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General Porthos du Vallon leads his men from the field, victorious. He is already a highly decorated war hero and this is another great victory. It will be remembered as his battle, as General and leader, and its story retold in the social circles of Paris, high and low.
The dead lie scattered, their sacrifices many and gruesome, and it is with grim satisfaction, not celebration, that the victors return to their tents. Porthos is mid-stride, just shy of the tent entrance when he collapses. Those men nearest rush to his aid.
*****
“Let Aramis do his work,” Treville demands, tone brooking no argument. The return journey to Paris is too far, and so the gash in Porthos’s thigh must be stitched before they ride.
Porthos closes his mouth on further protest and glares at Aramis with mistrust. He wants to glare at Treville but knows his captain’s limits. Porthos’s breeches are sticky with clotted blood. Aramis peels them away, touching Porthos with a tenderness that has Porthos more on edge than the rough handling he’s accustomed to.
“Give him brandy,” Aramis says, focussed on his task.
Treville receives every injury to his Musketeers as a personal insult and it makes him short tempered. “There isn’t any,” he snaps. “Let me know when you’re done.”
Aramis works quietly, almost apologetically. The stab of the needle is intense every time it enters Porthos’s flesh, but after the first few stitches Porthos finds that he doesn’t need to give voice to it anymore. He concentrates his attention on the details of Aramis’s face and on his elegant fingers. When it’s over he’s glad, but also reluctant to lose Aramis’s touch.
“Thank you,” Porthos says, and means it. The stitching is neater than some he has seen by qualified surgeons.
“You know, I shot the man who did it,” Aramis says with sly satisfaction, hauling Porthos to his feet.
Porthos keeps their hands and forearms clasped together. He feels a surge of fierce gratitude and affection for Aramis but has no words to express this. He nods and squeezes Aramis’s hand.
Aramis grins, recognising the sentiment. He laughs and claps Porthos on the shoulder. It’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
*****
“ARAMIS!” Porthos bellows, waking with the name on his lips, before thought can prevent its escape. The men at his bedside recover from their momentary fright and Porthos’s body falls back to the bed, contorting in agony.
There are two men, both surgeons, and their low murmuring doesn’t bode well. Pain issues from the sword wound in his side, cramping his guts, lancing through his chest and back when he moves.
“Minister Aramis,” Porthos tries again, feebly. “He was in Picardy with the Queen Mother.” He grits his teeth against a wave of nausea. “It is possible?”
The younger of the surgeons, a sandy haired man who Porthos doesn’t recognise says, “Could he come?” It’s said sotto voce to his colleague, but there’s nothing wrong with Porthos’s hearing. “Would he- ”
“We will send a bird,” the older man instructs. His name is Thibaut, a grey whiskered man and a reassuring presence. He pats the bare skin of Porthos’s arm. “The minister will come.”
The sandy haired youth hurries away to carry out the instruction, but not before Porthos has read the thoughts written plain upon his face: even if the bird isn’t shot down or intercepted by a hawk, Aramis will never make it in time. The young physician thinks Porthos is dying. Picardy is close, only two days, perhaps less for Aramis to reach him, and even that might be more time than Porthos has.
*****
“You can’t do everything together,” Treville says in exasperation. “Porthos will take first duty with Moûtiers and Aramis will take over on second watch with Dubois.” He holds up a hand to forestall their inevitable protests. “You’ll be back on duty together by Friday. You need to be capable of working with others, not just each other.” He waves them away, ignoring Aramis’s glare and returning to the papers on his desk.
“We could do everything together,” Aramis complains, “If he’d only let us.”
Porthos slings an arm around his friend. He wants to share Aramis’s indignation but Treville does have a point. It’s almost a year since Porthos’s thigh wound at Poitiers and they have become fast friends since; some would say inseparable. That Aramis is loath to be parted from him, even for such a short period of time, makes Porthos feel both humbled and elated.
The night is clear, and by the end of first watch it is turning cold. Porthos has been shifting from foot to foot for a while, more than ready to be relieved by Aramis and Moûtiers, who are already late.
“Where the bloody fuck are they anyway?” Dubois grumbles, rubbing his hands together. He’s a thin man who feels the cold more than his fellow soldiers.
“They’ll be here,” Porthos says. “Any minute now.”
“Stop him!” Even at a distance Porthos recognises Aramis’s voice. His body moves to follow the command as the hoofbeats approach, making dull thunder on the grass. The rider is obviously intent on escape, and Porthos puts himself in their path. He draws his sword and makes himself as big as possible.
When the horse draws level, Dubois clangs his sword against the metal railings. It has the desired effect in combination with the threat presented by Porthos, and the horse spooks. It rears up and beats its forelegs in the air. The rider is thrown clear and Porthos captures him in a roll, narrowly avoiding a kick from the panicked beast.
Aramis joins them at a run, closely followed by Moûtiers. Both have guns in hand, trained on the cloaked intruder. The man surrenders, holding out both hands.
“¿Quiénes son usted?” Aramis demands, but the man shakes his head.
“Non sono Spagnolo,” he says.
“Italian.” Moûtiers exchanges a meaningful look with Porthos. There are good odds that the man is from Mantua and that he has shady business with the Cardinal.
Dubois ties the Italian’s hands while Moûtiers catches the jumpy horse.
Aramis takes Porthos aside. “Well done!” he says, “I knew you’d stop him.”
Porthos does his best to not visibly swell under the praise. “A spy?”
“A messenger we think. Go and deliver him to Treville and then get some rest.”
Porthos grins and shakes his head, feeling reinvigorated. “I’d gladly do another duty if we were together,” he says. It’s a mistake, but by the time he realises it it’s too late. Aramis has already seen through him. All it had taken in the end was one stupid, unguarded moment of joy. Porthos looks away, embarrassed.
Aramis considers him, as though Porthos has sprouted new and interesting features. Horns perhaps. Porthos waits for judgement, his insides squirming. He doesn’t take it back though because it’s the truth.
“Rest,” Aramis advises. “Tell Treville we’ll report to him after our duty, although there’s little enough to tell: we found the Italian lurking in the trees by the Western Gate and gave chase.” He catches Porthos by the upper arm before he can escape, on the left side without the pauldron. His grip is firm and he pulls Porthos close. “You and I,” Aramis whispers, sweet breath ghosting over Porthos’s skin, “We will speak more on Friday.”
Porthos shivers.
*****
“Water sir?” It’s a dark-haired boy talking to him, encouraging him to drink from a waterskin.
Porthos doesn’t try to move. He’s aware of where he is and remembers the pain of trying to move from earlier. There’s no sign of either surgeon, just this boy who looks terrified but determined. He reminds Porthos of d’Artagnan, when they had first met all those years ago.
It’s dark outside, Porthos has missed the sunset.
“Have they collected the dead?” His voice is little more than a croak but the boy understands him.
“Yes sir.”
He does take a drink, since the boy is insistent, but even the slight effort required to move his head is anguish and he has to rest and close his eyes when it’s done. The night is silent but for their breathing, and the air has cooled. The boy has drawn a short straw for this unfortunate bedside duty, but Porthos is grateful for his presence.
“Was General Garza there?” he manages.
“No sir. That is, they haven’t found him yet but Captain Comtois thinks it is still likely that he is dead.”
It isn’t, but it had been too much to hope for. Porthos relinquishes his grip on wakefulness. He is weary and doesn’t want to think of the war, only of Aramis. Aramis. More so now than ever. It makes sense, he supposes, drifting: a swansong of the heart.
*****
Visitors come and go through the palace gates. Porthos and Aramis nod and exchange words of greeting here and there. The King’s Musketeers are not usually deployed as mere gate guards but The Council had been determined to send a strong message to any remaining would-be assassins.
As the light fades, visitors become less frequent and Porthos’s nerves jangle. When it’s quiet enough and dark enough Aramis will want to talk.
The last servant leaves and drawn-out minutes of silence elapse between them. Despite his dread, Porthos wishes Aramis would begin just to get it over with. When the anticipation turns excruciating, Porthos says stiffly, “I didn’t mean to cause offence, by what I said.”
Aramis rewards him with a smile, and Porthos understands that the matter could have been overlooked if he hadn’t brought it up again. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Aramis hooks a leg back against the wall, unprofessionally relaxed but there’s no one around to see. “How long have you felt like this?”
“I don’t know. A while. It sort of crept up on me.”
Aramis nods, his posture open. “And how, exactly, do you feel?” he asks carefully.
Porthos’s knees go weak. “Don’t make me say it.”
“How else will I understand?” Aramis keeps his tone light, coaxing. “Besides, you’ve piqued my interest.”
Porthos’s palms sweat in his gloves, his body primed to cry and fight both at once. There’s only one answer but he can’t say it aloud. Then again, not answering would make him a coward unworthy of Aramis’s friendship. “I love you,” he confesses, the words curling strangely around his tongue.
“And I you,” Aramis says immediately, “As a brother. But I think you mean something more.”
The image of an open wound comes to Porthos, his chest torn asunder and his innards laid bare. His heart is in good hands, he knows, but one wrong word and Porthos would simply have to crawl off and die in a hole because there would be no other option left him. “I think of us together,” he manages to say, pressing his fingertips against his breastbone. It’s reassuringly solid and he digs in hard, the pain providing a momentary distraction.
“And when you imagine us together,” Aramis says, “What are we doing?”
Porthos glares at him in disbelief. He appreciates the casual act that Aramis is affecting to put him at ease, but Aramis cannot entirely hide the sharpness of his curiosity, not from Porthos who knows him so well.
Aramis holds up a hand, “I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to torture you.”
“Well that’s a blatant lie,” Porthos grumbles, on more familiar footing.
“Perhaps.” Aramis quirks his lips. “I just want to understand what you want from me. You have to know there’s very little I would deny you.”
“It’s not- ” Porthos begins and has to clear his throat. “It’s not just carnal.”
“No?”
Porthos might choke on his own teeth and tongue. What the Hell does Aramis want him to say? His feelings emphatically are carnal. His most oft-visited fantasy however is one where they only lie together, in the shade of a tree by the river. Aramis’s head would rest in Porthos’s lap and Porthos would stroke his hair. Their roles in this fantasy switch according to Porthos’s whim and he has spent many long hours in waking dreams imagining nothing more. “I’m in love with you,” he says helplessly, and silently pleads for mercy, for Aramis to understand with no more need for words.
Aramis glances around. Seeing nobody, and sheltered now by darkness, he takes Porthos’s gloved hand in his own and brings it to his lips. “Thank you for telling me.”
They don’t speak of it explicitly but Aramis starts a bombardment of touch. The same physical expressions of camaraderie that passed between them before take on a deliberate quality: their arms pressed together while they eat; a pat on the back; a squeeze to the shoulder, a brief hug with every greeting.
Off duty, Aramis talks ever more of his mistress, Marie-Helene Silvestre, the general’s daughter. He mentions her at every opportunity, feeding Porthos unasked-for details of their intimacy. These stories offer insights into Aramis’s erotic inclinations that Pothos can’t refuse, and yet he finds them maddening. He becomes privy to Aramis’s thoughts on the ‘oral arts,’ his fascination with delayed gratification, and his preferences and stamina for various sexual positions that sound more like contortions than anything. Porthos can’t stop thinking about any and all of it for long, and he tries not to resent Mademoiselle Silvestre. In his weaker moments he doesn’t always succeed.
“We share our fantasies,” Aramis says, halfway through a bottle on a Friday evening. “The act of love without imagination can become monotonous, don’t you think?”
Porthos declines to comment but pours more wine.
Aramis catches his wrist before he can replace the bottle. “I wonder if you could counsel me with regard to a specific idea she had.”
“I don’t think I should- ”
“Just hear me out. Please?” Aramis relinquishes his hold.
“Alright.”
“She has a fantasy of many hands. Of… two partners at once, or more.” Aramis lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “Of two cocks taking her at once.”
“Fuck.”
“Quite. I said I had a friend, someone I could ask. And if you agreed then, well, tomorrow night we have her father’s hunting lodge to ourselves.”
The night is moonless and Porthos waits in absolute darkness, in shrubland at the edge of the woods. He feels like a criminal lurking below Marie-Helene’s window with intent. Aramis had asked him to ride out when the bells chimed 10 O’clock. ‘If you want to,’ Aramis had said. ‘If you decide not to then I will understand.’ Porthos had been sure that he didn’t want to. He had planned to stay in the garrison all night, drinking brandy to oblivion. And yet here he is.
Lamplight illuminates an upstairs window in the otherwise-deserted lodge, and the curtains are drawn back to reveal Aramis and Marie-Helene, both masked in the Venetian style. The field of light doesn’t touch Porthos, and it must be impossible for them to see him, but he draws back further into shadow nevertheless.
Aramis is dressed simply in shirt and breeches. They embrace as Porthos watches and he imagines the ghost of Aramis’s touch at his own jaw. His lips part involuntarily as he watches them kiss. Marie-Helene is skilfully divested of her clothes and she turns to face Porthos, looking out into the night. Her movements are sinuous, designed to arouse her invisible audience. Aramis caresses her, brushing loose curls from her shoulders and kissing her neck. He strokes her breasts and belly, and gently parts her legs.
She turns into his embrace and undresses Aramis in turn. Porthos has seen his friend naked before but never aroused, never like this. He’s accosted by yearning; feels choked by it.
Aramis faces outwards, his turn to be on display. His eyes scan the darkness for Porthos but he doesn’t find him. Marie-Helene reaches around Aramis’s waist and caresses him with her hands, letting Porthos see everything in detail. Porthos is torn by opposing desires, to be simultaneously closer and many miles away.
Aramis moans; it’s audible, a tiny sound through the glass. Stupidly, recklessly, he unties his mask and lets it fall. Porthos wants to be angry about it but it’s no good; he is immediately skewered and slain by the expression on Aramis’s face. It’s impossible to hold back the flood of lust any longer, or keep from touching himself. He watches as Aramis loses focus, his beautiful features breaking open in pleasure. Porthos finds his own release by accident, as Aramis’s seed paints the panes of glass between them.
The lovers embrace again afterwards, beautiful and tender, heartbreakingly so. How could Porthos fit into that immaculate dance? Marie-Helene places a red candle in the window, leaving the curtains drawn back, and they retreat into the room. It’s the signal Aramis had promised, meaning all is clear, come up and join us. The side door will be unbolted and they will be listening for him, half-expecting his arrival, but Porthos can’t do it. He slips away into the night.
Aramis greets him on Monday morning with their customary one-armed hug. “You didn’t come,” he accuses, as they walk together to the armoury.
Porthos shakes his head. “Didn’t seem right.”
Aramis is quiet until Porthos is forced to look him in the eye. “I could pretend to believe you,” Aramis says, mischief in the set of his mouth, “And maybe I should do you that courtesy, but I think we know each other better.”
Porthos flushes, embarrassed to be caught out and annoyed with himself.
Aramis laughs. “Poor Marie, she may be forever unfulfilled despite my best efforts.” They stop before reaching the building and Aramis takes him by the elbow. “But there were two fantasies, I didn’t tell you before. One each.”
“And what was yours?” Porthos asks, against his better judgement.
“To be on display.”
Porthos inhales shakily and tries to break free of the hold, but Aramis doesn’t let go.
“You were there weren’t you. You saw me.” It’s not a question.
Desire crawls back into Porthos’s limbs like treacle. “Yes,” he whispers. Aramis releases him.
Seeming satisfied by this answer, he gives Porthos a smile to show that it doesn’t matter but says, “You should have come up,” with a shrug.
Porthos wishes he had. He’s certain he will never get another chance to be intimately close to Aramis; that he’s doomed to regret his cowardice for the rest of his life.
*****
Somebody shakes him awake. It’s still night, still the same boy.
“What happened?” Porthos asks urgently, “Did he come?” The boy is so young, so like d’Artagnan.
“No,” he says, wide eyed, “I’m sorry.”
A tear leaks from Porthos’s eye. He had been sure for a moment that Aramis had come. Why else would the boy wake him?
“You were talking in your sleep,” the boy explains, looking embarrassed. “You were distressed.”
Porthos sighs. He can well imagine what things he might have said. “I was dreaming,” he rasps, “Of all the things that might have been when we were still young men.”
The boy gives him more water and helps him re-settle. Porthos closes his eyes and tries to will himself back into the dream, despite the pain of his wound. “Was it Minister Aramis sir, in your dream?” the boy asks, so quietly that Porthos barely hears him.
He’s hazily aware that he shouldn’t admit to it, but he’s in that woozy place between waking and dreaming where the mouth runs away from the mind. “Yes,” he says, without opening his eyes. Athos had known from the beginning and so it’s inevitable that d’Artagnan should find out one way or another. He allows himself to smile, imagining the expression on the boy’s face, but his eyelids are too heavy to open.
“I swear, on my honour, I will never speak of it,” d’Artagnan whispers fiercely, taking Porthos’s hand, and Porthos snorts because it hardly needs saying.
“Is he coming?” he murmurs.
“We sent for him,” D’Artagnan says. “He’s coming.”
*****
“Would you have given it all up, in his place?” Aramis asks him as they ride away from Pinon. Athos is riding ahead with D’Artagnan and Treville, out of earshot.
“No. I don’t know.” Athos had hanged the love of his life and believed her to be dead. Porthos refuses to imagine Aramis’s death. Aramis will outlive Porthos, if God has any mercy. “Maybe,” Porthos allows. It feels good to ride away from Athos’s past, the five of them together. They are bound by their oaths, all of them servants to the Crown, but in this moment they feel like free men with the world at their feet.
“I’m glad we got him back,” Aramis says, echoing Porthos’s thoughts.
The track narrows, forcing them to ride in single file. Porthos’s mare skips irritably when Aramis lets his gelding get within nipping distance.
“I want to speak with you,” Aramis says immediately when there’s room to ride side by side again.
Porthos slows his pace and they fall further behind the others. “That sounds ominous.”
“I’ve been thinking, about us.”
It’s feels like an ambush and Porthos’s pulse quickens. There’s no need for Aramis to ask if Porthos feels the same because it’s always there between them now. For years it has been underpinning their friendship. They don’t speak of it though.
“I would like to try being together. Intimately I mean, just the two of us.”
Porthos turns to him in disbelief. He must be dreaming, or mad perhaps after so much provocation, because he’s sure Aramis just suggested that they embark on a love affair. It’s everything Porthos has ever wanted and for a moment he struggles for breath.
Aramis smiles. “Intimacy between brothers can’t ever be the holy union between a man and woman I think, but as an extension of our love,” Aramis shrugs, “I think it could be highly enjoyable, as the best sins tend to be.”
“You want that?”
“I’ve always thought of it, you must know that. Ever since you told me how you felt.” Porthos does know it but it’s still a revelation to hear Aramis admit to it. “I think Athos would turn a blind eye.”
It’s true. Ever since their two had become a brotherhood of three, Athos has seen right through Porthos, and probably through Aramis too. Porthos thinks Athos might understand Porthos’s love for Aramis better than Aramis ever has.
“There are rooms I’ve been thinking of taking, near Saint Martin. We could be together there at our leisure.” Aramis bites his lip and re-sets his hat. “But you’d have to understand, it could never replace the relationships I have with women. Those unions would always have to come first.”
It hurts, but not as much as it might have done once, in the days before Porthos had learnt to protect his heart. He sees now what this is: Aramis wants to lose himself; an escape from the torment of watching the Queen with the Dauphin from a distance. Perhaps he even wants to punish himself with Porthos, for loving Anne and not being able to be with her. Porthos doesn’t want it though, not like this. He loves Aramis more than life and light but it would be better to offer support within the limits of their brotherhood. “I would be desperately jealous,” Porthos says, “Of the Queen, of Marguerite- ”
“Ppht! Marguerite is nothing to me- ”
“That makes it worse!” Porthos can’t creep around meaning less even than Aramis’s mistress of the moment; meaning something other, something dirty.
D’Artagnan rides back and saves them from the rest of the conversation. “There you are! You’ve fallen well behind. Treville says either catch up or forfeit your suppers.”
“He’s not the captain anymore,” Porthos grumbles, but nudges his mare to a canter, and Aramis and d’Artagnan follow.
It doesn’t matter what Porthos tells himself though. As the months pass Aramis invites closeness, usually after a few drinks of an evening. Wandering hands brush against places on Porthos’s body where he yearns for them most. Their embraces linger and it would worry Porthos if he wasn’t sure that Athos understands, and that d’Artagnan is hopelessly oblivious.
Late, after a long evening of drinking, they find themselves alone together in an alleyway. Aramis embraces him, and Porthos holds on tight. They cling to each other, the connection of their bodies good and sure, overwhelmingly so. Their faces press together and Porthos breathes Aramis’s smell, feels the speed of Aramis’s breath against his skin and the thudding of Aramis’s heart in his own breast. It’s their first kiss, not so much a choice as an inevitability.
There are more kisses after that, always stolen. They leave Porthos enflamed and wanting more, but it’s confusing as well. It feels right but Porthos can’t understand how Aramis can mean something so different by the same physical act. How can something so tender never be blessed? Aramis says it isn’t the same kind of love but Porthos doesn’t know any other kind.
Porthos’s body understands what his mind won’t though. Being close to Aramis is imperative and all the moralising in the world can’t change how right it feels.
*****
Pain wakes him and Porthos has a moment of absolute lucidity. He feels very real; more alive than ever before. He is acutely aware of where he is and what happened to him in the battle. It’s still night, this cursèd interminable night, but he’s not afraid anymore. Day will come. Aramis will come.
Porthos feels euphoric. His love for Aramis is immutable and he is at peace. He sees everything clearly in hindsight; their follies and their fears. Aramis who is so like the sun. Beautiful Aramis. And who else could have sired the Sun King? Le Roi Soleil, bestowed to mortal men in the arms of the Queen by the living light of Porthos’s world. It makes perfect sense, the inevitability of how things turned out. He laughs and tries to sit up. The wrenching agony of the wound engulfs him and he passes out.
*****
Porthos enters the cathedral as the bell chimes 3. He walks the length of the nave, footsteps echoing, and approaches the giant crucifix. The naked man suffering crucifixion is not Christ but Aramis, his beautiful face contorted in anguish. It’s similar to the expression of pleasure that Porthos covets but there’s no mistaking the sorrow. Aramis’s eyes are rolled up into his skull and a crown of thorns weighs down his head. It is fashioned of brightest gleaming gold, with spikes of metal tearing the flesh. Blood runs down Aramis’s face. Porthos fights to reach him but he can’t move.
There are others though, women who come, Anne and Adele. They take down Aramis’s body, draw out the long nails and remove the blooded crown. They wrap him in fabric, not in a shroud but in the robes of a monk. Aramis stands with their help, but they leave him, dizzy and blind. Aramis reaches out, his arms spread wide seeking touch. Porthos calls his name desperately but Aramis is deaf as well as blind and he cannot hear him.
The children come then, silently. A small girl with blonde hair takes Aramis by the hand and Aramis clasps her small hand in both of his like a lifeline. They lead Aramis away, stumbling and faltering through the ruins of a monastery. Porthos bellows until his lungs ache but Aramis never turns back.
Porthos looks down and realises that he has taken Christ’s final wound in his own side. The blood runs black like tar and Porthos goes to his knees clutching the shaft of the spear.
*****
Porthos clutches at his wound, reopening it and waking himself from his nightmare. The boy fetches Thibaut but by the time they return Porthos has slipped away again into the arms of slumber.
Thibaut does his best to staunch the bleeding. Porthos is weakening. His skin has turned waxy grey and his body is sheened all over with sweat.
“Don’t wake him,” Thibaut advises. The boy looks anxious and Thibaut wonders that a bond should have formed so rapidly between boy and dying man. “We’ll give him water if he wakes,” he says kindly, “And soup if he’ll take it. I’ll stay.”
*****
It is the Dauphin’s 8th birthday and there is time for kissing. Aramis whispers endearments that brand themselves on Porthos’s soul.
There is so much kissing. They share each other’s air and kiss like they’re drowning. They kiss until their lips tingle, until it comes as naturally as breath.
There are many opportunities at Court: Aramis has chambers to himself. Porthos could not deny him and would not deny himself any longer. Ideologies have ceased to matter as the years go by.
Porthos loves Aramis. He kisses Aramis until his lips are swollen, until kissing itself becomes an addiction. He kisses Aramis until Aramis’s mouth is as ripe as peach flesh.
*****
Porthos moans. He catches at Thibaut’s doublet seeking reassurance. He tries to say, “A kiss is a kiss just the same, no?” but he’s too weak to form the words.
*****
Aramis quakes in his arms, demanding everything and enthusiastically taking what is gladly given. Their passion is illicit, hidden in the small hours of the morning, but it is honest. It is love, nothing less.
Love can only mean what it means. Porthos’s love is buried in alcohol and denial, always in secret. He is weak but he won’t think of that. He will never think of it. There are kisses on his lips; kisses to the wound on his thigh and the wound on his back, once healed by Aramis’s hand and made holy by Aramis’s lips. Surely his own lips remember? His body remembers. His body cries out for Aramis’s touch.
*****
“What more can we do for him?” the boy asks.
Thibaut sighs. “Pray for his soul.”
Soft dawn light comes into the tent. They’re talking about someone coming. Someone is coming; a priest, Porthos thinks. And if they have sent for the priest then it must be the end.
The tent flap is pushed aside and brilliant white light washes over Porthos’s face. A silhouetted figure enters but it isn’t a priest. “Aramis!” Porthos looks around in wonder but the others have already slipped out, granting them privacy.
Aramis kisses Porthos’s hand and takes Porthos’s head in his lap, his touch as soft as velvet. He is the same as the last time they met, except that his moustache is curled, the way he used to wear it for the ladies, and he’s wearing his Musketeer’s uniform, complete with pauldron. It’s odd and Porthos wants to ask him about it but Aramis soothes him. He strokes Porthos’s face and murmurs words of affection until the detail of uniform no longer matters.
“You came.” Porthos weeps openly, tears streaming from his eyes. “You came. You’re here.”
“Shh my love. Of course I’m here.” Aramis kisses Porthos’s fingertips, smiling his playful smile, the one Porthos loves most. “I’ll always be here.”
He sings softly, a Spanish lullaby. Porthos doesn’t know the words and Spanish is forbidden here, in the midst of war, but that’s okay. There’s no pain; nothing hurts anymore and Porthos is floating. He’s floating.