December Desolation

Reminiscence

The sounds that emanated from D'artagnan's mouth bordered on obscene, noises that you wouldn't expect to hear outside of a man's private bedchambers, all from the taste of hot chocolate.

"God D'artagnan" Athos scolded in disgust, "control yourself"

"But it's so good!" the youngest gave another rapturous moan, clutching the mug tightly between both hands and coveting it as if it were his last worldly possession.

"Right that's it" Porthos had reached the end of his tether, surging to his feet and stretching out a massive spade like hand in an unspoken demand for their youngest to hand it over.

With a whine like a kicked puppy and the pathetic eyes to match he reluctantly passed the mug to his brother, plopping himself down on Aramis' bed, not bothering to ask for permission knowing that his friend would never refuse him.

He toed off the tight leather boots that were pinching slightly at his feet and flung himself backwards into a lying position, closing his eyes with a sigh of relief as tense muscles relaxed with warmth in his stomach. Not five minutes later and his breathing had evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep, the burdens of the world slipping away into the oblivion of Morpheus' realm.

Porthos smirked at the Gascon's sleeping form, "obviously chocolate was too much for him" he laughed taking a sip from the mug himself. As the thick, sweet liquid hit his taste buds his eyes widened in shock and he couldn't bite back the moan of appreciation that spilled from his lips.

"Damn" he swore softly "that's good stuff"

A raised eyebrow was the only response Athos gave, shaking his head at the ridiculous antics of his men. Having grown up in Pinon, he had encountered hot chocolate before in his life, his father possessing enough money with which to purchase it. He could only really recall one occasion however with shocking clarity, it was Christmas of his sixth year on earth he approximated, a warm fire crackling in the fireplace and his family gathered together for one of the last times he could ever remember. His father with his stern frown and salt and pepper beard was replaced by a much more jolly man, frown lines erased as a soft, doting smile stole across his features in the flickering firelight. His little brother Thomas barely three bouncing lightly beside him in his excitement, and the maid had walked in slowly and ever so carefully, balancing a silver tray laden with four silver mugs. Their father had taken one carefully in his hands and knelt gracefully next to his sons, addressing Athos gently he told him to try some and to help his brother try some too, being careful not to burn himself. He had done so, helping his baby brother to wrap his chubby little hands around the mug and bring it to his lips, giggling slightly at the chocolaty moustache left behind on both their faces.

That had been the last moment their father had spent with them in happiness and contentedness, never again could he remember sitting in warmth with his family and laughing innocently. The only person who had been a constant in his life was Thomas, the innocent light in the black abyss that constituted the hell of his existence as he was trained to become the perfect Comte.

His light until that too had been unceremoniously snuffed out.

Shaking his head forcefully in an attempt to dispel the distressing images filtering through his brain, knowing that they were bringing him too close to tears for comfort. Luckily it was not uncommon for him to be silent for long stretches of time, and therefore not a single one of his brothers had noticed anything out of the ordinary with his attitude, and he could re-start the conversation with little difficulty.

"We must rest and pack for our journey or else we shall be ill prepared and likely to forget something. Goodness knows D'artagnan complains enough when we forget even the simplest of items, do you remember when we left the blankets?" he asked, lips quirking in remembrance.

"Of course" Aramis laughed "how could I forget! He kept up that whining for at least a week and wouldn't cease with stealing MY blanket, as if it were my fault! I don't think i've been that cold for that long in my life" he shuddered lightly.

Instantly Porthos was on his feet, draping another thick woollen blanket over the top of the mountain already swamping their brother, giving a little nod of approval as he sat back down the chair groaning under the abrupt increase in weight.

Aramis raised an eyebrow in bemusement, "I really wasn't that cold mon ami"

"Well you looked it so no arguments, now go to sleep!" Porthos retorted.

"Fine, fine. So bossy." Aramis teased gently closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushioned back of the chair, lines of stress being erased as he relaxed "if you were a woman, that would be a positive"

Porthos flushed a ruddy pink as he struggled to maintain a grumpy frown when he really wanted to laugh heartily, afraid the noise would disturb the two sleeping men. Not long afterwards and with the silence in the room Porthos had dropped off to sleep himself, lulled by the steady rhythmic breathing of his brothers.

Athos pushed himself off from the wall he had been leaning leisurely against, one foot propped flat behind him, arms folded against his chest and made his way out of the room after gently stroking a hand over Aramis brow. Satisfied that his brother was only mildly feverish, not hot enough to be concerned over and sound asleep, he left to pack the bags that he knew wouldn't be done until at least the morning they were to leave if he didn't see to it.

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The following morning once all four men were well rested, well in reality once Porthos, Aramis and D'artagnan were well rested for Athos had fallen back into bad habits, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and sitting alone in a melancholy fugue for hours on end until the sunlight began to filter through the clouds and tinge the courtyard a pleasant amber.

So, once three of the four men were well rested and awake enough to function without slurring words and fumbling fingers, they broke their fast with a big bowl of Serge's warm, albeit a little lumpy porridge and proceeded to tack up their horses. Porthos taking care of Aramis' after having deposited him upon a barrel and sternly admonishing him to stay there or he wouldn't hesitate to lash him to it.

Roger was deceptively docile as usual, reflecting the personality of his master to the point where Athos often stared at him in confusion, unsure of whether today would be a good day or a bad day, would he be bucked off or welcomed into the saddle.

Thankfully he managed to mount with little difficulty, Roger only shying slightly to the left as he settled, Aramis snickered from his barrel "lucky one there Athos, I was looking forward to seeing you land on your arse again, i'm sure you are still bruised from last time"

"I am indeed" he confirmed in aggravation, wincing slightly in remembered pain.

"Unfortunately, I am the one with the sore arse this time" D'artagnan whined unhappily, gingerly adjusting his seat in the saddle to accommodate what was sure to be extensive bruising after his run in with the path.

All three of them laughed heartily, picturing the youngest's spectacular fall once more.

"Yeah, yeah laugh it up" D'artagnan grumbled as he kicked his horse into motion, trotting smartly out of the Garrison gates.

"Is someone going to help me up?" Aramis asked as he stood a little wobbly in front of his own steed, "or shall I just try and hope I don't crack my head off the floor or the wall or any equally as hard and dangerous surface?"

A squeak of surprise echoed around the stable as Porthos hoisted him from the floor, arms wrapped around his waist and all but flung him upwards into the saddle, Aramis scrabbling for the saddle in a panic. The laughter was aimed at him again as he grumbled lowly to himself, hauling himself into a sitting position and straightening his clothes irritably, complaining about how Porthos had ruined his sash and doublet irreparably with creases.

With a swift kick to the flank of their steeds, the remaining three brothers rode swiftly through the gates of the Garrison, the awed members of the public staring after them with open mouths as an aura of majesty and dignity emanated from them.