Work Text:
“Please do not trouble yourselves,” Athos mumbled, trying and failing to push away the helpful hands. How mortifying, to faint in front of the queen.
Her majesty stood behind the fence of insistent courtiers, her lips pursed in concern. “Have him taken to my husband’s chambers. Aramis, tend to him.”
Husband? Had Aramis and the queen...Athos blinked himself into a little more clarity. Her late husband. The king. The one who had the white plague. Had it only been a week since his death?
The servants insisted on carrying him in a chair. Athos sat as straight as he could, which was to say, not very well at all, while he was borne in humiliating fashion through the queen’s offices and to the old king’s bedroom, there to be laid upon the regal bed, on fine linen sheets that surely should not have his leathers soiling them.
“It’s all right, I’ll deal with this.” A clutter of footsteps and a door closing, then quiet. “They’re gone. You can open your eyes.”
Athos stared up at Aramis’s kind expression. He could not get used to this version of his friend, dressed in brilliant blue and gold, the chain of office around his neck. A few months before, the man had been a monk. Nothing made sense. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. Now show me that damn wound on your side so I can see what a botch Constance has made of it.”
“She did not botch it.”
Aramis batted away his protective hands and bared Athos’s torso with as little difficulty as he would have had with the Dauphin...king. He bent low and sniffed at the bandages. “Hmmm, no smell of infection. Did she use my salve?”
“Sylvie did. They did everything you would have done.”
“Yes, I see that now,” his friend said, cutting away the bandages with his poignard and causing unavoidable discomfort. “When did you last eat?”
“Er.”
The night before was a little hazy in his memory. So much to do after the thanksgiving service with the garrison still in ruins, and the musketeers now set to police the streets and stop further violence. Constance had made d’Artagnan abduct Athos and make him sit down in her custody so his injury could be dealt with. She did her usual brisk and efficient job, then she and Sylvie had had to return to the infirmary to continue caring for the victims of the garrison fire. Athos had insisted on them not wasting any more time on him.
But he had eaten something, he was certain.
Aramis heaved a sigh and shook his head. “You aren’t fit to manage a stable of toy horses, let alone yourself and the men.” He walked to the door, spoke to someone outside the room, and returned to glare at him, hands on his hips. “That cut is deep, Athos, and you are too careless with your health.”
“I wasn’t—”
Aramis raised his hand to silence him. “You were. You are. Always have been. I thought being a father-to-be might make you more cautious.” He removed the soiled bandages and set them aside, before rummaging in a chest near the bed.
“Didn’t make a damn difference to you,” Athos said, recognising what Aramis was looking for. Fresh bandages and more of his smelly salve. “I can do all this myself.”
“Yes, but will you, is the question. Lie still.”
“I’m still Captain, you know.”
“And I’m First Minister, so behave.” Aramis grinned at him and Athos, despite himself, grinned back. How ridiculous. Aramis as First Minister? The most reckless, headstrong and downright lunatic of the four of them, leading the nation as second only to her majesty? Who could have foreseen that, all those months and years ago?
But there it was. Athos was captain, Aramis was first minister, Porthos would be a general...and Treville was dead. The king was dead.
“Here, drink this.” Aramis held a goblet and forced Athos to sit up—such agony—to drink some wine. The effort exhausted him, though he couldn’t understand why. He had taken so much worse and survived.
Aramis wouldn’t let him set the goblet aside. “More. And then you’ll eat a proper meal before you leave this room. You know better, captain.”
“The garrison’s kitchen is gone...and our supplies were destroyed.”
Aramis allowed him to lie flat again, and looked chagrined. “I’d forgotten. The queen sent—”
“The refugees and the injured come first. I did eat.” Not much, Athos forbore from admitting. There wasn’t much to share.
“I’ll speak to her. She needs you. I need you. And Sylvie definitely needs you.”
Athos snorted, then went to put his hand over his side as the movement pained him. Aramis stopped him from touching it. “Wait until it’s dressed again.”
Athos waved at him to get on with it, and endured the application of the salve and having to sit up to have the fresh bandages wrapped around his middle. By the time Aramis finished, Athos was ready to faint again. He could not. There was so much work to do.
“Stop that.” Aramis pushed him back down onto the pillows without effort.
“I have things to do.”
“You have food to eat, but,” he said, raising his hand to forestall the protest. “While you do that, I’ll speak to her majesty about the situation at the garrison.”
The door to the room opened, and two servants bearing trays walked in—followed by the queen, unattended. Athos attempted to sit up at least to bow, but she grimaced impatiently, shaking her head at him.
“Put that down there and leave us,” she commanded, indicating a side table, and the servants obeyed.
Once they were alone, Aramis went to her and she took his hands, while looking over at Athos. “How does my captain, minister?” she asked with a charming smile.
“He needs food and drink, your majesty.” Aramis managed to make the title sound like an intimate address, and they shared a smile.
“Then let us remedy that immediately. No, I will serve him,” she said, as Aramis went to fill one of the fine plates with bread and eggs. “It’s the least I can do.” She took the tongs from him and chose the food carefully, before walking toward the bed with the plate in her small hands.
“Majesty,” Athos murmured. “I can’t allow—”
“I think you’ll find you can,” she said, her back straight and imperious. “I am the queen, after all.”
“My apologies,” he said. Aramis helped him sit up better with the support of pillows and a bit of unavoidable grunting. The queen put the plate on his lap and looked at him a little uncertainly. “Thank you. It’s very generous.”
She smiled. “You must take better care of yourself, Athos. You are very much needed at this time.”
“Anne, the garrison is short of food and other supplies,” Aramis murmured. Athos pretended he hadn’t heard the familiar address and concentrated on the eggs. Dear God, he was hungry.
“But I sent—”
“I know,” he said gently, “but many refugees are seeking shelter there, and there are still many injured from the fire.”
She turned back to Athos. “Tell Aramis what is needed, and it shall be provided.”
“Thank you, your majesty.”
“Do you have enough food now? Do you want more?”
“I am well provided, thank you.”
“Then I’ll leave you to discuss supplies. Aramis, I have people to speak to, and I need you with me.”
He bowed to his queen. “I’ll just make sure Athos is well before he leaves.”
She smiled, a true smile for her lover, not one for the court. One which reached the beautiful blue eyes, showing a woman yet young and desirable despite her many responsibilities. “Then I shall take my leave, Athos. Do not starve yourself for my sake again or I shall be very angry.”
“No, my queen.”
She left in a swirl of pale blue silk and heady perfume. Aramis paused but a moment to appreciate the view before turning back to Athos. “Eat, eat. And there is watered wine, which you will drink.”
“Yes, minister d’Herblay.”
Aramis rolled his eyes and after fetching the promised wine, sat on the end of the bed holding it until it was needed. “Sylvie will make a fine adornment to the garrison, don’t you think?”
Athos laid down his spoon. “No.”
“No?”
“Constance is the mistress of the garrison, and d’Artagnan should be its master. It’s time he was promoted. He’s more than ready to command.”
“I agree, but what will you...?” Aramis’s voice trailed away. “No.”
“Yes. You did.”
“I came back.”
“We dragged you back.”
“I chose to return! Athos, we need you. France needs you.”
Athos swallowed another bit of egg, and tore a piece of bread to follow it. “Sylvie needs me. Our child needs me. God knows, it will do better without me as a father, but since I am the father.... You surely understand.”
“I do, and yet I don’t know why you must leave me.” Aramis moved closer and rested a hand on Athos’s booted foot.
“I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving Paris. We’re leaving Paris.”
“Anne will never agree.”
For a shocking moment, Athos couldn’t understand why Anne’s opinion mattered here, until he remembered which ‘Anne’ Aramis meant. “I’ve earned the leave. You know I have.”
“Yes, but—”
“Old friend, don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Aramis’s shoulders drooped. “I only took this job because you would be here. I need your support.”
“You always have it. But I’m sick of it. Sick of war, of Paris, the palace, the killing. I need to breathe clean air and live as a free man for a while.”
“Where, though?”
Athos shrugged. “We’re still discussing it. Away, is all we’ve agreed for now.”
“Then you won’t leave until the baby is born, surely.”
Athos shook his head. “She wants it to be born away from here. She says the air here kills children, and she’s right.”
“Pinon, then?”
“Perhaps. There are other options.”
“You’ve been thinking of it for a while?”
“No. But after we came back from the war, I could find no peace here. Then Sylvie... as you know.” He held out his hand, pleading for understanding. Aramis leaned forward and took it with his free hand. Athos relished the warm, firm strength of it. A swordsman’s hand. A horseman’s hand.
A lover’s hand too, at times.
“I’ve been so tired since Treville died,” he murmured.
“We all have.” Aramis removed his hand only to clasp Athos’s wrist. “Will you ever return?”
“How could I not, when my dearest friends are here?” He stared into Aramis’s worried eyes. “The queen is waiting.”
“Yes. When will you tell her?”
“I thought you could...break it gently.” He was such a coward.
“She’ll insist on trying to change your mind.”
Athos doubted that. The queen well knew the need to keep a child safe, and had seen enough horror to understand why Sylvie would want to leave. “She can try, certainly. We should talk of supplies.”
Aramis freed his wrist, and shoved the goblet of watered wine at him. “Only if you continue to eat and drink, and allow me to check that sword cut every day.”
“You have other duties...very well.” Athos knew that look and had more sense than to argue. “But supplies.”
“Supplies.” Aramis got up and went to the desk. He picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell. “Bread. Grain. Blankets.”
“Barrels of water. Hay. Bandages.”
“You have to tell d’Artagnan.”
“Eventually. Cots for the women and injured. Will you marry her?”
The quill’s twitching paused. “We’re talking about it. Lamp oil. Wood for rebuilding. Oil cloth against the weather. Porthos will be cranky.”
“General du Vallon will have other concerns. Lead for shot. Spirit of wine for the infirmary.”
“I know what the infirmary needs. Paper, ink, quills. Records must be kept.”
“Desk and a chair, then. And an office to put it in.”
Aramis scratched away at the list. “Carpenters, masons, and blacksmiths. Maybe we should move you all up to the Louvre instead.”
“Paris needs us where we are, and so does her majesty. I can’t think of anything else.”
Aramis finished scribbling, then sanded the paper to dry the ink. “We’ve forgotten something very important,” he said as he handed the list to Athos to check. “A hat.”
Athos looked up in sudden realisation, and grinned. “Oh yes. A very fine hat.”
“With a feather. A magnificent feather.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“Not for the hat. For running away, most certainly.”
“Aramis....”
“Mi amor, allow me a little petulance.” He bent and kissed Athos’s forehead, then picked his spoon and held it in front of Athos’s face. “Eat. I’ll take this to the queen but you are not to leave until you finish this plate full.”
“Yes, maman.”
“Sylvie’s aware she’ll have two children to look after, I presume?”
Athos didn’t dignify that with an answer.
Aramis tarried a little longer, reloading Athos’s plate and refilling his goblet. “I’d send the court physician down to the garrison infirmary but I want the patients to survive.”
“Does her majesty know of your low opinion of her doctor?”
“She shares it. He delivered her son, after all.”
The mention of the young king darkened Athos’s mood again. “You can’t ever tell him the truth, you know.”
Aramis’s genial expression didn’t change. “The truth is that the late king was father to him, and she is his mother. Anything else, he doesn’t need to know.”
Athos relaxed. “It will be hard not to tell him.”
“Not when the future of France and his mother’s safety and his own depend on my not doing so, Athos. Enough of that. I must go. Promise me you won’t leave in haste.”
“I have work to do.”
“Not from here. From Paris. Give us time to prepare.” He came back to the bed and took Athos’s hand again. “It’s been a trying time.”
“I promise I’ll stay as long as I can. It might not be as long as you want.”
Aramis squeezed his hand. “On such morsels of grace, I have learned to feast.” He turned and walked out of the room without another word.
Athos stared at the plate in front of him, seeing other meals, other times. Friends become lovers, brothers become inseparable. The happiest years of his life, or at least, the most meaningful. He had found love here, in many forms. Now he had to walk away, for the sake of two souls who needed more than he could ever give them.
Even if he had to leave half his own soul behind to do so.
He shook himself. He was wasting time and food, unforgiveable sins in this time and place.
He ate until he no longer felt hollow and dizzy, then struggled out of the elegant bed to dress. Since the food brought to him would no doubt be discarded, he wrapped the boiled eggs, bread and fruit in napkins to take back to the garrison. He doubted the palace would miss any of it, and it would make a difference to the wounded. And that would help them heal, and once healed, they would go out into the world and help others who needed protection.
Morsels of grace, indeed.
I, too, have learned to feast.