
“Because the way you’re bristling, with yer shoulders twitchin’ up, you would have left on your own if y’could.”
“Ah I see. Clever. I’ll grant you that.” God, the man was determined! Aramis would’ve admired that trait if he weren’t growing infuriated with the man. If he didn’t suspect ulterior motives. “I tell you, and then you report to the captain?”
Porthos had the nerve to let out belly laughs so loud Aramis feared the larger man would draw a full company of soldiers to their side. If he’d not felt like drawing his mouth into a frown of displeasure before, he certainly did now. Refusing to allow even the corner of his eyes to so much as squint he raised his chin and kept his limited sight fixed on where he gauged the tops of the Alps.
He’d give Porthos no further ammunition against him. Aramis would get him to leave even if he’d need to injure himself to accomplish it.
“I’m not going to tell him.”
“An easy trade for you,” Aramis accused without turning to give the impression he could see Porthos, he kept his eyes fixed on a horizon he couldn’t see, “tell him your suspicions. He’ll be grateful for that, and you’ll have fulfilled your orders.”
“Not going to leave you either.” Porthos spoke calmly, the earlier frustration gone and now it was patience, as if he were calming his mount through a change of terrain. “So if you want to stand out here in the cold until y’start shiverin’ we can do that. Fer hours if y’want. Miss dinner too while we’re at it.”
“You’ll be cold as well,” argued Aramis.
He took comfort within the familiar parameters of a challenge. His own stubbornness pitted against an opponent he judged wouldn’t last against his greater need had bolstered his resolve. He’d get Porthos to leave him.
“Used to it, don’t feel the cold near as much as other men.”
If Porthos thought he could beat Aramis in determination, he would taste a bitter defeat.
“Another skill to be demonstrated to the captain?”
“Not a skill, body learns to get used to it when y’don’t have easy shelter.”
Aramis swallowed back his next retort angling his chin down and tilting his head in Porthos’ direction. His features must have softened or otherwise he’d given some clue to the other man as to his thoughts because a thin edge of irritation, like a knife edge tapping his cheek, threaded into Porthos’ explanation.
“I spoke without thought.” His thoughts were conflicted, and how he wished to converse was as uncertain as his own distorted vision.
“Don’t give me yer pity ‘cause I ain’t lending you any of mine.”
“It wasn’t pity.” Aramis said it by way of acknowledgment but not apology.
“Right, so are we going to start discussin’ what we can do to fix what yer hiding or should I be gettin’ comfy out of here?”
“We are not discussing any further matters, you may leave whenever you wish. Preferably immediately.”
“You could too, but...”
Porthos sounded to Aramis’ ears as though he were wearing an expression Aramis would rather not see. There was one benefit he could count amongst the collection of horrific consequences his thoughts were trying to push him toward should his impaired vision be permanent.
“I’d wager you can’t or you would've. Which leaves us figurin’ out what we do next. Standin’ here’ll get boring, but yer in no shape for a bout, and y’can’t attempt target practice like this. Guess we could...”
Aramis’ nostrils flared, no doubt Porthos would soon compare him to an angered bull, and he turned his face to the side pretending to stare more intently at the dark smudge of the mountains. Porthos’ deep, rumbling, voice faded to the background against the rush of his own thoughts. His heart sped up and pumped faster, and his ears muffled all else until his sole focus was on containing the panic coursing under his skin.
The mere suggestion of such an exercise called to his mind potential lost, and his entire imagined future set alight and turning to ash in the space of a thought. As suddenly as this condition had affected him he finally allowed himself to consider specific aspects. It had been worrying to imagine such large goals and consequences as being forced into resigning his commission, and such changes were in the same vein as his continued consideration of one day entering the clergy. All such talk was conjecture, until it was inevitable; until the choice was wrested from him, taken from a timeline he decided to one he’d no power over.
An activity as specific, as natural, as using his weapons? What were the chances he’d never be able to shoot again, what if this wouldn’t clear? It would force him from the regiment, and it could force him from any sort of respectable life other than a monastic one. He’d not bothered with his sword when he’d exited his room, after such a vicious attack exposed in the woods, there was no more secure place than within this fortification. The blade and his main-gauche he’d lain carefully on a table in his room, but he’d tucked a pistol into his belt. Habit? Comfort? An action that frequently required no thought, and he’d not bothered to justify taking it when he’d walked onto the bastion. There’d been no interference with his sight, not until he’d been halfway onto the grounds of the upper fort. The cloak concealed only the item, but not the effort and his hand moved to the pommel to preparepulling it free of its confines. Porthos would guess at the motion, and were he prudent he’d take this moment to abandon Aramis.
A reasonable man would leave, and a wise man knew when risk outweighed reward. Porthos thus far had proven more stubborn than sensible, another trait he might’ve admired if his patience weren’t as thin as frost over grass at present. The thought made him clutch his pistol tighter and he withdrew it from his cloak to raise the weapon. An action he could undertake in the dark, it didn’t matter that were he to look down he would not see the inlaid wood. Turning from the mountains he’d been pretending to view, he leveled the pistol at where he believed to be two feet from Porthos’ side in an effort to convince him to leave.
“Target practice, you say? You’d trust me right now with this when I could turn my weapon on you?” His upset made him callous, a ruthless anger that pushed him to lash out rather than face contemplating undesired futures. Creative threats were more palatable to devise than facing the onslaught of miseries born from his uncommon injury. “When I could so easily shoot you and claim my own confusion? Treville will take me at my word.”
His throat rebelled at the lie, the implication that Porthos’ word was beneath his own, but he had to persist. Thoughts swirled in his head that made his stomach churn with nausea, as if his compromised vision had inspired a mutiny of all his sense. What was a lie in the chaos; he’d a right to self-preservation hadn’t he? There must be some latitude granted for a man who’d witnessed the massacre of his brothers. For the man who remained haunted by the startled shouts of waking, the call to fight; who could still scent the cloying smoke of spent powder and the fresh snow mingling with the tang of blood.
Porthos wasn’t far off from his commission, and a bitter, mourning part of his mind conceded that their diminished numbers would expedite that award. In exchange he could endure a threat from Aramis, however dishonorable.
The comparison to a frightened fox might’ve been warranted after all, he was baring his teeth through words he didn’t mean. He implied taking actions that he’d no intention of following through on, and the words twisted something inside him, like a gnarled root setting into the lining of his stomach. Any shame he might’ve felt at the deception was dwarfed in comparison to what he faced should his condition not improve. An apology could be given to Porthos later if he healed, and his lashing out could be understood if he didn’t. All he needed to accomplish at the moment was significantly rattling Porthos’ nerves to make him believe that he was unsettled enough by grief or fear or some other imbalance that he would do precisely as he threatened. Anything, he’d say nearly anything at the moment, so he could drive the other man from his side.
Even as he spoke the outrageous words he knew Porthos wouldn’t succumb to the threat. Not given what Aramis had seen of the recruit, not this man, he wouldn’t walk away even though he should judge Aramis not worth the risk, and not worth the effort. Aramis had even bet on him during a contest of skill, the doubt of the other men had netted him a full purse that evening. He’d meant to share some of the winnings with Porthos, but Treville had tapped him to attend the palace before he could and time had escaped him after that.
Time escaped him now, worse than he’d ever experienced before. Morning bled into midnight and he’d little success in accounting for himself or his actions. Now, he’d a blot on his eyes that would not let him distinguish the hour. A bright light that cast shadows at the edge of his vision and conceal the time of day from him. A false sun in his eye.
He nearly keened in frustration at the tremor of his wrist, and if he could feel the motion he’d no doubt Porthos could see him wavering. Pitiful hope sparked at the idea that the other man might interpret the shaking as further evidence that Aramis’ mind was unstable and he’d be wise to retreat.
None would blame him, least of all Aramis. Treville might grumble at Porthos, but he’d ultimately forgive the abandonment once Aramis explained his own behavior. Once all was revealed he’d be more disposed to aiding Porthos, a show of generosity he could spare later, once he made his peace with his failings. Little good could be found with edging a soldier so near the precipice of defeat, days if not hours from having to resign his commission. Porthos would come to understand that it was not a personal attack once Aramis’ affliction became known. What soldier wouldn’t commiserate with him wanting to be alone to make peace with his circumstances?
All he required was the time to find a way to take a measure of health so he might still wear his uniform for the burials in Paris and to return to the city as a musketeer before he was stripped of any ability to serve.
When Aramis attempted to check the other’s position, Porthos’ gauzy shadow had not moved. Perhaps the answer was not a threat, but a plea? An appeal to the man’s honor, even as Aramis’ wavered? Surely he could be forgiven for using scripture to manipulate a man when his need was greater?
“Will you not grant a grieving man his wish? After such an ordeal? Hmm?” Foregoing all pretense that he was even trying to fake sight, he set his eyes on the edge of where Porthos’ right side appeared to be. The outline wavered, the shifting light moved before his eyes like sun hitting the gently moving surface of a lake. “...turn...and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted?”
Porthos made a considering noise, a light sound in his throat, but not one that would herald a man prepared to quit his company.
“Not familiar with that one, but if yer wantin’ me to leave,” he paced his words, turning them over to sound as though he were mulling it over before he dashed Aramis’ hope, “I can’t do that.”
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