A/N: this one is for the Fete des Mousquetaires competition December prompt, please check the forum for details. Thank you KarriNeves for managing the competition. I finally was able to finish something inspired by the prompt before the deadline :) While I worked on the longer stories this one happily wrote itself.

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here, nor making any money.

Happy reading!

White painted the back of his eyelids.

Bright and crisp with a lingering dry scent that clung to the back of his throat even though there was not a speck of snow in sight. Aramis swallowed hard. Two days, it had been two long days and two longer nights; forty eight hours of a complete whiteout in his mind where no sleep lurked at the edges to offer restful oblivion. Lying on his back he stared at the roof of his room in the garrison, counting every familiar cut and scratch as the candle burned low on the table at his bedside. Another stood waiting to take over the job, ready to offer him an allusion of warmth that he couldn't find it in him to blow out even as he searched for sleep.

"It's not our watch Aramis," Marsac sounds exasperated.

"I know," he says.

And still doesn't look away from the trees that knit a blanket of shadows over the snow covered ground.

Aramis shivered, the two layers of thick blankets shifted slightly. Cold white encroached the corners of his sight even as he stared up, tried his best to not close his eyes so that he wouldn't have to witness that snow covered clearing again. Shivered some more and pulled the edge of the blankets up, well past his nose and savored the feel of his breath warming slowly, waited for the embrace of sleep that would not come.

He blinked once, twice, the stitches at the edge of his hairline pulled.

Somewhere a cart wheel squeaked. He glanced towards the only window in the room. It framed the pale morning light of not quite dawn. Aramis rolled onto his side and pushed the covers off, pulled his legs over the side of the narrow bed as he sat up and wiped a hand down his face. Three nights and he had yet to sleep.

Blowing out the sputtering candle Aramis forced himself up to his feet to face the bright new day.

"Are you sure about this?"

"He needs it,"

It wasn't the voices in his head but the two men making his way towards him. They were nine steps away and lessening his mind told him, coming towards him at his back just off of his right shoulder; Aramis shook his head. He didn't want the precise awareness of everything within five yards of him, he didn't want that clarity, he didn't want every vivid detail battering against his senses he wanted sleep, he craved that sweet nothingness.

"Come Aramis, Athos' buying tonight," Porthos grabbed him by the elbow.

The touch light, careful as if he was a snowflake the other man wished to save. This caution set his teeth on edge but he nodded, made his feet move in tandem with those of the men at either side of him. With his head wound the physician had advised against alcohol but if wine was the route to find his way into a blessed void then Aramis was ready to drink the tavern dry.

He tried his best to do so.

Athos and Porthos worked diligently alongside and made sure that his cup was never empty.

His vision blurred, a light grey haze swirled around all that he saw; dampened the bright flames in the tavern hearth and the shine over bottles and metal alike. Like ash covering the blade of a sword, both shiny and dull in a silver grey that whirled out from a smoldering tent, bits of ash floating in air and reaching out to cling to the side of his face where the blood hadn't dried and Aramis blinked rapidly as he watched it all float down to touch the white, white, achingly white forest floor.

He shuddered.

" 'Mis?" a grasp on his arm, " 'Mis?" the voice shifted away slightly, "I think he's had enough Athos. Athos? Ah! Damn it. I thought we were only getting him drunk you bloody idiot."

Aramis snickered.

Looked up at Porthos' worried face before looking to Athos' slumped form and snickered again; found something darkly amusing about this entire situation though he couldn't explain it even if he wanted to. Aramis chuckled again. White teeth flashed as Porthos grinned too, eyes aglow with fond amusement. And Aramis squinted as the room shone around him, glowing and loud and closing in on him in exactly the opposite way he had hoped sleep would blanket him.

"It's too cold for your stubbornness mon ami. I'm losing feeling in my fingers here," Marsac stands closer.

Their shoulders brush; a deliberate bump and he glances towards his friend.

"I don't think I can sleep tonight," he says.

The light from the lanterns, the candles, the hearth; the stench of wine, sweat and meat of unknown origins; the loud arguments, dinnerware and laughter; Aramis raised a hand to press against the healing wound on the side of his head, pressed hard against the stitches there until pain throbbed out from the wound by his hairline in a counter point to it all.

"Don't do that, c'mon now, leave it be,"

He swallowed a gasp and found Porthos' face floating before his eyes. The man had grasped his hand and pulled it away, held it tight in one of his own.

Thoughts formed in his mind, words strung together in some semblance of coherence to ask this man for help, because Aramis wanted to sleep, he really, really wanted to and Porthos would help him and Athos would too if he wasn't drooling over the table top; Aramis smiled and looked that way and blinking he frowned, his thoughts scattered like a gust of ashes.

His mouth opened but no words came forth; vanished into the white like the cooling grey embers.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

Aramis stared numbly until his gut churned and gurgled. Slapping a hand over his mouth Aramis hurried out of his chair, ignored it as it toppled backwards and dashed for the door. The wine he had consumed made a second appearance for the night. The encores followed him to dawn and left him hugging a bucket as he sat on the floor of Athos' room.

Four nights in a row and sleep evaded him still.

He was tired.

A sated heavy tired that for the moment smoothed out the brittle exhaustion he usually carried in his bones these days. Aramis shifted and held closer the warm body pressed to his side and found himself once again staring at the roof over them, a better fitted, cleaner roof of a room not his own. The soft bed under him and the silk covers warmed by the hearth fire did nothing to lull him into sleep. He laid wide awake, mind whirring around snatches of distant screams long silenced and the ceiling blurred into a stone coloured sky, dark and dull, like the patches that he could see from between the gaps in the canopy above him as he sat on the cold ground.

He shook his head and pulled his gaze away. Glanced down at the woman sleeping at his side and searched his mind for a name. Frowned when he came up blank and disgust stirred in him. He wasn't like that, he didn't forget names of the women he bedded, he knew their stories, their fears, their desires, he knew every nuisance of their beautiful faces – Aramis bit his lip; he couldn't remember the face tucked under his chin.

Glancing down again he pondered the mass of golden curls. And suddenly he couldn't remember where he was, how he had gotten there, who was this woman? Aramis looked around; his heart thumping a wild beat as he looked from the open window that told him it was already morning to the solid grey stone walls adorned with heavy drapes in some places.

Disentangling himself from the covers and the woman he found a pair of sleep soft eyes staring at him.

"I uh...um –"

"Aramis," she smiled.

"I must –" he cleared his throat, "the morning muster," he said.

Hoped it was explanation enough because these days words weren't his forte.

The woman nodded and curled back to sleep and he hurried to collect his belongs on trembling legs. He couldn't remember, he couldn't trace his movements from the previous night and tried not to let that frighten him. Picking up his weapons belt from a chair Aramis straightened and the floor lurched under his feet, the room spun in a sickening blur of dark grey. The muted darkness mocked him, flashed in spots before his eyes until he clenched them shut and held on to the backrest of the chair. His stomach clenched as an ache pulsed behind his eyes and Aramis pressed his fingers against their inner corners to alleviate the pressure building there.

It took him longer than he liked to get dressed in some resemblance of propriety, with limbs heavy like strapped down to boulders and his mind apparently crushed under the same so that thoughts came in short bursts, like final gasps of downed soldiers.

Aramis shook his head, his fingers tightening around the object in his hand.

He stared down and although a part him knew what it was he still stared.

A hat, it occurred to him, his hat. And his hand moved slowly to set it on his head, tipped the edge to keep out the glare of sunlight he knew would accost him soon and taking a steadying breath he left the room, followed the light to the nearest door out. Stood staring at the people going about their lives and urged his mind to remember which way was the garrison.

"C'mon this way," Marsac pulls him along, "you just need to get warmed up and you'll be falling asleep before you know it,"

They plop down by the fire and his friend eagerly reaches out to soak up the warmth. The flames dance in the night, and so do that shadows, he watches them swell and shrink around them, watches the light and dark mingle, tangle in a push and pull over the white clearing dotted with dark forms, of men and tents and the tree line reaching out towards them. He shivers.

"What's wrong?" Marsac asks.

"Something is," he says.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. Aramis punched them in the face even as the world still spun around him. Curses echoed in a familiar voice as the grip from his shoulder fell away and Aramis peered at the figure before him. The man straightened though the hand raised in surrender remained aloft.

"Aramis?"

"Porthos?"

"Where have you been?"

"I –" he stopped short and looked around.

He was standing amidst a throng of stalls, shoppers hurrying past him. He frowned as he tried to remember where he was, where he had been and he remembered the sleep soft eyes.

"I was with a friend,"

"A friend eh?" Porthos said.

And looked him up and down, but Aramis blinked as another man came to stand beside him. Athos, his mind supplied the name.

"Where are your shoes?" Athos asked.

Aramis looked down, dared not close his eyes as he felt the earth spin around him at the move. An inexplicable feeling of loss prickled his sight as he stared at his bare feet and swallowed thickly. A hand landed on his back and another smaller one grasped his elbow. Aramis didn't resist as he was steered out of the marketplace and away from his fifth sleepless night.

His hands shook.

His legs trembled.

And still he didn't stop, couldn't stop. Stumbling, swaying, steps tripping over each other he walked on. A presence, thick and heavy wrapped around his ankles, tendrils creeping up to swallow him whole and another, a faint shimmer of haze in the distance that he needed to reach; he had to.

A muffled scream, shadows lurching as a tent collapses.

He knew he shouldn't have, he knew he shouldn't have but he had and now they were all dead.

The figure looms above him and shock flares on its face in the spark of his pistol shot.

He had felt it, he had known something was coming, that tightening in his gut that had kept him alive in battles had told him not to sleep that night.

It comes out of nowhere, the blow connects with his head and pain explodes bright in the dark.

The world pitched and he dropped to the ground, falling onto his knees with a force that should hurt but doesn't. Cold earth gathered under his fingers, buried under his fingernails as his hands curled to grasp, to hold on to something, anything.

Blank white eyes and bruised skin, faces darkening over snow covered ground. Black trees in a white forest, cold and brittle under his hand. A pauldron hits the snow. His numb lips don't move, the words freeze in his throat; the name is a cold breath misting before his face.

Marsac doesn't look back.

Hands cradled his face, large and warm.

Words echoed somewhere but he couldn't tell what they were saying.

Slim fingers grasped his wrist, pressed and held.

"...too fast,"

"Breathing isn't..."

"...down,"

" 'Mis?"

Too loud, the blood rushing against his ears was too loud and he stared at the worried faces, tried to understand the words that sounded too far. Felt the men at his sides heave him up to his feet, the darkness around him shifting and the glow moved with it. Bile burned a path up to his throat and Aramis gagged, curled forward to throw up the food that he forgotten to eat. But his stomach still rebelled, threatened to rip itself apart as it fought against phantom enemies.

"Easy, easy,"

"Breathe Aramis, let it pass,"

He coughed, couldn't find the strength in him to lift his head from where it hung forwards. Only the arms around him kept upright.

"Where?" he swallowed against his parched throat, "where are we?"

"At the river,"

He blinked to clear the haze from his view, tried to clear it from his mind too. But it must have been taking him longer than he had assumed because he found himself being lifted to his feet again. His feet that dragged under him, refused to move in the way they had since he was barely over a year old. Aramis wished he would pass out but the white that remained etched to the back of his eyelids wouldn't fade, it burned bright and menacing and would not melt away.

When he blinked again there was a blurry roof above him.

Someone said his name, persistent, worried. His eyes rolled to find the source; they itched and burned, his head hurt. There was a hand on his face that tapped softly and the gentle patting wouldn't let up.

"...look at me, look at me 'Mis, come back to us,"

He swallowed down the sick feeling stirring in his gut again and it left him breathless. The air thinned around him, it wouldn't sink down the path it needed to, left him panting and wide eyed. The world rocked, gentle, slow and erythematic and it eased his gasps slightly. The loud rushing in his ears dimmed but his heart still raced, tried to outrun something or tried to reach something else, he couldn't be sure.

"You with us?"

The haze still lingered but he could see Porthos' face, the worry in his eyes that searched his. There was an arm curled under his head and a large hand lay on the side of his face. A hand ghosted over his head and Aramis rolled his eyes again, found Athos sitting on his knees at his side.

"You need to drink this," he said.

His gaze shifted to the cup in the man's hand and words formed in his mind, heavy and blunt. His tongue felt too thick in his mouth, his throat too dry.

"What?" he managed.

"A mixture to help you sleep,"

A light flap of wings in the too still air.

Aramis' gaze flitted to the crow landing on his window sill and back to the cup in Athos' hand. He shook his head, clenched his teeth shut to keep from throwing up at the move.

"Please 'Mis,"

The crow shook itself and puffed its feathers, hopped along the window sill and stopped with a cocked head, its beady eyes fixed on him.

They come for the dead, they come for his friends.

Aramis shook his head again.

"No," he murmured.

"You need to sleep Aramis,"

"Want to," he said.

Looked to Athos then back at Porthos. They couldn't understand how much he wanted to sleep, how much he wanted to simply give in.

"Can't," he swallowed, "Can't,"

The crow flew in, landed on the floor by his hand and the sharp beak dipped to peck at his thumb. His arm twitched, wrist flicking sluggishly as he curled his fingers.

They come for the dead, they come for his friends.

"Need my..." his other hand patted where his weapon's belt was supposed to be and knocked against Porthos' chest, "...pistol, where's my..."

"Now why do you need that?" Porthos grasped his searching hand and didn't let go.

"You need to sleep," Athos shifted closer, "this will help,"

His eyes rolled in his head, the nausea swelled and his chest felt tight. But he had made that mistake once and he wouldn't make it again, he couldn't fall asleep. His breath caught, held before stuttering out, there was a boulder pressing down on his lungs.

"Aramis please,"

His gaze flitted towards Athos again, the man rarely asked for anything, he never begged.

"Can't," it came out in a gasp.

The crow hopped away as Athos moved closer still and Porthos clutched him in a hold that would have been painful if he could have felt it. But he could only follow the bird with his eyes as it hopped closer to his feet; pecked at them lightly, almost playfully. He drew his leg up, tried to. Tried to curl into Porthos' lap but his limbs wouldn't listen to his orders.

The rough tree bark splinters against his blunt fingernails as he tightens his grasp. Pulls himself up even as he waves out his other arm, dry throat not making the sound he wants to shoo away the crows.

Black on white, dark and bright; the shadows are always born of light.

They had come for his friends and they have left them dead in their wake, now they came for the dead too. What started in the night seeks conclusion in the morning but Aramis will not let them. He will guard the dead where he had failed the living.

Athos grasped his other hand, placed the cup away to the side and put his free hand over Aramis' heaving chest. Blue eyes looked to Porthos, a conversation passing there that he couldn't comprehend before they both nodded, turned as one to look down at him.

"You can sleep Aramis, Porthos and I will take this watch,"

The words moved through him, like an apparition sliding through his body and bringing out the monster that had lurked in him; dragging it out behind his back and leaving him hollowed, weightless and empty.

"We got this. Rest easy 'Mis,"

He blinked, the white dimmed.

Hands still held his tight; his eyelids drooped again and the brightness faded.

The arm under his head was warm, so was the weight settled on his chest. His eyelashes clung together, insistent, and light grey ash fell softly in view.

Porthos and Athos held his gaze as the grey turned darker, deeper and denser, a thick stone wall rising up to protect him.

"We're not going anywhere 'Mis,"

"We will watch your back,"

And he let the darkness claim him.

END