Part of the Eurovision series, but from 2016 instead of 2017, so that's why it's separate. I'm trying to write more in this series for 2017. I'm sorry that the fanfics haven't been flowing thick and fast over the last two weeks, I've been having some health issues, but I should be able to write more now that I'm more or less okay. I hope you guys find this one interesting, it's inspired by the Icelandic entry from last year, Hear Them Calling. Enjoy!
The day had swept in cold and murky. Mist reigned over the battlefield and kissed along the length of Aramis' sword. It's owner crept along the bank above the Spanish encampment. He paused, drinking in the silence that welcomed him. It had been blissfully wet over the last few days, but it meant that the ground at his feet was little more than mud. He moved stealthily, trying not to disturb the silence as if it were the sleeping Spanish below him. His second-in-command, Allard, moved along beside him and he shot the man a cursory glance. He was a musketeer known for his brutality, just as Aramis was.
He had no mercy in him anymore. It was as if someone had ripped it out along with his heart. He doubted his brothers would recognise the man that their deaths had made him. The worst part of it all was that he hadn't even been there. The regiment had been split a year ago and Aramis, being one of the few musketeers able to speak Spanish, had been chosen to lead a band of soldiers to infiltrate a Spanish camp, but none of that mattered to him. It meant that he hadn't been there.
Anger errupted within him and he used it, pouncing on the Spanish. He slashed and stabbed, taking solace in the sounds of metal sliding into flesh and the war cries of the Spanish soldiers. His sword cut into his opponents like into lard and he skewered the last man with deadly precision. He stood there, heaving, gazing at the carnage he had caused. Suddenly, the bodies around him disappeared. He didn't know what was happening. He turned to ask Allard, but Allard was lying at the base of a Spanish tent, his eyes staring at nothing.
He was alone.
"Aramis..."
Aramis' head whipped around at the sound. It was quiet, as a whisper, but rang loud and clear in his head. The blood froze in his veins. He tried to block out the voice calling his name, but the voice spoke louder. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, and for a minute he thought he was going to die. He closed his eyes, whispering frantically.
"You're not here. You're not here. Not here. Not here. Not here. Not him."
His heartbeat slowed. A phantom hand landed on his shoulder and he almost jumped out of his skin. He drew his sword and opened his eyes, but, of course, there was no one there.
"Aramis..."
This time, the voice sounded different. It sounded like it was pleading with him and Aramis couldn't help but step towards where he thought it was coming from. He hated hearing that tone on the voice that he knew so well.
He whispered fearfully, "Athos?"
"Aramis, please."
The broken tone of Athos' voice made him want to cry and scream. He hurried towards where he thought his brother's voice was coming from. It led him deeper into the fog and as he walked it enveloped him. Eventually the mist became so dense that he couldn't see the way in front of him.
A single gunshot sounded in the darkness and suddenly, pain was all he could feel. It blossomed across his chest, stealing his breath. His heart raced in time with his breathing and everything hurt. His legs refused to hold him and he fell, gasping. The ground rushed up to meet him and his head slammed into the ground. Stars danced in front of his eyes, but his hands curled into the grass. He knew he had to get up, to keep going, but he couldn't move, he couldn't think. Time passed as he lay gasping on the grass, enough time for a second voice to replace the first.
"Aramis!"
"Porthos." He breathed. His chest was getting heavier and heavier. It felt like his body was weighing him down. He didn't have the strength to clutch the grass anymore. It was all he could do just to keep breathing.
"Do you think he can hear us?"
He was confused; of course he could hear them. He tried to open his mouth to say something back, but all that escaped was an inhuman howl as pressure was put on a, no, on his wound. Tears leaked from beneath his eyelids and he desperately tried to hang on to the edges of his fraying consciousness. He knew the voices were shouting his name.
"Porthos." He sobbed.
"Aramis?" Porthos sounded shocked, "Come on, 'Mis, open your eyes."
He hadn't noticed that he'd closed them. He fought to open his eyes, but they were much heavier than he remembered. He tried again, pushing with everything he had, but they stayed shut. He noticed that he was beginning to feel more - the wind around them, the hands that were trying to hold his side together - and he knew he had to try now. Finally, his eyes opened to Porthos' blurry face above him.
"Athos! Stay with me, 'Mis." A gentle hand cupped the side of his face, forcing his eyes to look into Porthos'.
"Real?" He had to know.
Aramis' hoarse whisper confused Porthos, "Course I'm real."
It was Aramis' turn to look confused and he forced a word out, "Alone?"
"No, we're fighting the Spanish. You, me an' Athos. Don't you remember?"
He did remember. They hadn't been separated; they'd refused. They'd fought, together, and he hadn't seen the marksman on the hill. The shot had ripped his side apart. Porthos' hands tightened on his wound and a moan escaped Aramis' lips, "Hurts." He watched Porthos' face screw up in sympathy.
"I know 'Mis, I know. 'Thos will be back soon and we'll get you stitched up, okay?"
He shook his head a little, "Not 'nough... time." He coughed, setting his side on fire. Porthos held him, preventing him from curling up on his side.
"You're not gonna die, 'Mis."
He smiled weakly, "Better here than there."
He watched through his greying vision as Porthos' brow furrowed, "What-" He was interrupted by more coughing and held Aramis still. "No." He whispered, when he saw the specks of blood that coloured Aramis' lips. He ducked his head as tears began to run rivets down his cheeks.
Aramis smiled and breathed as deeply as he could. He mustered all the strength he had left and placed his hand on Porthos'. The larger musketeer looked up, into his eyes.
"All for one."
Porthos smiled sadly, and finished their motto with him, "And one for all."
In retrospect, he knew. There was nowhere he would rather be. He knew that Porthos would miss him, Athos too and perhaps even d'Artangnan would mourn him, but it was better this way than the other way round. They could continue without him, but he couldn't live without them. He let his eyes close, his friend's frantic pleas for him to stay awake fading away.