Six days went by with Aramis locked in his room. He never went out to talk to his remaining brothers, to eat or just do something. Treville visited him two more times, trying to talk to him but Aramis never really answered. Sometimes he nod, shook his head or murmured a few words – but never more. Athos brought him something to eat and drink three times a day, because he feared the marksman would starve himself to death otherwise. Aramis was asleep most of the times Athos visited. When he was awake, he just laid there and stared at the ceiling. Sometimes he stood at the window, watching the other musketeers practice. Aramis seemed to lose more of himself with every day. He lost weight, was pale and the light in his eyes – which always burned so bright – was long gone. Athos has never talked much to him or to anyone, but still he knew this man well. He knew that Aramis was always full of joy. He loved talking and joking around. He had a heart big enough for the whole regiment. He loved to love. Athos had heard about his many affairs and of all the woman he has had. Aramis was the best marksman in Paris, maybe even in France. He also was the field medic and a very religious man. But nothing of this was left. Aramis was nothing more than a shell, a body without it's soul. With his brothers, also a part of himself has died. Or maybe it was just lost. Athos hoped to be able to find it and bring it back.

As Athos brought Aramis supper this day he was determined to help the musketeer, even though he didn't know how. He knocked carefully but didn't wait for an answer, as he walked in. Aramis never answered. The swordsman put the plate onto the table and closed the door behind him. This caused Aramis to look away from the ceiling and over to Athos. He has never staid the past few days.
"Aramis, you can't go on like this," Athos took a chair and placed it in front of the bed, Aramis was laying in. The marksman looked back to the ceiling, not able to see anyone, not able to look at a musketeer. He wouldn't have seen Athos. He would have seen his dead brothers, staring at him reproachful. It was easier to ignore them, than to face the problem. "Aramis listen. You can't stay in here forever. Soon the captain will expect you to work again… if you don't do it you will be dismissed. I know you think you don't want this anymore. You think you've lost your place within the musketeers. But you haven't. You're still one of us and you will ever be. Don't throw away your life like this. You experienced something… something very terrible. I know. But you lived. You lived for a reason. You didn't live because god wanted you to die in this room. He wanted that you go on, that you do your duty. Because we need you. The people, the king and the musketeers."

Athos looked at the man, searching for any sign of reaction, but Aramis remained silent. The swordsman sighed, running his hand through his messy hair. "Your brothers deserve that you live for them. You survived, because someone had to tell stories about this men. You survived so that the memory of this brave musketeers will never die. Now do your duty and live."

Aramis sat up slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as pain rushes through his head. Why did Athos need to come here and say all of this? Aramis already felt guilty enough, he didn't need someone to tell him what else he does wrong. Sometimes – no most of the time – Aramis wished he had died with them on this day. It would have been easier. "I need to rest now," he murmured and searched in his bag for the medicine he has prescribed himself. Athos followed his moves wary. He watched how Aramis gulped down nearly everything of the content in the bottle. "What's this?" He took the phial and looked at the label. Opium, was written on it. Athos wasn't an physic, still he knew a bit of these things. It was pain-relieving and helped too sleep, but on the other side he has heard of a lot of people who got addicted to it. They got apathetic and lost so much weight, till they died or they took too much and feel asleep and never woke up again. "I don't think you should take that much of it," he spoke concerned.

But Aramis didn't listen anymore. He had his eyes already closed again, his faces relaxed. He seemed peaceful. Athos made sure that the marksman slept, before taking one of the bottles with him. He wanted to talk to a doctor about this. And to Treville if necessary.

Aramis hasn't touched his food from yesterday, as Athos brought in his breakfast. At least he was awake again. The marksman just changed his bandage, as Athos came in. He was happy to see, that the wound has nearly healed. So the risk of an infection was nearly gone completely. "You need to eat. And get out of this room."

Aramis looked at the swordsman skeptical, a touch on contempt in his gaze. "Who do you think you are? You come in here every day and tell me what I have to do or what not. Your no Comte anymore, Athos. You don't have any right to give me orders. Moreover you have no right to talk to me about what had happened. You have no right to say "you understand" or "You know how I feel". 'Cause you don't know. You know nothing!" Aramis threw the plate onto the floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. "I just want to help you, Aramis. Look at you – you're not yourself anymore."
"How would you know that? We've never talked more than a few words. Don't act like you know me."

"You're right." Athos picked up the broken plate. "I don't know you. I know Aramis, the brave musketeer, full of joy and with a heart bigger than his body. I know a man who fighted for his country and his king with pride. But here in front of me just stands a… coward."

Sooner than Athos was able to react, he was pressed against the door, an arm against his throat. Aramis pressed, until Athos gasped for air. "Don't you dare to call me like this ever again." The marksman pushed hard one last time, before he let go. Athos left without saying anything further.

"Maybe he was right," Aramis mumbled to himself and sat down on the bed. "Maybe I am a coward." He thought about how he sat there at the tree, wounded, watching the last of his brothers die. He didn't help them, he didn't fight. He had let them down. As already a hundred times before, he wondered why he survived. He thought about what Athos had said, but this didn't seem realistic. No. He thought that god must have decided to let him live because this was a better hell for him, than Satan could ever design. It was his own purgatory. But if he died now, would he ever get to see heaven? Or would the pain just go on? It was only for god to know.

Aramis kneeled down in front of his bed, folded his hands together and started to pray. He prayed in French, in Spanish and then in Latin.

It was evening as his door opened again. Aramis still prayed hopelessly. He ignored whoever came in and went on. By now not only his knees, but also his back hurt like hell. He deserved it, so he wanted to pray until god finally heard him.

"I've talked to a physic about this opium you're taking." Athos waited, if Aramis would turn around or say something, but he didn't. "He told me that you're supposed to take it two times a day at the most. Just a few drops. And not any longer than for a week. Your head is nearly healed, Aramis. Do you really need it?"

Aramis ended his prayers and stood up, facing the other musketeer. "What do you think you're doing Athos? You act as if you would help me, but you don't. Let me live like I want to. When I think I need to take this medicine, I do it. It's nothing you have to worry about. I know what I'm doing. I'm the field medic, if you've forgotten."
"No physic should treat himself if not necessary. You know that better than me."

Aramis sighed, feeling powerless suddenly. "Why can't you let me alone?" He begged more than he asked as he sunk down in a chair. He seemed so small and vulnerable in this moment. "I can't let a good man like you are, ruin yourself." "I… I need this okay?" Aramis played with the small bottle which stood on the table. It helped him.

"I'm sure you do. But do you need to take so much of it?"
Aramis didn't answer. Of course he knew that he took way more than he would ever allow one of his patience. He knew that there were people who got easily addicted to the milk of the poppy. Still, he didn't want to do without it. It reduced his headache and helped him sleep without nightmares. But most important: it helped him deal with the reality. He persuaded that himself at least. Indeed he didn't deal with reality, he fled from it.

Athos decided that it wouldn't use him to push Aramis anymore. He came further today than on any other. So he didn't want to talk about the drug anymore and tried something else. "A bit of fresh air could help you, don't you think?"
"The window's open." Aramis answered sluggish.

"C'mon, a bit of sun on your skin wouldn't kill you. Just ten minutes, okay?"
Aramis felt too weak to discuss or fight with the swordsman now. He mumbled an "okay" and stood up. He didn't want to go out. He didn't want to see the remaining musketeers, who reminded him on the dead ones. Nevertheless he went with Athos.

The cold wind hit against his skin and he wrapped the coat around his thin body. He felt the looks burning on him, as he followed Athos through the court. Aramis looked down, didn't want to see them. He was sure they all hated him, they surely wondered why he lived and all the others died. They had to hate him.
He didn't realize that they still loved him. That they were glad to have him back, to have at least one of them back. "Where are we going?" He asked, as the two of them left the garrison.

"Don't know. Outside." Athos shrugged his shoulders, glancing over to the marksman. He finally got him outside. It got better. Slowly, but it did. Aramis looked at all the people on the market. Shouting, talking, laughing. The smell of fruits and roasted meat filled the air. He got sick. "Can we go somewhere else? I'm not feeling-" He choked, tasting the bitter vomit in his throat. Athos led him into the next alley, that led away from the market. "Can't we just go back?" Aramis leaned against a wall, closing his eyes. He wanted to be alone again.

"We walked like hundred meters. You can do more, c'mon." Athos started to walk again and Aramis followed reluctantly. He hoped that Athos would leave him alone the next days, when he played along now. Aramis looked at all the people who walked or ran past them. He felt like every single one of them was judging him. He wished for nothing more than so simply disappear.

"You know, Treville and I have talked." Athos looked over to the marksman, looking for his reaction, but he stayed unaffected. "Treville says you need to work again in two days, now that your wound is nearly healed." Aramis throat clenched as he heard the news. He didn't feel like he was able to practice with the musketeers, to guard the king or to fight. He wasn't sure if he would ever feel able to do it again. When he heard the swords meet, the sound from metal on metal, he heard also the screams of his brothers. When he heard the new recruits as they practiced shooting, he saw the red snow. When he saw someone fall down in a fight, he thought they would never stand up again.

But none of this he told Athos. He only nod, as if this was no problem for him. He already thought about going to a monastery, how his father always wanted. But he doubted that god would allow him to enter such a holy place, now as he let him suffer the pain of purgatory. No, he didn't belong in a place like this. He deserved to stay with the musketeers, to be reminded of the incident very day. He deserved to feel the derogatory gazes and to see his brothers die in front of his eyes every day again. He deserved to be reminded to his failure again and again. e wi

Thank you all for your reviews and your interest in this story. You really motivate to go on. I'm still thankful for any review and help!
We're coming closer now to the main point of the story. Let's hope, that Aramis will accept Athos help!