Athos did not go back to the Court of Miracles after the day he saved Aramis. He knew that whilst he remained a soldier he would never really be welcome there. Though that did not stop Porthos from coming back to visit him. And now, he did not come alone.
Aramis had taken over a month to recover physically from the ‘Massacre of Savoy’, as it was now known by the people of France. It was an event that had not been kept quiet. Aramis had recounted the tale to them when he had been in a strong enough frame of mind to do so; Aramis had been part of a troupe that had been travelling from Savoy to Paris. They had been attacked as they slept just outside of Paris. Aramis was the only survivor from the group of twenty, the loss of his best friend Marsac hitting him the hardest. Aramis had fought back, killing two of the attackers, but was injured in the process. Assumedly believing their job to done and the victims all dead, the attackers had left, and Aramis had managed to roughly sew himself up and bandage his head before making a break into Paris under the cover of darkness.
There had been no intended survivors of the massacre, which was most likely how Aramis had managed to slip past the boundaries unnoticed. It had been the most blatant and cruel attack on the gypsy people yet. Everyone was talking about it, but whether anyone was actually doing anything about it was a different matter. Athos was trying. Treville was trying. They had made enquiries into the Massacre, but as expected, their fellow soldiers claimed to know nothing about it, claiming it to be the work of bandits. They both knew better.
The shock of the attack and the loss of his friends had made Aramis’ mental recovery much tougher than his physical recovery, though Porthos had informed Athos that Aramis was making vast improvements under Porthos’ watch and care, and now, five months later, despite the odd episode or headache, he was back to what Athos and Porthos assumed to be ‘the old Aramis’.
The real Aramis, they had discovered, was a force unto himself. His handsome looks came paired with a chivalrous attitude, passionate spirit and an unmatched charm. He was a hit with the ladies; ladies in the Court of Miracles, ladies of the court of Paris, towns-ladies, married ladies, single ladies, barmaids and ladies maids. He charmed them all with a clever tongue and a dashing smile. He bedded a few of them as well, and a couple of men besides, as far as Porthos had informed Athos. But Aramis was, of course, far more than that. He was kind and had a humour that complimented Porthos’ blunt and raucous wit and Athos’ dry wit and sarcasm. Aramis was a healer and just as he had informed Athos whilst half out of his mind on the steps of the Notre Dame, he was very talented with a needle. He was an asset to the Court, which saw more and more people turn up in need of help. Aramis was also religious. He prayed, and went to church when it was possible. He always wore his crucifix around his neck, and he clutched it out of habit.
Aramis was also very gifted at entertaining. According to Porthos, he could dance, sing and play a variety of instruments, which Athos was yet to see. But apparently Aramis truly specialised in something quite different.
“Contrary to what you may think after my issues about Savoy,” He had informed them. “I am actually a thrill-seeker. As a part of the troupe, I often did the ‘risk-taking’ tricks; fire-breathing, fire eating, sword swallowing…” At the last he had winked at Athos and made Athos break eye contact and stare into his wine. It was undeniable that Aramis was an appealing man and it was also obvious that he wasn’t just attractive to ladies. Aramis had Porthos wrapped around his little finger, though he never abused that power, and Athos often let him get away with being cheeky. Though no matter how far Aramis had entranced them, he was also aware of Athos and Porthos’ history. He had claimed it a ‘classic romance story’ and was enthralled by their friendship, which had made Athos realise even more how much he appreciated Porthos in his life. Athos could admit to himself that he had been romantically interested in Porthos for some time, though he had never acted on it; too afraid after Anne to ever consider falling in love again.
Porthos seemed as fond of him as ever regardless, and Aramis equally had in such a short space of time fitted quite comfortably into their friendship.
“It is suspicious how he has come to fit so well into our lives.” Athos had commented to Porthos on one occasion.
Aramis had smiled, “Well do not fear, I have used no spell, I promise. You both must just enjoy my company.”
Because that, coincidentally, was another talent of Aramis’; “I wanted to be a priest, for a while when I was a child.” He had told them. Because Aramis was a lot freer with his secrets with Athos and Porthos. Far more open than Athos and Porthos had so far been for him. “But that became something of a problem when my grandmother started to teach me the art of black magic.”
“You are having us on.” Athos had scoffed.
Porthos hadn’t looked so disbelieving. “Witchcraft?”
“To an extent.” Aramis had shrugged. “I can do the usual; powders and whatnot, mostly illusion, of course. But there is some reality there too, though I suppose my fire-breathing and risk-taking performances could be classed in a similar category, being slightly different to mild entertainment.”
“I hadn’t even known that sort of thing really existed.” Athos had said honestly.
Aramis had looked slightly apprehensive then. “Now, such practice can be considered a punishable crime outside of my community.” He had glanced at Porthos. “Are there such performers at the Court?”
“There are.” Porthos had reassured him, which had surprised Athos, he had never seen a street performance as to what Aramis had been describing. “That kind of thing is kept until big events like the Feast of Fools however,” Porthos had explained, “It is becoming less and less of a good idea to perform it outside of those events, if you value your head. Though, to be quite honest, just living appears to be a punishable crime for us these days.”
The mood had then darkened slightly, before Athos had said, “So Aramis, you are a religious man who practices dark magic. Those two must slot hand in hand together so nicely.”
Aramis had rolled his eyes. “I’m a saint, I’m a sinner.” He had flopped on his chair dramatically. “What can I say? I’m a complex man.”
Porthos and Aramis visited Athos frequently; several times a week in the last couple of months. It was risky, but they had so far been undiscovered, and that had made them more confident. Plus, Athos could never deny himself of their company. Which is how finding the two of them letting themselves into his house via the back window on the 25th May not surprising in the slightest.
“Hello. Come right in.” Athos deadpanned. “What was it this time, a patrol?”
“No.” Aramis said airily, “We just wanted the pleasure of your company.”
“Was that sarcasm?” Athos asked Porthos as his friend pulled him into a quick embrace.
“No, he genuinely means it.”
“Honestly, my dear Athos, I daren’t even attempt to begin a battle of sarcasm against the best.” Aramis winked, taking his turn to hug Athos when Porthos let go. “And don’t pretend you are not pleased to see us.”
Aramis then took Athos’ hand and started to pull him towards what passed as a drawing room. Aramis had pointed out to Athos on many occasions that there was no point in having a house if it wasn’t properly lived in. This meant that all the rooms of Athos’ house were now used and lit whenever Aramis and Porthos came to visit. Athos could have hardly denied either of them this piece of homeliness, with Porthos never actually having had a proper house, and that part of Aramis’ past still being a mystery. Despite this, Porthos had still apologised for Aramis’ interfering, knowing Athos’ need for some seclusion, but actually, the house felt a great deal warmer with lit, lived-in rooms and good company. Now that Aramis had visited plenty of times, it was routine that Porthos went about lighting the fire, whilst Aramis lit the room, and Athos…
“You wouldn’t happen to have any wine in the house, would you Athos?” Aramis sent him a dazzling smile.
“Ha. Ha.” Athos said flatly, heading for the wine cupboard that was never short in supply.
When he returned, the fire was glowing and Porthos was sitting on one of the cushioned seats whilst Aramis investigated the room. Athos sat opposite Porthos, pouring a cup of wine and passing it to him.
“How are you?” Porthos asked him.
“As well as I ever am.” Athos responded. “I despise my job.” The burden was growing heavier on him with every passing day; the need to save people, with the disappointment when he could not. He had had to attend an execution in the previous week, and that night he had not slept a wink. Porthos and Aramis had visited the next day and sat with him silently, each holding one of his hands.
“You helped Elisabeth yesterday.”
“I did, but every time I help someone…” Athos trailed off, the situation was just as hopeless as ever. And as a result, he got drunk more often than he used to, which was saying something. He knew it concerned Porthos and Aramis, despite Aramis' lightheartedness about Athos and his wine.
“I know.” Porthos said, his voice quiet and sad, “I know.” Porthos leant forward and patted Athos’ clenched hand. Athos uncurled his fingers slightly and sent Porthos a small smile.
“A-ha!” They were interrupted by a cry of triumph as Aramis appeared from a cupboard, brandishing Athos’ lute. “Look at this Porthos!” He hurried over and slumped into the seat beside Porthos and looked to Athos, “I did not know you could play, my friend.”
Athos found Porthos staring at him in surprise. “I did not know either.” Porthos admitted.
“I had lessons as a boy.” Athos revealed with a smirk, reaching out for the lute which was eagerly handed to him.
“Play for us Athos!” Aramis pleaded.
Athos had found he could not often say no to Aramis. So he tuned the instrument quickly and started to play.
When the tune came to a quiet end, Aramis and Porthos were watching him avidly.
“That was beautiful.” Porthos said softly.
“Oh Athos, how wonderful that was.” Aramis agreed, ever the romantic. “Next time, Porthos and I should bring our instruments; I think we would sound exquisite as a troupe.”
“You know, I think I would enjoy that.” Athos found himself saying. “I have never seen either of you play an instrument.”
“Then we must. Soon!” Aramis said eagerly.
Athos agreed, and although it was true that they did play together in the future, it was not quite as they planned. For, not that they knew it yet, Athos was not going to be a soldier, or living in his little house in Paris, for very much longer.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: Sanctuary 5/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:14 am (UTC)Athos did not go back to the Court of Miracles after the day he saved Aramis. He knew that whilst he remained a soldier he would never really be welcome there. Though that did not stop Porthos from coming back to visit him. And now, he did not come alone.
Aramis had taken over a month to recover physically from the ‘Massacre of Savoy’, as it was now known by the people of France. It was an event that had not been kept quiet. Aramis had recounted the tale to them when he had been in a strong enough frame of mind to do so; Aramis had been part of a troupe that had been travelling from Savoy to Paris. They had been attacked as they slept just outside of Paris. Aramis was the only survivor from the group of twenty, the loss of his best friend Marsac hitting him the hardest. Aramis had fought back, killing two of the attackers, but was injured in the process. Assumedly believing their job to done and the victims all dead, the attackers had left, and Aramis had managed to roughly sew himself up and bandage his head before making a break into Paris under the cover of darkness.
There had been no intended survivors of the massacre, which was most likely how Aramis had managed to slip past the boundaries unnoticed. It had been the most blatant and cruel attack on the gypsy people yet. Everyone was talking about it, but whether anyone was actually doing anything about it was a different matter. Athos was trying. Treville was trying. They had made enquiries into the Massacre, but as expected, their fellow soldiers claimed to know nothing about it, claiming it to be the work of bandits. They both knew better.
The shock of the attack and the loss of his friends had made Aramis’ mental recovery much tougher than his physical recovery, though Porthos had informed Athos that Aramis was making vast improvements under Porthos’ watch and care, and now, five months later, despite the odd episode or headache, he was back to what Athos and Porthos assumed to be ‘the old Aramis’.
The real Aramis, they had discovered, was a force unto himself. His handsome looks came paired with a chivalrous attitude, passionate spirit and an unmatched charm. He was a hit with the ladies; ladies in the Court of Miracles, ladies of the court of Paris, towns-ladies, married ladies, single ladies, barmaids and ladies maids. He charmed them all with a clever tongue and a dashing smile. He bedded a few of them as well, and a couple of men besides, as far as Porthos had informed Athos. But Aramis was, of course, far more than that. He was kind and had a humour that complimented Porthos’ blunt and raucous wit and Athos’ dry wit and sarcasm. Aramis was a healer and just as he had informed Athos whilst half out of his mind on the steps of the Notre Dame, he was very talented with a needle. He was an asset to the Court, which saw more and more people turn up in need of help. Aramis was also religious. He prayed, and went to church when it was possible. He always wore his crucifix around his neck, and he clutched it out of habit.
Aramis was also very gifted at entertaining. According to Porthos, he could dance, sing and play a variety of instruments, which Athos was yet to see. But apparently Aramis truly specialised in something quite different.
“Contrary to what you may think after my issues about Savoy,” He had informed them. “I am actually a thrill-seeker. As a part of the troupe, I often did the ‘risk-taking’ tricks; fire-breathing, fire eating, sword swallowing…” At the last he had winked at Athos and made Athos break eye contact and stare into his wine. It was undeniable that Aramis was an appealing man and it was also obvious that he wasn’t just attractive to ladies. Aramis had Porthos wrapped around his little finger, though he never abused that power, and Athos often let him get away with being cheeky. Though no matter how far Aramis had entranced them, he was also aware of Athos and Porthos’ history. He had claimed it a ‘classic romance story’ and was enthralled by their friendship, which had made Athos realise even more how much he appreciated Porthos in his life. Athos could admit to himself that he had been romantically interested in Porthos for some time, though he had never acted on it; too afraid after Anne to ever consider falling in love again.
Porthos seemed as fond of him as ever regardless, and Aramis equally had in such a short space of time fitted quite comfortably into their friendship.
“It is suspicious how he has come to fit so well into our lives.” Athos had commented to Porthos on one occasion.
Aramis had smiled, “Well do not fear, I have used no spell, I promise. You both must just enjoy my company.”
Because that, coincidentally, was another talent of Aramis’; “I wanted to be a priest, for a while when I was a child.” He had told them. Because Aramis was a lot freer with his secrets with Athos and Porthos. Far more open than Athos and Porthos had so far been for him. “But that became something of a problem when my grandmother started to teach me the art of black magic.”
“You are having us on.” Athos had scoffed.
Porthos hadn’t looked so disbelieving. “Witchcraft?”
“To an extent.” Aramis had shrugged. “I can do the usual; powders and whatnot, mostly illusion, of course. But there is some reality there too, though I suppose my fire-breathing and risk-taking performances could be classed in a similar category, being slightly different to mild entertainment.”
“I hadn’t even known that sort of thing really existed.” Athos had said honestly.
Aramis had looked slightly apprehensive then. “Now, such practice can be considered a punishable crime outside of my community.” He had glanced at Porthos. “Are there such performers at the Court?”
“There are.” Porthos had reassured him, which had surprised Athos, he had never seen a street performance as to what Aramis had been describing. “That kind of thing is kept until big events like the Feast of Fools however,” Porthos had explained, “It is becoming less and less of a good idea to perform it outside of those events, if you value your head. Though, to be quite honest, just living appears to be a punishable crime for us these days.”
The mood had then darkened slightly, before Athos had said, “So Aramis, you are a religious man who practices dark magic. Those two must slot hand in hand together so nicely.”
Aramis had rolled his eyes. “I’m a saint, I’m a sinner.” He had flopped on his chair dramatically. “What can I say? I’m a complex man.”
Porthos and Aramis visited Athos frequently; several times a week in the last couple of months. It was risky, but they had so far been undiscovered, and that had made them more confident. Plus, Athos could never deny himself of their company. Which is how finding the two of them letting themselves into his house via the back window on the 25th May not surprising in the slightest.
“Hello. Come right in.” Athos deadpanned. “What was it this time, a patrol?”
“No.” Aramis said airily, “We just wanted the pleasure of your company.”
“Was that sarcasm?” Athos asked Porthos as his friend pulled him into a quick embrace.
“No, he genuinely means it.”
“Honestly, my dear Athos, I daren’t even attempt to begin a battle of sarcasm against the best.” Aramis winked, taking his turn to hug Athos when Porthos let go. “And don’t pretend you are not pleased to see us.”
Aramis then took Athos’ hand and started to pull him towards what passed as a drawing room. Aramis had pointed out to Athos on many occasions that there was no point in having a house if it wasn’t properly lived in. This meant that all the rooms of Athos’ house were now used and lit whenever Aramis and Porthos came to visit. Athos could have hardly denied either of them this piece of homeliness, with Porthos never actually having had a proper house, and that part of Aramis’ past still being a mystery. Despite this, Porthos had still apologised for Aramis’ interfering, knowing Athos’ need for some seclusion, but actually, the house felt a great deal warmer with lit, lived-in rooms and good company.
Now that Aramis had visited plenty of times, it was routine that Porthos went about lighting the fire, whilst Aramis lit the room, and Athos…
“You wouldn’t happen to have any wine in the house, would you Athos?” Aramis sent him a dazzling smile.
“Ha. Ha.” Athos said flatly, heading for the wine cupboard that was never short in supply.
When he returned, the fire was glowing and Porthos was sitting on one of the cushioned seats whilst Aramis investigated the room. Athos sat opposite Porthos, pouring a cup of wine and passing it to him.
“How are you?” Porthos asked him.
“As well as I ever am.” Athos responded. “I despise my job.” The burden was growing heavier on him with every passing day; the need to save people, with the disappointment when he could not. He had had to attend an execution in the previous week, and that night he had not slept a wink. Porthos and Aramis had visited the next day and sat with him silently, each holding one of his hands.
“You helped Elisabeth yesterday.”
“I did, but every time I help someone…” Athos trailed off, the situation was just as hopeless as ever. And as a result, he got drunk more often than he used to, which was saying something. He knew it concerned Porthos and Aramis, despite Aramis' lightheartedness about Athos and his wine.
“I know.” Porthos said, his voice quiet and sad, “I know.” Porthos leant forward and patted Athos’ clenched hand. Athos uncurled his fingers slightly and sent Porthos a small smile.
“A-ha!” They were interrupted by a cry of triumph as Aramis appeared from a cupboard, brandishing Athos’ lute. “Look at this Porthos!” He hurried over and slumped into the seat beside Porthos and looked to Athos, “I did not know you could play, my friend.”
Athos found Porthos staring at him in surprise. “I did not know either.” Porthos admitted.
“I had lessons as a boy.” Athos revealed with a smirk, reaching out for the lute which was eagerly handed to him.
“Play for us Athos!” Aramis pleaded.
Athos had found he could not often say no to Aramis. So he tuned the instrument quickly and started to play.
When the tune came to a quiet end, Aramis and Porthos were watching him avidly.
“That was beautiful.” Porthos said softly.
“Oh Athos, how wonderful that was.” Aramis agreed, ever the romantic. “Next time, Porthos and I should bring our instruments; I think we would sound exquisite as a troupe.”
“You know, I think I would enjoy that.” Athos found himself saying. “I have never seen either of you play an instrument.”
“Then we must. Soon!” Aramis said eagerly.
Athos agreed, and although it was true that they did play together in the future, it was not quite as they planned. For, not that they knew it yet, Athos was not going to be a soldier, or living in his little house in Paris, for very much longer.