Reflections
Athos sat by Aramis' bedside, his brother's hand held securely in his. It had been four days, and there had been no sign yet of his regaining consciousness. They were now beginning to panic at the thought that he might never do so.
The tears filled his eyes yet again. He couldn't lose his dear friend.
The whole situation still made no sense to any of them. Why was Aramis kidnapped, held captive and tortured repeatedly for almost a month? Why had he been starved? From the condition of his emaciated body and extremely dry skin, he had to have only been given barely enough food and water just to keep him alive.
They had found him in a cold, dank cellar in a farmhouse just outside of Paris, lying bound and gagged cruelly tight on the dirty floor. He had tried to curl in on himself, something he often did when sick or injured. But the way in which he had been restrained prevented him from doing so fully. The marks of the horror he had been put through had been abundantly clear when they had carried him into the light of day.
Athos saw Aramis' face scrunch up in pain again, and reached a hand up to thread gently through his brother's hair. Aramis was a very tactile person, and especially needed touch when injured or ill, usually bringing comfort to him even when he wasn't conscious. Athos couldn't even begin to imagine how much pain he must be in. Another spasm of pain must have happened, as his face twisted again, his mouth opening in a silent cry. What they had done to him seemed to have taken away his ability to make any sound. Athos hoped against hope that it would be a temporary loss. He continued giving comfort, now tracing circles on the back of his brother's hand in gentle movements. It took a while, but Aramis finally seemed to calm down once more, the muscles relaxing in his face again.
Athos glanced over at Porthos and d'Artagnan, both asleep in the cots Treville had finally ordered brought in. Even then, all three of them had protested when he also ordered them to take turns between being at Aramis' bedside and sleeping, but eventually understood his reasoning. If they exhausted themselves and made themselves sick because of it, how would that help Aramis? But it didn't mean they had to like it. Athos insisted on first watch over their protests, too.
Aramis had been missing for so long, their frantic searching availing them no leads whatsoever. The whole regiment had combed the streets and alleys of Paris. No one had seen or heard anything, no clues had turned up, no ransom demands, nothing. Why had he been taken? Was it a revenge vendetta against Aramis? What had he done? Or rather, what did they think he had done that would make someone want to do something like this?
He ran a hand shakily through his hair. How long could his brother survive without proper food? They had been able to coax him to swallow small amounts of water, even unconscious, and once even a bit of broth. But he needed far more than he had taken in if he was to survive. He corrected himself-not if, never if. He would survive, he had to.
Aramis was always the one taking care of them. He was constantly honing his medic skills, reading anything he could get his hands on that might help him in any kind of situation they found themselves in. But it availed them nothing when the tables were turned. They all knew basic emergency combat first aid, but what had been done to Aramis far exceeded any skills they had in that area. The Parisian doctors seemed all to be overloaded with patients since the virulent flu outbreak a week ago. They were on their own at the worst time imaginable.
Aramis was so precious to him, to all of them. He remembered how he had grown to know and love the Musketeer all the ladies of Paris seemed to love.
Athos had been new to the Musketeers, Treville having commissioned the former comte once he had known about his background and brilliance with a sword. But Athos kept to himself, performing his duties with precision. But when his duties were over, he would disappear every night. No one in the garrison knew where he went. No one except Aramis, that is.
Aramis had seen the new Musketeer leave the garrision every evening, and curious, had followed him. Athos remembered the night well. Hat pulled down low over his face, he had entered the tavern and found a table at the back of the room. He had ordered a drink, and was waiting for it to arrive.
Then, a shadow darkened the table. Surprised, he had looked up to see the handsome Musketeer smiling down at him as he took a seat. Frowning, he said, "I do not need company."
Aramis continued smiling, and said, "You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, my friend. Would you allow me to share your evening with you? We do not have to converse if you would rather not."
Since he hadn't replied, Aramis had taken that as a 'yes', ordered a drink and made himself comfortable. He kept up a steady stream of talk even when Athos hadn't uttered more than a word now and then. Athos couldn't remember a word Aramis had said that evening, but he smiled at the memory. Aramis could be very persistent when he wanted to be.
Athos remembered the evening well. The barmaid had come over every once in a while to see if they wanted another drink, and every time her eyes were only for Aramis. She batted her eyelashes at him, and her hand occasionally strayed to his shoulder, where she would let it rest, softly rubbing a finger against the leather. Athos hadn't known Aramis well then, but he came to find that many women were very attracted to him, and he seemed to enjoy their attention, engaging in light flattery with them which only served to increase their attention, like moths to a flame.
At the end of the evening, when Athos had imbibed too much in the way of drinks (but not as much as he would have alone, Aramis saw to that very discreetly), Aramis gently assisted him out of his seat over his half-hearted protests, and escorted him out of the tavern and back to the garrison with a firm hold around his waist. He opened Athos' door, and waited until the now-drowsy man stumbled his way over the threshold before softly closing it behind him.
This accompaniment continued several times a week for some time afterward. They got to know each other, Athos gradually opening up a little under Aramis' skillful nudging. Despite himself, Athos began looking for the affable Musketeer to come through whatever tavern door he had chosen that night.
It continued until he didn't show up for several days, not being seen around the garrison either. Athos' heart was saddened, for in spite of himself, he had grown to like his new companion. He didn't know what he had done to finally drive him away.
It wasn't until he reported for duty one morning that the news was announced to the Musketeers. Treville, his head hanging in sorrow, told them that the training mission led by Aramis to Savoy had been attacked, and everyone massacred. Athos just stood still, stunned. Not Aramis! Not the gregarious, outgoing, full-of-life man who he had been, despite himself, starting to genuinely like and enjoy spending time with . This couldn't be happening.
But it was.
It turned out that Aramis, alone among Musketeer bodies, was found alive. But Athos still remembered the difference in the man he called friend. He was silent, not interested in anything, like he had given up hope. He showed no interest in anything around him. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was almost a mumble said with his head hanging down and no eye contact. His injuries had slowly healed, but his heart and his mind had not. He seemed to be still living in the nightmare of the massacre, and no one seemed to be able to get through to him.
Athos began to try to draw Aramis out, as Aramis had done for him. He became just as persistent in working to get Aramis interested in life again. But nothing seemed to work. He was at his wit's end, but finally, something totally unexpected gave him an opening. The turning point had been the kitten. Athos, at his wit's end to try to engage his friend, had found a little white kitten in the stables, a kitten with a black spot on her nose, and in desperation, had brought it to Aramis and laid it in his lap. Sitting back, Athos waited to see what would happen. At first, there was no response whatever.
Athos, a small smile on his face as he continued to hold Aramis' lifeless hand, could still clearly recall the moment when Aramis had begun to stroke the kitten's fur, then lifted her up to his cheek and held her there. From there, he slowly began to recover.
"You have to come through this, mon ami," Athos silently insisted. "We would never be the same if you were no longer with us. You are our heart." Lifting Aramis' hand, in an unconscious imitation of that long-ago time with the kitten, he laid it along his cheek, and his tears silently covered the hand of the brother he loved so much.
His mind continued to play through happy and sad events in their lives, wondering if there would ever be any more.
Continuing his torturous thoughts, he remembered the last time he had seen Aramis before he disappeared that night. He had once again been remonstrating with his brother about his feelings for the Queen, heatedly pointing out again that it was treason and that it was highly dangerous, both for himself and the Queen. He had been coming down hard on Aramis frequently in those past few weeks, trying to get through to him.
This time, after going back and forth on the subject for quite some time, Aramis had finally got up and, putting on his hat, had taken rapid strides towards the gate, and then out and down the street. No one had seen him since that night, until they had found him four days ago nearly dead.
Athos, his head in his hands, couldn't bear the pain he felt he had caused. If he had not driven Aramis into the streets that night, this would never have happened. Aramis, whose sense of danger was almost legendary, would have been too distracted by their argument to notice the danger to himself until it was too late.
Too late. Athos repeated the words to himself, his stomach in knots from what he had done. If Aramis d... No, he couldn't say, couldn't even think the words. He couldn't lose the most precious gift he had ever been given, the best friend he had ever had. He couldn't.
Taking a gentle hold once more of his brother's hand, he held it like it was a lifeline, with his head bowed over Aramis. Softly whispering, he said,"Live for us, Aramis. We love you so much."
