The Fifteen Prayers of Aramis, 12/15
(ao3 link)
Rating: Teen/Mature
Characters: Aramis, Pauline, Helene/Isabelle, Treville, Marie de Medici, Marsac, Serge, Constance, Porthos, Athos, Adele, Richelieu, d'Artagnan
Summary: Fifteen short chapters recounting Aramis' life before the show began.
Chapter Title: Hail Joseph
WARNING: implications of situational depression, grief, and ptsd
“blessed are the arms that embrace what you have embraced [...] blessed in the heart that loves what you have loved.”
----
“So you have found me.” Aramis droned when he heard the shuffle of loose tiles behind him. “Again.” “That I did.” Came the rough Parisian accent that had dogged his days for the past three weeks. “Though I wish you hadn’t chosen the roof.” “Scared of heights?” “Nah. Scared of fallin’ through these tiles into Tréville's office.” Despite himself, Aramis huffed a laugh. Indeed it might be a possibility for the recruit to go straight through the roof with all his bulk. Meanwhile, Aramis was now so light he had to fight the wind to stay balanced. “Right. Can we get down now?” “No.” Aramis knew as soon as he climbed down he’d have to see all those sympathetic faces. He couldn’t stand it. “Why not?” “I haven’t broken any rules.” Do not leave the Garrison. Do not handle weapons. Do not go anywhere without his pet nurse. “You came up here without me.” Aramis sighed in frustration but still did not turn from his view of Paris. “Next time I will find somewhere better to run away.” He declared petulantly. “Stubborn bastard.” The recruit chuckled annoyingly. “I know Paris like the back of ma hand. And I guarantee that I could follow you anywhere. A can promise you that!” Far too enthusiastic, Aramis thought as he felt the other man settle precariously next to him, legs dangling off the guttering. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Porthos.”
----
“How did you get into this regiment without being able to read?” He asked eventually. “You’re supposed to be restin’.” Porthos countered, placing down the book he had been flicking through. “And I am.” Aramis gestured to his reclined position on the bed. The headache from that morning had nearly completely faded. “Answer the question.” “You don’t need to know your letters for infantry.” “You’re not infantry now.” “How could you tell?” Porthos muttered glumly. “The book you’re holding. You are not reacting to the content as is usually expected.” Porthos looked blankly at the title. “What’s it about then?” “It’s a translation of Pietro Aretino’s I Modi.” Another blank look. “It’s a collection of explicit poems.” Porthos dropped the book like it was a hot coal. Aramis could not help but laugh. Thankfully, Porthos also saw the humour and began howling louder than Aramis had ever heard. “I can teach you, if you want." He offered when he had caught a breath. “You what?!” “To read, Porthos! I won’t tell anyone.” “... Yeah. A’right.” The man agreed eventually. “Not with that one though, right?” “No, no.” Aramis clambered up only wobbling slightly and retrieved a different book. “We will begin where everyone begins. The Bible.” “Jesus.” Porthos heaved wearily. “Exactly!” Aramis cannot remember how long they laughed that night.
----
Porthos found him, as he always does. This time he did not offer a humorous comment, which Aramis was grateful for. He still remembered when this patch of grass was used for social gatherings that spilt out of the Garrison courtyard. Now twenty spindly wooden crosses poked up from the soil. Twenty slightly raised bumps in the otherwise flat land. Summer had long since set in over the city and Aramis needed to wear his hat constantly due to the sensitivity of his eyes. Aramis knew that the bodies were buried so deep under the ground that there was no way he could possibly smell the decomposition. But his mind, now well versed in tricking his senses, conjured ghastly images of frozen corpses thawing in the summer heat. He swallowed thickly. “What was it?” Porthos asked. He meant what made Aramis flip from enjoying fresh fruit in the market to standing alone in a cemetery. “Nothing.” Aramis replied before he remembered the vivid colours of strawberries, the sweetness of them on his tongue, the cries of children playing by the well, the weight of Porthos’ arm around his shoulders. “Everything.” He amended quietly. “I’m sorry.” Porthos said genuinely. Aramis knew he did not believe in empty words, so he must mean it. But Aramis cannot think of something for Porthos to be sorry for. “What for?” “I’m sorry that you are feelin’ what you are feelin’. And that I can’t do nothing about it.” Porthos never used words like sad or melancholic or insane. He never tried to guess. “Thank you.”
----
“What was that?!” Porthos exclaimed between deep peels of laughter. Aramis could not muster the breath to reply. He was too busy convincing his vision to stop spinning. “You squealed like a piglet!” Porthos reported loud enough that the entirety of Paris surely heard. Aramis coughed as feeling returned to his body. “Ow.” Above him, Porthos leaned over. His bandana had been knocked off during their last sparring bout, letting the tightly coils of his hair protrude at every imaginable angle. With the scar over his eye and untidy teeth grinning down at him, Aramis could see why people were scared of his friend. But Aramis saw what others did not. The shorter section of his eyebrow that had been shaved in a dare. The dried melon juice in his moustache because he will eat it any chance he has. The ink smear on the hand he offers from practicing his writing before morning muster. “You alright?” He asked once Aramis had found his feet. “No.” Aramis puffed heavily to get his lungs moving again. “What did I tell ya about gettin’ thrown?” “To relax before impact.” “And what did you do?” “Not relax?” “Every muscle in your body tensed, ‘Mis!” Porthos cried. “What’re you gonna do when some criminal decides to toss you?!” “Pfft. I’d shoot him before he got that close.” Aramis explained simply. Porthos chuckled. “Modest one, you are! Now, again?”
----
“Have you heard Rupert is having a bash at The Wren tonight?” Porthos asked over breakfast. “I’ve heard.” Aramis nodded. “And I’ve also heard we must procure our own wine.” “Tight-fisted bastard.” The other man grumbled with a mouth full of bread. “Porthos, I have sewn so many patches into that shirt I’m not sure there is any original fabric left!” “Yeah, but I’d buy you a drink at my birthday party.” “You can’t even afford to buy yourself a drink.” “Well neither can you!” Porthos fought vehemently. Then, he ducked his head and looked around the Garrison courtyard furtively. “But I bet Monsieur Petite Capitaine could afford an entire cask.” Aramis hummed in agreement. Fine sword. Fine clothes. Renting a property outside The Garrison. They think he bought his commission since he has yet to mention any previous postings. Not that the man mentioned much of anything. “Do you think we should go in search of patronesses?” Aramis asked. Porthos shook his head. “Not enough time before this evening.” “For you, maybe. I take it you have another idea?” “Depends. You still hear that ringing in your ear?” “Not for a few weeks now.” Aramis answered warily. “How do you feel about a blindfold?” “Porthos!” The man produced two wine bottles empty of all but a pebble that rattled around the glass. “So here’s what I’m thinkin’...”
----

















