Chapter Text
A time between ashes and roses is coming
When everything shall be extinguished
When everything shall begin.
~
The first time Porthos sees his future, it’s riding towards him through the trees at ‘Ayn Juzah, draped in mail and wearing a full-faced helm. Armor and fabric cover everything but his eyes, and by the time he’s close enough for Porthos to notice that they are startlingly blue, it’s almost too late for both of them.
Porthos is reaching for his mace, shorter and easier to swing in these woods than the cavalry sword at his side, when the horseman to his left charges forward. The soldier is slipping his feet into his stirrups and rising up in the saddle, he has his own mace in his hand, poised to come down on the oncoming enemy’s head. Porthos knows what the blow will look like, how steel can only protect a skull from just so much. He is ready to turn away when the other Saracen’s mount shifts, his barding catching on a branch they’re riding past. The quick sidestep from the horse is all that’s necessary for the rider to move off-balance. Not too much, not enough to prevent the blow, but enough to soften it.
Instead of watching the enemy knight’s brains seep out through his chainmail coif, Porthos sees him go back and then sideways off his horse, falling to the ground in a heap. The horseman with the mace has continued through the woods, the fervor of youth still in him, pushing him forward. Porthos is making to follow when the Crusader moves as if to roll to his knees. There is a shout through the trees and the sound of approaching hooves, and Porthos braces himself for the next attack.
It never comes. Instead there's just one man in dark Christian brother’s robes riding toward the fallen soldier. Porthos recognizes the monk’s habit almost immediately: he is an ifrir, His horse has barely stopped before the ifrir slides from his saddle to kneel beside the knight and strip off his helm. Their words are in French and muffled by the sounds of the battle and the monk’s helm, but Porthos can make out “your head” and “still ride?” and finally “my arm, you stubborn ass,” before the ifrir is helping the crusader to stand.
Porthos should be doing something; he should be fighting or leaving, but something about this scene has him staying to watch. Each of these two men has been braver than their comrades. The fallen man was brave enough to fight, to charge at Porthos unsupported and alone. The monk in the black robe was brave enough to not fight, to drop to the ground beside the wounded and think first of his fellow men rather than personal glory.
The monk looks up and sees Porthos, just a few horse-lengths away. He’s staring at Porthos from under the brim of his shorter helm. “May I put him on my horse?” he asks in halting Arabic. “He has no more fighting today.”
Porthos nods. There are words from the Crusader as he gets to his feet, but the monk only hushes him and shoves him toward the saddle.
From far behind Porthos there is a huge ringing cheer; the day is theirs. This place the invaders call Cresson Springs has fallen, or at least that’s what the rest of the Arab army thinks. Porthos is watching this monk help an injured man onto his horse and he knows that no good fates await the surviving Franks today.
“Go,” he tells the ifrir, using all the French he remembers. ”If you are here when they gather the survivors then death is the best you can expect. This one here,” Porthos gestures toward the knight now listing from one side to another in the saddle, “he rode straight at me with no fear. A man like that deserves better than what is coming to the captured here.”
The monk relays Porthos’ words to the wounded knight. The crusader looks up at Porthos, and there are those eyes again. Porthos understands enough to make out his reply. “So instead we should leave, because if I live today I can die nobly in battle some other day?”
Porthos flashes them both a grin; he blames the exhilaration of battle. “Yes,” he says. “Well put.”
Wheeling his horse around, Porthos takes off as fast as he dares through the trees, heading back to his commanders. He doesn’t stay to see if the two Franks make it out; he has done what he can for them, their fates are out of his hands. He will not think about them again.
One thing Aramis has never grown used to, not even so long into his life here, is how sound carries in the desert.
At first he thinks he’s imagining it, that the memories of Cresson are still ringing in his ears, even after almost two months, but a look out the window and over the valley shows that the noise is all too real. There are men, hundreds of them, thousands perhaps, marching past in the distance. Aramis can tell by the flashes of color he can see and the sounds of the songs carrying back to them, the sound of armor made of less mail and plate than he is accustomed to hearing, that these are not Europeans.
He’d already been on his way to the Grand Master’s office with an armload of maps; he clutches them tighter to his chest and nearly runs the rest of the way across the fortress. The Hospitallers had taken heavy losses at Cresson Springs, including their former Grand Master. They’ve had this temporary custodian in place for less than six weeks and while Aramis likes him, news like this would be difficult for even a seasoned leader. Aramis thinks about Armengol, still struggling to settle into his position and rebuild their ranks. What Aramis has to say is about to make his job even harder.
Striding into the office, Aramis drops the maps on the desk and says, “I have something you need to see.” Armengol follows him out of the room.
The column of men is even more clearly visible from up on the ramparts.
“We knew it wasn’t over.” Armengol sounds frustrated, but not really surprised. “We just didn’t know it would start again so soon. So many are still healing after Cresson.”
“If the king is only expecting as many as he had at Cresson, this could be a massacre,” Aramis says.
Armengol’s face is dark, his heavy eyebrows pulled low over his eyes. “Take Brother Bernard; ride for La Sephorie. The latest report we have from the king is that he is waiting there to see what the Saracens will do.” He curls his hands over the edge of the rampart and Aramis can almost hear the stone scrape over his sword calluses. “Tell him what you’ve seen, these won’t be the only ones coming. I will gather as many as we have here, and send word to others. I know there are Brothers already there, but we’ll need as many as we can muster without leaving the fortress undefended."
Aramis wants to say something, wants to reassure Armengol, but he’s waited a second too long and Armengol snaps, “Go!"
Brother Bernard is a clever boy. He’s the second son of a minor duke, another in the legion of second and third sons that makes up this order. He’s good with his letters, with riding, but most importantly he’s a better swordsman than Aramis will ever be. Aramis is feeling as safe as he can when they ride out together later that day.
They try, at first, to make small talk while they ride. Too soon it becomes clear that neither of them has the attention to spare. They’re focused on remembering everything about the soldiers they saw, and on watching the way ahead.
It’s late when they arrive, the citadel casting long shadows across the ground. Aramis, a student of beauty in so many forms, stares at it in awe. It’s the single ugliest building he has ever seen.
Square and squat and devoid of ornament, the only reprieve to the otherwise utilitarian exterior is the stones around the base, clearly scavenged from other buildings. Aramis recognizes a few of the blocks as panels from a larger relief, and as they head into the inner courtyard he looks to the side and sees the lid of a sarcophagus. These should give the building character; perhaps dispel some of the sad, plain feeling of the place. Instead they only add to it a sense of careless ignorance.
He can’t wait to give their information and be gone, to be home again in Belvoir.
They’re greeted by a soldier, a man who could be twenty or fifty given the lines on his face. He’s wearing the livery of Raymond of Tripoli, a man known for being kind, and significantly less prone to idiocy than most of the other rulers in the region. Aramis tells him the reason for their visit.
“Everyone has returned to their own encampments for the night. There will be a council in the morning.” He shows them the cistern, the meagre kitchens, and a small, dark room in one of the building’s inner walls. “Make yourselves comfortable for the night, I will make sure you are awakened in time."
They’d eaten on the road, dried meat and grain cakes, so there is nothing to do now but prepare for bed and listen to the sounds of men doing the same all around them. Aramis thinks of the letters in his cell at Belvoir, the small but growing pile that began after Cresson, and he tries not to wonder if their writer will be here with the army. The question of his presence is pointless. Aramis is here with official orders from his custodian, orders to take as seriously as if they’d come from the Grand Master; he is not here to make eyes at handsome knights from across the room.
The sounds settle around them as Aramis and Bernard roll out their blankets; everyone else seems to be bedding down at the same time. As Aramis closes his eyes, his head pillowed on his folded arm, he notices—now that the sounds of men have ceased—that it's much quieter it here than he is used to from military buildings. It seems even the rats don’t want to be in a place this ugly.
Aramis wakes at dawn, too used to waking for Matins to sleep longer. He says his prayers quietly, not begrudging Bernard the chance to rest longer. When his prayers are finished, Aramis listens to the citadel waking around him. There are shouts from where the kitchens must be; there is the heavy step of the night watch coming in and the rattle of their mail. Before long these noises are joined by the sound of someone clearing his throat in their doorway. Aramis turns and his “good morning” stops in his throat as he sees who it is.
The first letter had arrived just a few days after Aramis’ unit of Hospitallers had returned to Belvoir. There were a few lines about how the injury had been to his left arm, he’d landed on it wrong as he fell from the horse, and as such he’d still been able to write and wield a sword. He’d said that he was expected to make a speedy recovery, and he hoped Aramis did not mind that he’d spent some of his recuperation time writing to say thank you for his assistance on the field. The letter had finished with some standard platitudes and professions of gratitude and his signature. Polished, educated, swooping letters, two initials and his surname.
Aramis had read it and then reread it. There was something between the lines, a restlessness and the kind of creeping boredom that Aramis has seen drive patients to rush their recovery and worsen their injuries. This is his excuse when he picks up a piece of paper and writes a reply. If Aramis can keep this man resting and occupied, even a little, then perhaps he’ll let that injury knit as it should.
With riders crisscrossing the area frequently, there had been letters at least once a week, and often more. Aramis had asked questions about the injury, about the healing process, about what the knight had done to relieve his boredom between letters. He’d been reading, he said. The letters in response to Aramis had been full of which treatises the knight had been reading, what new techniques and strategies he was looking forward to trying in the field.
Their exchanges had been funny, a quiet, dry wit from the knight and Aramis’ customary sly humor, and Aramis had begun to look forward to them more and more. They’d argued tactics and history, and Aramis had lectured him on proper injury care and why the healers were not being ‘unreasonable devils sent to torment’. Once the knight had returned to the field and written to Aramis about the kind of terrain they were stopping in, Aramis had spoken about how different Belvoir is from his home in France, hoping to tease out a little more about his comrade. But the reply he’d received had been full of only more questions instead of personal information in return. The man is still a mystery, but he’s a clever, kind, compelling, brilliant mystery.
He’s Brother Aramis and that’s how he’d signed the letters in the beginning, but before long it had been only ‘Aramis’ or a hastily scribbled ‘A’ if he was short on time. The replies had gone from being signed with titles and surnames to just surnames, and once - haltingly, as if this were a risk - his full name, painstakingly written out. The last letter Aramis had received had been signed with the knight’s own hastily scribbled ‘A’ and Aramis had spared a kind thought for the man, grateful to have gotten a letter in the midst of a day that would put him in that kind of rush.
It had gone quiet after that, no letters for the week before Aramis had seen the Saracens and been sent on this mission, and Aramis had worried that the knight had been lost. He hasn’t, clearly. He’s standing in the doorway, looking down at Aramis with an amused look and eyes full of curiosity. He arches one eyebrow.
“Brother Aramis."
Aramis smiles, happy to see his friend whole and well. He doesn’t miss the addition of his title, even amidst the casual tone, so he makes sure to keep to the same level of formality. “Good morning, de la Fère, are you our escort?"
“Your minder, more like. The council is meeting in half an hour and I thought you might like some time to eat and prepare your belongings in case your news means we ride out sooner than expected.”
Bernard introduces himself while he and Aramis roll up their bedding and lash it to their saddlebags. The three of them keep up genial, polite conversation as they are shown to a room with long tables. “There is some food on the side tables, help yourselves. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you to the council.” Bernard thanks him and leaves them, heading for the food table to serve himself. They’re alone now. Aramis smiles, his hands clasping each other instead of reaching out to touch.
“De la Fère."
“It’s good to see you, Aramis."
“And you. I hadn’t heard from you this week."
“You worried?” De la Fère’s brows draw in and then relax. “Of course you did, I imagine that worrying for your flock is an occupational hazard. Never fear, Brother, I was only out of ink until we arrived here. Go and eat, I have seen these commanders talk and argue, you will need your strength.” His smile is wry and Aramis can see in it the hundreds of hours de la Fère must have spent shifting from foot to foot while others postured and schemed.
Aramis smiles and pats de la Fère’s shoulder. “That sounds like valuable advice."
When de la Fère returns to take them to the council room, he passes Aramis a sealed letter. “I’d written this yesterday, planning to send it out with one of today’s messengers. This is much more efficient.”
Aramis tries not to read anything into his smile; he just enjoys seeing it. He tucks the letter into his saddlebag, and he and Bernard follow de la Fère across the hall.
This room is not big enough for all of the people in it and it is certainly not big enough for all of the egos in it.
Aramis is aware, as is everyone in the region, of the tensions between the three most powerful men in the room. King Guy, tall and imposing, is standing at the head of the table with the air of a man who has spent decades working to be in that spot. To his left is Raymond of Tripoli, a man Aramis has met on a few occasions and who seems to be growing older and more tired the more often he has to deal with Guy. Today he looks especially drawn and pinched, and Aramis wonders if the others are being particularly troublesome or if there is something else going on.
Facing them both, across the table, is Reynald de Chatillon and Aramis takes a moment to be awed by how much he wants to punch this man before even hearing him speak. He’s heard about Reynald, of course, about his love for attacking weak caravans, but even more for the way he’d responded to opposition from the Patriarch of Antioch: by covering the man with honey and setting him to bake in the sun. Reynald’s face is sneering and smug, and Aramis is certain that the best thing for the Christian forces would be to lock him in the citadel’s grain storage rooms for the remainder of his life.
After months of tension in the wake of his ascension to the throne, King Guy and Raymond have finally made a fragile peace, but this morning they appear to be about to come to blows. It’s clear that neither of them completely trusts Reynald, they both watch his every move. On the table between them is a map of the area, fortresses and castles marked, and tokens for the troops they may need to move.
Guy jabs one finger at a marker of a castle sitting by a body of water, the Sea of Galilee, probably. “The fortress is being attacked by Saladin personally. I don’t see why you are not incensed by this, Raymond!"
“I didn’t say I wasn’t incensed, I only said that I think it would be catastrophic to march our entire army out to meet him in an effort to take Tiberias back!”
Reynald’s sneer has somehow gotten bigger. “Your wife is in there, defending it on her own, are you not worried for her?"
Whipping his head around to face Raynald’s accusation, Raymond says, “My wife has been in charge of that fortress for quite some time. I assure you she is not in need of defending."
Aramis hears the smallest huff of breath and turns to his side to see de la Fère covering the sound by coughing into his hand. He nudges de la Fère and de la Fère turns to him, rolling his eyes. Aramis can’t keep from smiling.
De la Fère’s cough has called attention to them both, and all three of the leaders turn to look at them.
“My Lords,” de la Fère says bowing slightly. “Brother Aramis has come from the stronghold of the Knights of St. John with news he thinks you should hear.”
Their gazes move to him and Aramis feels pinioned. He takes a deep breath and tells them everything. He points to Belvoir on the map and shows the movement of the enemy forces past it. He can’t guess at their eventual destination, but given the direction of the movement, there are only a few options.
“How many?” Guy asks.
“Hundreds,” Aramis says. “Perhaps even a thousand."
Guy slams his hand on the table hard enough to make the pieces on the map jump. Raymond sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They are amassing their troops; it’s the only explanation. They’ll be bringing in forces of that size from other directions as well. Which is even more reason to not take the bait at Tiberias.”
Bracing his hands on the table, Guy leans toward Raymond. “Are you saying—"
“I am saying that it is my fortress, and that even should it fall to the Sultan my wife would be released. Leaving here to take it back would result in us marching all of our forces away from a well fortified, easily defended position, and opening ourselves to attack in a march across waterless land. Can you not see that is precisely why he’s made this attack at the same time he is bringing in more troops? The security of this kingdom’s army and the stability of this position is worth more to me than that castle.” Raymond’s voice reaches every corner of the room without shouting, and Aramis can see why he is considered such a great leader.
Now Reynald leans forward to brace himself on the table. “To leave your house undefended? With your wife in it? Surely you can see how this looks to the rest of us?” Raymond narrows his eyes at him and Reynald stands, holding his hands out, palm up, and shrugging as if to say that the facts are not his fault.
Guy crosses his arms over his chest. “Truly though, Raymond. What kind of man does not answer this kind of insult in kind?"
Raymond stares at them. “I explain to you why I think the wisest choice for the strength of the army is to focus on our main opposition forces and you think my reasoning is cowardice?” Now Raymond’s voice is gradually rising, and his last word is almost a shout.
As though he is just remembering their presence, Reynald turns to Aramis. “Thank you, Brother. You may leave.”
Aramis clenches one hand and tries not to imagine how good it would feel to hear Reynald’s nose crunch under his fist.
Raymond doesn’t break his stare. “Much as it pains me to agree with him, perhaps it would be best if everyone else did leave.”
De la Fère takes Aramis by the elbow and guides them out of the room, the other soldiers and knights and unit leaders filing out behind them, leaving the three commanders to fight this out on their own.
For a moment, Aramis feels a flicker of hope that he might get to spend a few hours with his friend, but instead de la Fère says, “Don’t leave until they make a decision, they might need more information. I wish I could stay to talk, but I need to see to a few things.”
Aramis smiles, squeezing de la Fère’ shoulder. “Bernard and I will stay out of trouble, I promise.”
One side of de la Fère’ mouth curls in a smile. “Why do I doubt that?”
On their own again, Aramis and Bernard do keep busy. They visit their horses, say their prayers, and take their midday meal on the roof of the citadel, looking over the stretch of land below them. With no idea what the rest of the day holds, Bernard finds a quiet corner of the communal dining room and takes a nap. When Bernard's gentle snores even out into a predictable rhythm, Aramis reaches into his bag and pulls out de la Fère’s letter. It’s not a long one, but it’s full of the subtle humor Aramis has come to expect from his letters.
He talks about running out of ink after an accidental encounter between a comrade’s horse and his inkpot and apologizes for the delay in writing that resulted. He spares a few oblique words about the warring personalities of the commanders in charge of the armies and finishes with a description of the kitchen staff at the citadel and how much he admires the razor tongue of the head cook. He flayed one of the boys with his wit, but the words were so well crafted that we could not help but laugh, even the boy.
Aramis considers writing back, but he knows the risk of de la Fère walking in at any moment is a real one and the idea of being found writing a letter to the man standing in front of him is a little more absurd than Aramis can allow at the moment. Instead he joins Bernard in a nap, and then they both have some scripture study before helping set out the evening meal.
It’s after sundown before de la Fère comes to them again. He joins them at the table in a small office room looking exhausted, like he’s spent the day running front one end of the citadel to the other and back. Aramis suspects that’s exactly what he has been doing.
“For a while I’d hoped Raymond might make them see reason, but there was a rider in the afternoon.” De la Fère sounds defeated and Aramis wants to squeeze his hand. Instead he puts both of his hands in his lap. “The fortress at Tiberias has fallen, Raymond’s wife has pulled back to the citadel. Guy and Reynald have insisted that if we do not respond it shows the entire army to be cowards.” De la Fère drops his head into his hands.
“What next?” Bernard asks.
“We ride out in the morning,” de la Fère says, looking up and clenching his hands into fists on the table. "There’s been a messenger sent to Belvoir and more of your men will be here in a few hours. There is no large, reliable source of water between here and the fortress, and we will need to be moving faster than an army this size is capable of. The best thing we can do is get some sleep.”
Bernard picks up his saddlebag and thanks de la Fère. “Will we be in the same room tonight?” De la Fère nods. Turning to Aramis, Bernard smiles and says, “I want the side away from the door tonight."
Aramis smiles in return. “Of course, Brother Bernard. You go on, I’ll be right there.”
When they are alone, Aramis reaches across and wraps his hand around one of de la Fère’s fists and squeezes. De la Fère gives him a weak smile. Aramis resists the urge to rub his thumb across de la Fère's knuckles.
“Saladin knows he can’t besiege every Christian fortress in the Holy Land,” Aramis says and de la Fère shakes his head.
“His strength is in the field, where his cavalry and archers can move easily."
“If we leave here,” Aramis says, “we’ll be in the open. Right where he wants us."
“Yes,” de la Fère says. “We will.” He puts one elbow on the table and rests his head on his hand, his knuckles against his mouth, and stares at where Aramis’ hand is still wrapped around his.
Despite knowing they need their rest and their strength, it’s a long time before either of them goes to bed.