It was morning. He knew that first. The ground was frosted and mist clung to the trees. Then came the pain, and a sense of his head coming apart, his soul struggling, his world seeping through the strips of his shirt which bound his forehead.
He sat, groaning in pain. Mist billowed and dissipated in front of his eyes, partly the forest's early breath, partly the confusion which weighted his mind like sacks piled against a siege door. He saw men on the ground in impossible attitudes. Blue cloaks had been trampled black into the mud. The white of throats and shirts was striped with crimson.
Aramis saw movement and reached for his sword, the motion halted by the destruction in his broken shoulder. But it was just Marsac, stumbling away from Aramis, crying out at a different pain that Aramis was only beginning to comprehend. Their friends, their colleagues, their brothers were dead.
Aramis stood, grasped a tree trunk, hailed Marsac, knew that Marsac was beyond recall. The man was ripping away his doublet, his musket belt, even his sword, and casting them into the dirt. His cloak was already gone.
"Wait!"
But Marsac would not. Snow and sorrow reflected in his wild eyes. "We have been betrayed. How can I live when my brothers are all dead?"
"I'm not dead," said Aramis. "You saved my life, Marsac, stop, think."
Marsac shook his head. "I will find who did this. How did they know we werre here, how dare they slaughter us as we slept? I will end them."
Aramis reached across the swirling void to his friend, but Marsac flinched, and staggered away, and Aramis was alone.
He sank to the ground, not caring that it was cold and wet. All around him lay the fallen remains of his troop. He ought to find a sword, get up, seek help, find the captain and call down the wrath of the King on this cowardly treachery.
He sat. Time passed, and Marsac did not return.
Aramis touched his head with wary fingers. It was nothing. A glancing blow. Body and soul were still joined. "Get up. Get up!"
He stood, swaying, and took the first step out of the clearing. Another step, past the slack faces of his comrades. Another step, his head throbbing, and onward.
He was a musketeer. There was still life, and honour, and in time there would be vengeance. With each new step he vowed it.
Blood and grime ran down his cheek and carried away his tears.