Phantoms
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Peace of mind comes to Aramis by way of an unexpected specter.
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you? ― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
It was not uncommon to see them like this while he slept. Perceive them as they once were -enthusiastic, young, charismatic men – who reveled in the title and honor of being called ….musketeer.
In between their anguished cries while in the throes of a chilling, unmerciful death – he could yet hear their jovial laughter; bristle good naturedly at Requan's bawdy outlandish humor and marvel in awe at Lamont's uncanny expertise with a knife.
They were alive, well and hardy in his dreams – just as they were on that fateful sunny day – before it all descended into the realm of bloody, hellish nightmares.
Sometimes, they even spoke to him. And he let them share their aspirations; desires to look upon their loved ones and impossible hopes for a future they did not know were lost to them. Only he held such insight, but could not find it within himself to be the bearer of harsh realities – though it were only dreams. And they in all honesty were now otherworldly phantoms – only partially remembering who they use to be.
Aramis supposed he would never forget them. Their open faces etched forever in his mind's eye – as smiling, bright eyed soldiers who then would segue into sightless, broken, frozen corpses. Their voices indefinitely implanted in his inner ear. Their blood – always on his hands…..his clothes, his hair…embedded in his soul….everywhere.
Besides, they would not let him forget.
Not only did they convene with him in his sleep, but in waking moments they kept him company at meal time; convoyed with him on missions, stood silent with Athos, d'Artagnan, and Porthos; listening – watching as he stumbled through his life among the living. They even stayed with him in Douai as he watched over his children misplaced by war.
In church they filled the pews – seated among the parishioners. In prayer they bowed their heads with him, and whispered His praises with the living. During confession they lent a sympathetic ear and wailed alongside him in pain for their long suffering.
For a decade now they had become a part of the fabric of his life. So much so, that he barely noticed them or at times could not distinguish them from those living and breathing right next to him.
Always they intermingled seamlessly – floating with ease; faint, translucent apparitions who sparred in the yard; commenced in the stables or watched from benches the goings on of garrison life. They held steadfast at his side with every decision, every triumph, every mistake or miscalculation…..and never judged.
The day after Marsac…..died – he appeared right alongside the twenty. His brooding countenance a dark contrast to the others' hopeful assurances that one day, they would leave his "dreams"; sleeping or otherwise and find their way home.
If only…they implored – he would let them go.
Never one to invite notice, Marsac hid in the shadows – just out of his field of vision – sulking, bereft of any good will; his aura a harbinger of doom. His self-destructive need for revenge an ever present seething anger – undiminished, even in death.
So, over the years, he let him be. Left him to his own devises; where he lay hidden, but there – at odd moments coming forward to torment him with accusations of disloyalty; threatening to haunt him from darkened corners…..always.
Just as Marsac had made his presence felt upon his death some years ago – there now in his dreams and waking moments lived Treville once again. Treville – who now strode about undaunted – confident as ever; comfortable in his dreams; at his side….in his heart; where he gathered the twenty to him in the dusty yard – ordering them in stringent tones to move on.
In this alternate world – where the garrison stood whole, he bellowed as only he could, that it "was time to stand down, and go home."
But Aramis would not let them; could not let them go, and called out in his sleep to convince them otherwise – yelling for them to "stay" – closing the garrison gates in all haste to bar them from retreating as Treville looked on, his brow creased with consternation.
"If you leave me, it will be too quiet", he pleaded and gathered Renard into his arms – who smiled sadly; embraced him back, then slipped from his grasp as vapor.
"Who will I share this unyielding grief with?" he cried and watched helplessly as each man loss form and substance to glide beyond the gate.
"I will miss you all and wish not to forget!" he entreated with anguish, as even Marsac turned away to follow the last of the twenty, leaving behind the bitter shadows to move toward a light shining brighter than any sun could muster.
"How am I to survive this heartache without them?" he implored and looked to Treville with pooling tears – who stood upon the balcony as it was before its ruin.
"I will stay Aramis, as I share your grief equally." he called down. "I will walk by your side; whisper guidance and counsel. All you need do is ask. But these men have lingered long enough."
And when he returned from slumber – grasping for his retreated fallen – he could feel the loss of his comrades…..his long dead brothers. For the room was still; quiet and hushed. Unlike any rising he had encountered over the last ten years. And yes – he could sense the dread of Marsac receding; his dark cloud of guilt lifting away – giving him room to breathe.
Apprehensively, he took in the silence and murmured with heartbreaking relief and sorrow, "thank you" to his Captain and remembered Athos' words to him. For truly Treville was much more than his Captain. Here in this makeshift infirmary filled with wounded and displaced musketeers, he could feel the man's unwavering devotion.
Treville….a great man who had admonished, and cared for him in equal measure; who had saved his life in many ways, and had done so now even in death…..giving way for him to follow a new path.
Resolutely in this advent of a new day; feeling light and rejuvenated, he made up his mind. He would take up the call asked of him by his Queen. Be Minister of France; put his faith in God and let the specter of Treville; his memory and sacrifice guide him and walk with him toward not only peace for France – but toward his peace of mind as well.
And as he threw aside his meager blanket and stood tiredly but with determination to his feet – he could hear Treville whisper proudly in his ear, "Well done musketeer."
Thank you so much for reading. Please review and let me know what you think. This piece is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' October challenge of "Monsters and Manes". If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.