The air reeks of feed and bird droppings. It is filled with soft coos and a constant rustle of pale brown feathers.
Wings flap in too tight spaces.
Mourning doves – Zenaida macroura – the book in his father's library had called them. The books he is not supposed to read, the books he not supposed to know how to read. He crouches down at the door of one of the cages lining the wall, finger tips pressing against the sharp thin edges of the metal net. There isn't even a lock at the door, just a thick piece of stick wedged where the latch had gone through the strike plate. He rolls his eyes at the silliness of it.
He is five and even he knows such a lock would not hold.
He knows all about locks that hold like the ones in his father's study and the ones that don't like the locks of his room.
The birds packed inside flutter at his nearness, try to hop away in the small space. Small round heads cock to the side to get a better look at him and dark eyes fix his way. He sees fear in them.
He knows fear too.
Reaching out to the piece of wood he pries it out and pulls the latch open. The birds coo louder, as if they understand what he is doing, as if they know that this time when each of them would take flight there will be no sound of gunshot following them.
Because that is the reason his father keeps them.
To let them free only to shoot them down.
A flutter of wings and a crack of gunshot.
He is sick of it.
Flutter and gunshot.
Flutter and gunshot.
He will let these birds free before his father can get a hand on his gun.
He startles when the first bird hops closer; lands on his rear as the little creature flaps its wings as though in a huff and walks out through the open door of the cage. Others are following this one in curiosity but his eyes are fixed on the one bird that had ventured out first. A smile splits across his face as the pink-brown wings flutter and the mourning dove takes a small flight, lands a few feet further away from him. He grins as the small bird investigates the upturned silver pail by the far wall...
...it was pitch black, a sticky darkness that he waded in. It clung to him, heavy and thick and cloying between his fingers. Aramis could not tell if his eyes were open for there was no light, but he could feel the subtly grainy texture of the cloggy darkness around him, could feel it stretch into thick threads from the tips of his fingers as he tried to raise his hands out of the chilly tar he had found himself in. It weighed heavy on his shoulders, sucked on his arms as he struggled to pull them free and threatened to drag him under with each shift. His movements already slowed by the cold darkness sticking to his skin.
There was pain somewhere, a deep red presence that lurked in the darkness. It rattled the chain that held it in check, growled in a low rumble that sent ripples in the pit of black he was stuck in. Yellow brown eyes appeared too close to his face and a white snarl flashed in his vision.
Aramis stilled.
"Anything?"
Athos turned away from the window and shook his head, watched his friend's wide shoulders drop slightly as he closed the door after him. Porthos set the paper bag on the rolling table that had been pushed by the wall and walked up to the bed. He leaned over the bed's railing to adjust the covers over their unconscious friend; large hands gently smoothing the creases and tucking the folds with utmost care.
Athos hadn't the heart to remind him that it was not needed. That Aramis hadn't moved voluntarily ever since he had been brought to this hospital three days ago. Instead he met his gaze from across the bed between them and hoped that there was reassurance in his eyes. The dark eyes that met his at least hinted a tremulous hope.
"Serious is better than critical," Porthos said, "They did kick him out of the ICU after all,"
Athos nodded and reached out to brush the back of his fingers over Aramis' brow, mindful to steer clear of the deep purple bruise spread over the side. His brother's skin was warmer now, yet not warm enough, the clammy chill hung on from the blood loss.
"Doctor O'Brian says that he is reacting to pain and the tests show brain activity," he said and pulled his hand back, grasped the metal railing instead, "It's just that he's not waking up."
Porthos' smile was weak and his eyes wet as he shrugged.
"He could be the worst slugabed when he chose to be," he said.
Athos tried to smile too, tried to cling onto the optimism Porthos was hanging from but his eyes drifted back to Aramis' face and lingered over the breathing tube. The hiss and click of the ventilator grated on his nerves and he wanted nothing more than to rid of the apparatus that was a testament of his friend's weakness.
"It's helping him,"
He glanced back at Porthos and nodded at his words.
"Still wish he wouldn't need it," his friend added.
Athos pursed his lips and his grip tightened onto the bed railing until his knuckles were as white as the metal they grasped. He closed his eyes against Aramis' lax features and focused on to the steady beat of the heart monitor; the even rhythm hadn't thrown an extra beat for a day now.
The hand on his shoulder surprised him.
When he looked back Porthos motioned with his head towards the paper bag.
"Eat something," he said, "then go home for a bit, I'll sit with him."
It was the Captain's plan, to get the two of them enough rest to keep them functional. Athos didn't want to go back to his residence, just like he had known Porthos hadn't wanted to leave the hospital either. Not until they could be sure that Aramis was awake and recovering. He looked to his brother at his side and saw the same fear in the firm set of his face that was buried in his own heart. That one of them had to keep an eye on Aramis lest he would slip away to where they wouldn't be able to reach him.
Looking back to the gaunt face that was as pale as the pillow it rested on Athos blinked back the stinging in his eyes. He rested the palm of his hand over Aramis' forehead and smoothed a thumb over his eyebrow. The closed eyes didn't so much as twitched and Athos swallowed the rock in his throat.
"Don't stray too far brother," he said.
It was still.
And it was still dark.
Aramis waited, gathered his strength and pushed against the black that gripped his senses. Nothing moved, nothing budged and he felt like a feather stuck in molasses; one that was slowly being dragged along the slow descent of the sticky darkness.
He just knew that what waited for him at the bottom was not good.
He had no idea how he got here and he had no clue wherever this was. But he needed to get out, to breach the surface, to move. Yet the moment he did the darkness moved with him. It crawled up to his neck and beyond, stuck to his eyelids and poured into his ears, up his nose and down his throat until the heavy treacle was in his very veins.
It weighed him down.
Thickened under his skin and made it impossible to move...
...the silver-grey building is quiet in the white landscape; there has been no activity for three out of four days of his recon mission. He lowers the collapsible binoculars, closing the barrels around the hinge in the bridge between them, and deposits it in one of the many pockets of his insulated white trousers.
The wind has picked up speed over the last hours and the flurry of white flecks stick to the clear lenses of his goggles; the chill stings what little of the skin of his face that is exposed. He sits up from where he has been lying on his stomach atop a ledge in the eternal white and cocks his head to the side, focuses on the barely there rumble in the whistling silence of the otherwise undisturbed wind.
Hastening to his feet he looks up at the snow covered slope at his back and throws out a hand to balance himself when his own speed and the lack of oxygen in the air makes him sway. It takes him a second to realize that that is not the only reason for the abrupt bout of vertigo. There is an undercurrent in the packed snow his boots are gripping and he breaks into a quick trudge to the side.
Rushes towards the distant forest to his left even as a resounding crack echoes – cut off by a flap of wings. He glances to the sky as a mourning dove flies out above his head and when he looks back down his heart stutters. Because before him are two boys, grinning and waving at him to follow.
"No," he shakes his head, "No, you're not supposed to be here,"
Because he knows how this story ends, knows where this is, what this mission is. And Athos and Porthos are not with him here – especially Athos and Porthos who are no more than seven years old.
He casts a glance at the incline at his side and it's as if the universe has only been waiting for him to acknowledge it. The rumble becomes louder, the sliding snow obvious under his feet and he speeds up, arms thrown out to reach for the two boys ahead because they have no idea what danger they are in.
He has to get to them, save them.
The avalanche hits him in the side, he is sure he can hear the ribs crack at the impact as his feet slip from under him. But his training kicks in and he is swimming in the cold hard snow, trying to stay on top of it even as he searches for Athos and Porthos. His arms hurt from the exertion but the snow isn't done yet.
It drags him along until he hits a tree. And he reaches above to grab a branch, pulls himself up, sputtering in the cold.
He spots the boys up ahead, motioning for him to hurry up as they walk on over the ever churning snow, the shifting rolling white a steady ground under their little feet. And as his vision whites out he sees a mourning dove flying in their wake...
...the beeping irritated him.
Like an itch at the back of his throat.
He pulled in a breath and choked on it. Something was lodged in his esophagus and he could not breathe, he could not cough it out, there was no air in his starved lungs. Aramis tried to claw at the blockage, to jar it loose but that thick heaviness held on to his limb, kept it down.
He moved his other hand, tried to, but the hot white pain that hit him blacked out everything...
...something pokes him in the side.
"C'mon, c'mon Mum's finally gone to bed," Porthos' voice is strangely close to his ear.
"Get up already Aramis," Athos says.
He wakes up in darkness. It is not the base camp he was expecting for some reason but a sleeping bag in Porthos' room. The wall at his back is solid but the sleeping bag on his other side is empty. A glance beyond in the dim light from the hallway shows the rumpled spaceship spotted bed-sheet but no Porthos.
A coo makes him sit up and he stares at the mourning dove pecking at Athos' sleeping bag. He hisses when pain shoots down his shoulder to his finger tips and he looks down to find it in a sling.
"If you don't hurry up we'll start without you," Porthos warns him from the doorway.
"And then you'll have to guess a password for entrance," Athos adds.
He looks back down at the bird that has flown on top of the bed and watches it escape into the hallway after his friends.
Unzipping the side of his sleeping bag he pushes it aside and gets to his feet, nearly trips over the cushion that had been under his hurt arm and quickly pads after them. They have just gone down the stairs when the door across Porthos' room opens and Mrs. Du Vallon steps out.
He stops.
Knows he's caught out.
But Mrs. Du Vallon does not react like his father, she never has.
His rigid back loosens as she crouches down before him and pulls him in a gentle embrace, one he is learning not to freeze up in.
"I'm sorry," she says as she pulls back, "I'm so sorry darling,"
He shakes his head vigorously, is not comfortable with grownups in general let alone ones apologizing to him.
"I didn't think he would prove his point like this," her hand is warm against the side of his neck, careful to not touch his lightly throbbing shoulder on that side, although her eyes fix onto his arm in the sling, "I shouldn't have confronted him like that."
His hand trembles a little as he reaches out to her, for the first time initiates contact with an adult and wipes at her wet cheek.
" 's not your fault," he says, "it's okay, it's normal, just the way he is."
Because yes, his father has been livid when Mrs. Du Vallon and that twitchy man had left his study; he has been smiling and been polite in a way that had told him that this was coming; but he had done his best not incur more of his father's displeasure when the twitchy man had asked him questions like he was a two years old instead of six.
He wonders if she's mad at him for that and steals a peek. Her lips are pursed and her fingers card through his hair.
It's nice.
Very nice.
If a fractured arm is all the price he has to pay to get permission to spend a few nights with his friends and with this woman who is just so nice, who never calls him Rene – he decides immediately he would pay such a price gladly.
He even smiles when she pulls him in another hug and looks him in the eyes when they pull away again.
"It is not okay Aramis," she says, "the way he is, what he does to you is not okay in anyway. Do you understand that?"
He nods.
She sighs and gets to her feet.
"There's ice cream in the back of the freezer and the chairs by the counter are quite sturdy," she winks at him.
He is grinning when he comes downstairs and goes straight to the treasure trove in the cold. Clutching it with his one good arm he makes his way to the blanket fort aglow from Porthos' camping-light. His gaze flicks to the top of dining table that is functioning as the roof of this fort and the mourning dove there gives him a pause.
Two heads poke out from between the gap in the draped blankets.
"C'mon already Aramis!"
He moves and steps into empty space. Plunges into nothing...
...the beeping would not go away, like a buzzing housefly that just doesn't know when to quit. Aramis wished he could get his hands on a rolled up newspaper to strike it down, just one good swat to shut it up.
"It's a good sign. If he's fighting the vent it means he's good to breathe on his own,"
There was an audible exhale somewhere.
A screech of chair as it protested a sudden weight on it.
"So he'll be waking up soon?"
Porthos sounded like he had the flu.
"Most likely,"
"It's about time,"
There was no heat behind Athos' words.
He wanted to see them, wanted to wipe the away the worry he could read between their words and he wanted a newspaper to end that incessant beeping once and for all...
...he lands hard onto his knees, the arm around his throat choking the breath out him. Dark spots flash in his vision and he wraps one arm around the shin of the man behind him while he puts all his waning strength in his free elbow that rams into the groin of his opponent.
He yanks at the other leg even as the man gasps and curls forwards and pulling in a gasping breath he turns around to deliver a hard blow to his opponent's face. Throws out his hands to break his own fall and breathes, fingers digging into the light padding under them as he forces himself not to gulp down air; his aching chest cannot take that much.
Shaking off the lingering grey edges in his vision he sits back and eyes the man curled slightly onto his side.
"That the best you got?" he rasps.
Marsac rolls onto his back and wipes a hand under his bleeding nose.
"You're a bloody cheater,"
There is no accusation in his voice and when the blue eyes slant towards him there is an amused understanding in them.
"What happened to honour?"
"Went out the window when you challenged a man with a broken rib,"
Marsac sits up, wincing and grimacing as he does.
"The enemy won't care you're injured," he says.
"And the enemy won't care for rules in a fight either,"
Marsac throws back his head and laughs. Leans back on an elbow and reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, a touch that is surprisingly lighter than he had expected.
"You're good kid," he says, "you just might survive out there,"
He shoves his friend away but the retort dies on his lips when he glances across the training mats. There by the door the two boys wait for him, shifting on their feet in impatience and frowning at him. Dark eyes and blue eyes are fixed onto him.
"You're not here," he shakes his head.
"I'm hungry," Marsac announces, "food after shower!"
He stares, from the boys to Marsac then back again at Athos and Porthos. He knows where this is going, knows that after shower his friend will be dragging him to the medical for a check up on his injury, knows the words from the kind doctor as she would scold him for his stupidity and threaten to report him but never will.
He knows this.
"You weren't here," he mutters.
But they wave at him once and then turn around to push open the door. He gets to his feet with a wince, presses an arm against his broken rib and staggers after them. The hallways are empty, not even a recruit is about for him to ask about the little boys who were not supposed to be there – who were not there.
He pauses, wonders if he's going insane.
A soft coo breaks into his thought and he whirls around, catches the fleeting glimpse of a pale brown tail as the bird disappears into the left corridor behind him. He doesn't think, doesn't question anything, he simply breaks into a jog to cover the distance.
Turns around the corner just in time to see the locker room doors at the other end swinging shut...
...there was light, a muted glow at the edge of his consciousness.
He tried to find his way in it, waded in the honeyed glow as he tried to rid himself of the last remnants of confusion clinging to his mind. There was no sense of direction, no pull of gravity as he struggled to breach the horizon. With each clumsy, sluggish step a dull throb pulsed through him. Beat by beat the pain was growing, but like candle wax in the glare of the sun the haze around him was thinning too...
...his jog turns into a sprint and he pushes the metal door open, stops short at the crowd before him. The airport is bustling and a thump on the shoulder from behind nearly topples him face first onto the shiny floor.
"I know it's too early but no need to fall asleep on your feet," Porthos says.
Throws an arm around his neck and drags him along.
"Not when there are chairs to fall asleep in," Athos says.
He looks from one friend to the other, relishes at them flanking him as if nothing had changed in their world. But the bag on Porthos' other shoulder and the whir of wheels of Athos' suitcase behind him is a proof otherwise. He is sixteen, he doesn't need people holding his hand, cannot be selfish by wanting them close.
They are all adults now; they have their own paths to travel, even when they lead them apart.
"Oh cheer up, this volunteer work is only for a two months project," Porthos says, "I'll be back before the session starts at your university."
"And I'll be back the very day of the first set of holidays that comes my way," Athos says, lays a hand on his shoulder, "and there is always the choice of phone calls and e-mails,"
His heart lightens, remembers the promise from last night and he grins. A flutter of wings surprises him to look up and he frowns at the mourning dove, wonders how it even got inside. He reaches to get his friends' attention on it but his hand falls on empty sir.
With a start his attention snaps back.
But his friends are already walking away. He looks from the figures disappearing in the crowd to the bird that swoops low over his head and flies away behind him. He turns in time to see the two little boys whispering to each other by the entrance door. They look to him with bright smiles and wave at him to come closer.
His feet move of their own accord just as the boys walk out of the airport, the mourning dove following them out overhead. But he stops; glances back at the doors of the airport terminal he had seen his friends vanishing beyond. He knows what's coming after this, knows these two won't be returning for years to come and knows the emails that would go un-replied and the phone calls that would go unanswered.
The bird flies back in, lands a little way away from him and dodges the busy feet that pay it no mind. Its dark eyes fix his way. With a shake of his head he walks past the bird and exits the airport, ignores the mourning dove that flies on ahead and turns away from the direction that it had taken...
He looked from the doctor to back at his friend. The slight wheeze in his breathing cut harshly into the silence as the oxygen mask misted with each exhale Aramis managed. The overhead light at the head of the bed had thrown his friend's flushed features in sharp relief, accentuating the shadows under his eyes that were as dark as the eyelashes that fanned over them.
"But he was getting better," Porthos said.
"In his condition an infection is an ever present possibility."
"Is that why he's not waking up?" Athos asked.
His voice sounded small, confused and Porthos laid a hand at the back of his friend's shoulder. It had been seven days since that phone call that had brought them to this hospital, in that time the only sign of consciousness Aramis had shown was a reaction to the tests that the doctor had administered. The voluntary movements had only been a twitch of his fingers and a protest against the breathing tube two days ago.
"He's coming around," Porthos said, "he wanted off the vent remember?"
"That was just a reflex of his lungs working properly again,"
Porthos bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping at the man and his friend's blue eyes widened at the realization of his own words. Athos shook his head slightly and ran a hand through his hair, his chin dropping to his chest as he took a slow breath. Porthos turned to Doctor O'Brian.
"So is this infection the reason?" he asked.
"I'm afraid he had been gradually declining into a coma," Doctor O'Brian said, "our tests this evening showed little reaction to outside stimuli. And this infection is a setback that might push him into a coma completely."
Porthos' eyes narrowed as his hands clenched into fists by his side, his chin raised slightly in defiance.
"He won't – he would –" he cleared his throat, "it's Aramis."
And that was the best reason he knew why his brother would pull through this. Because Aramis was a survivor and he would survive.
"But you need to keep the possibility in mind," Doctor O'Brian said, "If his condition worsens we may have to put him back on the vent."
He was surprised when he heard a chuckle from beside him. Porthos glanced at Athos as the man produced a dry sound somewhere between wonder and derision. Blue eyes lifted to meet the doctor's with just a hint of challenge as the man shifted until his shoulder bumped with Porthos'.
"It's Aramis," Athos said.
Porthos felt an amused upwards tilt to the corner of his own lips as a tired smile graced his friend's features. The Doctor seemed to understand what this was, a fool's hope; but Porthos couldn't explain it to her that it was their fool they held out the hope for and that's what made it so formidable.
The rest of the explanations and medical jargons that came their way were easier to handle with that to hold onto. As the doctor left them for the night Porthos turned back to their friend with a sigh. He let Athos take the nearest chair and rounded the bed to sit on Aramis' other side, crossed his arms before his chest and glared at the unconscious man.
"We are waiting 'Mis," he said, "we're not giving up so you bloody well fight your way out of this."
The lack of reply rang hollow in his heart.
Porthos sat forwards and grasped the limp hand, mindful of the IV stuck to the back of it as he cradled it between both his hands. Refused to acknowledge the prickle in his eyes at the cool skin against his own and let his brow rest against the knuckles that had scabbed over.
"Fight Aramis," he said, "come back to us brother,"
...his eyes remain closed as he rolls onto his back and searches for the mobile phone that buzzes somewhere on his person. Pulls it out of the pocket at the front of the plaid shirt he is wearing and blindly presses it to his ear.
" 'llo,"
"How dare you?"
"Wha –?" he frowns, sits up and wipes at his face.
"What did you tell her?"
"Porthos?"
It has been ten months since he had heard his friend's voice; their last communication was the email he had sent to him about six weeks ago. He rubbed at his eyes and smacked his own face lightly to get himself to focus, Porthos was yelling at him about minding his own business.
"What're you talking about?"
"You told her about the fights!"
There is silence.
His own breath gets lost in his lungs while Porthos breathes heavily. His friend had denied whenever he had asked in the emails but he had suspected even when he had hoped that he was wrong, that his friend was not away on a different continent and pitting himself against others in bets.
"You bloody idiot! Gambling on your life while you're half a world away!" anger flares hot in his veins, "What were you thinking Porthos? Don't you care for your Mum?"
"Oh like you care," Porthos counters, "you told her about it when she can do nothing but worry."
"Then stop being an idiot and tell her that you've come to your senses,"
"She wasn't supposed to know!"
"I didn't tell her!"
"Then why was she asking me if I was doing something I shouldn't?"
"I don't know," it comes out in a whisper.
He draws a hand through his hair and tugs at it; he hadn't told Mrs. Du Vallon what he had read between the lines, had only called out Porthos on it. He hadn't even told her about the silence that had followed that email.
"I've signed up for another project," Porthos says, "I'll be back in two months, just don't go about tattling to Mum,"
The line goes dead.
Lowering the phone he rubs at his face again and wonders if should call Athos, if he could be the one to talk some sense into their friend. His other best friend doesn't receive the call but at least it goes to voice mail instead of his girlfriend, she always sounds distracted when she answers Athos' phone.
"Hey Athos, the same message again in case the last two messages missed you. Call me," he pauses, "it's about Porthos," because he hopes that at least would get Athos to talk to him.
Ending the call he falls back on the bed, curls on his side and chases the sleep that eludes him now. The sound of tapping on glass has him sitting up. Frowning he focuses on the pinkish brown bird at his window; the bird is hopping on the landing of the fire-escape staircase and looks straight back at him.
Something nags at him, taps at the back of his mind like the small beak rapping against his window. The alarm sounds on his phone and he gets up, wonders if the bird would like some bread crumbs and decides to leave out some before he leaves for his class...
...he sank, went under as the cold nipped his skin.
Aramis watched as the light faded, dimmed from gold to dark brown to black. Somewhere there was a sense of wrongness to it but he was tired. Too tired to fight the oblivion seeping over him and he slipped like a pebble to the lakebed...
...Lemay hates him.
He doesn't know why but he intends to enjoy it, likes that he can make the man scowl by a single raised eyebrow and half a smirk. But he isn't smiling, isn't teasing when he finds Lemay wringing his hands at the sight of the unresponsive young woman rolled in by the paramedics.
He pulls him aside when the doctors take over and frowns when the older man doesn't shove off his touch.
"You know her," it's not a question.
Dark eyes shine with unshed tears, there is no denial there.
"It's El, my sister," he blinks and lets the tears fall, "my baby sister,"
He squeezes the shoulder under his grasp and maneuvers the man towards the washroom. The next fifteen minutes he spends listening to Lemay explain his worry for his sibling in between tears and dry heaves.
When he sees a mourning dove fly out the washroom door he thinks nothing of it...
...it was nice in a way.
There was no pain where he was, no worries, no fears.
Just this sense like he was forgetting something...
...it's a small ceremony.
They had driven down to meet her family last week but only her parents are here now. Isabelle has wanted it that way, she is twenty one and has her life planned out to every dot on the i's and every cross on the t's. He is eighteen and he loves her.
Mrs. Du Vallon hugs him after he is officially married; Lemay shakes his hand, huffs and smiles when Aramis pulls him in an embrace instead. There are pieces missing in this picture, dear pieces that had been lost for over a year now and he wonders if he will ever find them again, buried between sofa cushions or tucked in the edge of windowpanes...
...the silence remained.
The darkness did not.
Like a scene out of some disaster movie a cold, freezing white rolled out under his feet, washed over him in a gust and smoothed out around him...
...he rises from the snow like the dead from their grave. Gasps and struggles until he can crawl out of the small white tomb he had been in. Moving on his hands and knees he tries to catch his breath that lances in his chest with each inhale and exhale. Sits back on his heels and braces the cracked ribs in his side as he forces himself to calm down. He shivers despite the insulated clothes and wiping at his goggles he looks around to see what remains around him after the avalanche.
There by the tufts of treetops that crop out of the snow are the two boys, pointing and waving as they stare back at him.
Athos and Porthos.
The names echo in his mind like words from a lost folktale.
Porthos and Athos.
Names that stir like dust motes in the corners of his memory.
A loud coo follows the sound of wings cutting the air and he watches the bird swoop low towards the young ones. And Aramis runs after it, slipping and falling and staggering back up in the loose snow. He keeps his eyes fixed onto the bird that is following the two boys.
He runs until his chest hurts and dark spots flash in his vision. He runs until his ears are filled with the noise of birds cooing and scratching and pecking and flapping their wings in lazy irritation. He runs until he stops with a gasp; bends over to catch his breath and finds himself in the room at his father's house.
He looks around at the open cages and the large flock of mourning doves filling the room.
It hits him then that in his excitement he had forgotten to open the window, the birds can't fly away if there is no way out of the room. But the window ledges are set higher than his head and the latch is even higher. Looking about he spots the upturned silver pail by the far wall and shooing away the winged creatures he makes his way over.
The door bursts open then.
In the swarm of flapping wings he catches sight of his father too late. The man is already standing over him and the fist to the side of his face drops him to the floor.
–Marsac is cursing in his ear as he pulls at him, drags him into the trees. He blinks against the sticky warmth clinging to the side of his face –
–his eye hurts as he gets to his feet dizzily and pushes the pail towards the first window. The birds fly out of his way and he stops only when the pail hits the wall and clambers on top of it. Rises on his toes and pushes the latch open –
–Marsac shakes his head, grabs his chin to make him catch the blue eyes roving over his face.
"There's nothing we can do to help them," he says.
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move again, loses his footing as the entire world lurches and he shoots out a hand to find his balance against a tree.
"Damnit Aramis stop!" –
– but he doesn't. There is no time before his father comes back, or sends one of the staff to put the birds back in their cages.
He hops down from the pail when the second window is pushed open and runs at the mourning doves, flapping his arms about and whooping at them to make them take flight. The birds scatter, fly and slide against the walls that hold no footing for them to perch on. He screams at them, yells at them to fly away.
Laughs when the first bird lands on the window ledge, urges the rest to follow and watches with wonder as they take to the blue open air.
And then the first shot rings out –
– "There's no one left to help Aramis," says Marsac.
Twenty men dead, murdered, slaughtered, his jaw clenches to keep down the rising bile.
Twenty friends gone. –
–he balances on the pail even as shot after shot rings out; watches with the eye not swollen shut as his father brings down the fleeing birds. Blood and death rains from the sky –
–he is on his knees when the muzzle of a weapon presses against him. Piercing blue eyes look down at him in contempt –
–balling his hands into fists he runs out of the room, down the stairs, out the front door and into the garden –
–the side of his face is pressed against the snow on the ground, he blinks to clear the haze in his vision and catches the flash of bright green as Marsac's ID tags fall –
–he stands alone in a garden littered with dead mourning doves –
–he lies alone in a clearing littered with dead soldiers –
...the pain clamped down on his shoulder, buried its teeth in his flesh and scraped at the bone.
He gasped and tried to escape, arched his back right off the surface it had lain upon as a shrill screech filled the air. Hands held him down, voices flew above his head and Aramis opened his eyes.
TBC
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