Aramis
The sight made him freeze on the threshold. He couldn't see d'Artagnan's face, buried in the folds of Athos' shirt, but when the latter raised his head so abruptly that Aramis feared for his vertebrae, his expression was so devastated that … Please, God, no, please !
"Thanks God, Aramis, you are here." Athos whispered in a weak hoarse voice.
He should have stepped into the room, he should have thrown himself to his friends' side but he couldn't. His legs were so heavy. He had failed them all. Once more he had let someone die. Athos had an unreadable expression, his right eyebrow raised in a silent question, a circumflex accent standing out on his pale forehead and Aramis stared at him, unable to talk, unable to move. Porthos pushed him sideways with an irritated grunt to reach the bed.
"How is he?" He murmured calmly, kneeling next to Athos and laying a hand on d'Artagnan's neck.
"How is he ?" Athos asked with a nod towards Aramis.
Oh! Me?
"Aramis? Are you hurt?"
This voice. D'Artagnan's voice, raspy, muffled, but d'Artagnan's voice. Then another voice, both amused and irritated.
"Aramis, are you waiting for leaves to grow on your arms? Have you taken roots?"
Porthos.
The third voice had a commanding tone which awoke him.
"Aramis, we need help. Now!"
Athos. Captain Athos!
"I … I thought …" He stammered, shaking himself and running a hand through his muddy wet hair.
D'Artagnan was looking at him and it seemed that he had been looking at him for a while given his worried expression. The young man wasn't at his best but he was alive. Alive!
"You … you are not …"
"Not dead." D'Artagnan replied managing a small smile, disentangling himself from Athos' hold and wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, Athos." He whispered receiving a deep nod from his Captain who sat back at the foot of the bed.
D'Artagnan winced and grimaced and groaned but he managed to straighten.
"I'm not dead but I think you will have to work your magic ..." He said with an apologetic look.
"The boy …"
"Porthos!" D'Artagnan exclaimed sending a dark look at his friend.
Even Athos' lips twitched. He had missed those exchanges between his friends and for half a second it alleviated the grief which had crushed them.
"The Gascon …, " Porthos resumed with a wink. "would like to have one of your beautiful embroideries on his back because our dear friend Grimaud mistook him for a rat."
Aramis gasped and brought a hand to his mouth, taking a step back.
"Aramis?" Porthos whispered.
Rats … He had seen rats years before… rats crawling in the snow, rats biting, rats squeaking, rats chasing ravens much bigger than them to have the best part of bodies …of dead friends. He had tried to frighten them, with a stick, screaming until his voice abandoned him and now they were back, undulating dark furr in the corners of the room. He had to protect his friends, his fallen …
"Aramis!"
Athos…
He stepped back and when he hit the doorframe he let himself slide down against it.
"Porthos, what's happening? Athos? Did we say something wrong?"
D'Artagnan…
Aramis wrapped his arms around his bent legs and tried to silence the world, silence the memories. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, on his blood which he almost felt, if not heard, flowing through his veins. He knew that his friends were watching him. Judging him …
Hands on his shoulders, warm breath on his temple.
"Aramis, calm down, you just have to breathe." A rumbling deep voice murmured in his ear.
A hand on his nape, bringing his forehead against a shoulder, long silky hair brushing the side of his neck, smell of sweat, dry blood and leather.
"Shh. We need you. Calm down."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't." Athos chided gently. "You are back with us now?"
Aramis nodded against Athos' shoulder before pushing him rather abruptly almost making him fall. He was ashamed of his own childish behaviour, still shivering from the images his mind had brought back. His friends watched, amazed, as, like a curtain is drawn back over a precious painting whose sight could overwhelm the beholder or betray the artist's deepest secrets, a marble mask of professional concentration and determination hid Aramis' emotions. He took in a deep shuddering breath and clenching his fists, he strode towards the bed.
Porthos
Porthos shook his head and held a hand to Athos who stood up with a grunt. They looked at each other recognising in the other's eyes the worry they felt for their friends.
"Roll over."
Aramis' voice didn't hold its usual warmth. D'Artagnan looked at him with a frown but obeyed immediately. Porthos stood behind Aramis, watching each movement, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth a grim line, a mixture of worry and anger in his dark eyes. Athos squeezed his elbow before kneeling next to the headboard, grimacing when Aramis prodded at the wound with nothing of his usual delicacy.
"Porthos, you are blocking the light!" Aramis exclaimed harshly.
Porthos and Athos looked at each other again and d'Artagnan turned his head slightly, trying to understand what was happening over his back. Porthos stepped sideways, enough to see Aramis' profile, and, noticing that even like that the light wasn't bright enough, he took a candle and brought it closer, earning an irritated sigh from Aramis. As used as he was to Aramis' contradictions, Porthos couldn't understand how his best friend's mind worked. His own mind was as straight as a bridge. One way, two sides. Porthos chose one option or the other but he always moved on, never losing sight of his goal. Aramis' mind was a forest with a maze of paths, some lit by a blinding sun, some dark as a well, some pleasantly shadowy and Aramis… Aramis always stood at a junction, uncertain, balancing between light and darkness, weighing the good and evil, caught in the brambles of his conscience...
A moan escaping d'Artagnan's mouth made Porthos jump and the flame flickered, a shower of melted wax landing on the floor and Aramis' arm.
"Can't you just stop moving?" Aramis hissed between clenched teeth.
A heavy silence followed. Porthos froze, d'Artagnan turned towards him a little more, his neck at an uncomfortable angle, holding his breath and Athos, in his usual quiet and discreet way, raised a calming hand. His eyes met his friend's and he held the anxious and angry gaze.
"How bad is it?" He asked gently, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper while his fingers gingerly closed around Aramis' wrist.
Aramis looked at him with an obvious question in his dark shining eyes. How bad is…
Oh!
"Aramis, my back, does it need stitches or … worse?" d'Artagnan asked wincing at the thought of a white-hot blade on his already burning skin.
A few seconds passed, then a shaky laugh left Aramis' mouth.
"Nothing, Charles…"
Porthos snickered expecting an outraged rebuke from d'Artagnan who hated being called by his first name, but nothing came. Maybe the young man was too tired to notice or he was relieved to see their friend back with them.
"Nothing at all. I will just apply a substantial amount of honey then I will bandage it."
"Oh no, please no honey. I will feel even more sticky than I have felt since we left the..."
"I think the boy prefers a white-hot blade." Porthos laughed, voicing d'Artagnan's earlier fear and interrupting the course of his thoughts. Thoughts that none of them wanted to have for now.
A throaty sound from Athos surprised them. It was the closest to a laugh he could utter but it relaxed them all.
"Let me fetch my honey salve." Aramis said already running down the stairs.
"Flying from bourdon* to bee in less than a second, this one." Porthos laughed quietly, a laugh still tinged with bitterness.
Athos shook his head, his long hair swaying like a curtain which barely managed to hide a fond small smile. As soon as Aramis had stood up, Athos had kept his hand mid-air. He looked at it with a frown as if wondering how to use it now. When d'Artagnan stiffened, closed his eyes and moaned under the attack of a wave of pain, Athos laid it on the young man's shoulder, unconsciously moving his thumb over the sweaty skin, his eyes still fixed on the dark staircase where Aramis had disappeared.
oooo0000O0000ooo
D'Artagnan
He awoke with a gasp, his throat dry, his forehead sweating where it was pressed against something warm... leather... A uniform? He was on his left side, his nose buried in something rough smelling vaguely of soot and mould … the bed, then. A hand, cool on his skin, made a few slow circles on his back before retreating. Opening eyelids which seemed glued, was something that he was loath to do but at the same time he felt a strong need to see, to recognise his surroundings, to check that they were still here with him. He cursed his feverish state which made him weak and childish. The warm leather moved against his forehead.
"Do you want to change position, are you in pain?"
D'Artagnan growled a response whose meaning was lost to Athos. The young man felt the hand again on his skin.
"Do you want to drink something?"
"Mgnnnn."
"Well, I will try to translate this." Athos whispered with a smile.
"Wgnna… t... sssit …mmhh."
"Perhaps you should open your eyes before…"
D'Artagnan sighed and raised a hand to his eyes but a pain that his feverish sleep had made him forget for a few blissful hours, elicited a moan. When Athos moved and left the edge of the narrow bed where it seemed that he had spent the beginning of the night, the young man lost his balance and could have fallen head first over the bed frame if Athos' voice hadn't warned him.
"Don't move…"
D'Artagnan stopped struggling with himself and waited patiently. His eyes still firmly closed, he listened to the sounds, water sloshing in the basin, pots clinging on the table, the familiar rustle of Athos' leathers… until a cool wet cloth covered his eyes.
"It will help." Athos said gently, a hand at the back of the young man's skull, the other keeping the cloth in place.
"How do you know about …"
Athos snorted.
"Long experience of difficult awakenings."
The cloth and the hand disappeared and d'Artagnan was surprised to be able to open his eyes easily. Athos helped him to sit up, folded a blanket to put between his back and the wall and made him lean his head against the moist stone.
"How are you feeling?" He asked then before suddenly smiling, a fond smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours, days.
"What?"
"You have the folds of my uniform printed on your forehead."
D'Artagnan smiled and, Athos wasn't sure, blushed… Twenty three years old, a married warrior but to Athos' eyes he was still the fearless boy who had wanted to kill him and to save him at the same time, years before…
"So, how are you feeling?"
"Sore… but better."
D'Artagnan frowned suddenly.
"Where are the others? How long did I sleep?"
"First question: taking care of the horses and … talking, I suppose. Second question: two hours."
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"I thought …" D'Artagnan stopped, thinking. "Ath …"
At the same time, Athos whispered…
"D'Arta …"
They laughed quietly. Athos sat down again next to his friend who shifted to leave him more space.
"Athos, I'm sorry. I should have …" D'Artagnan began in a wobbly dry voice.
"Yes, you should have…" Athos interrupted handing him a cup of water.
D'Artagnan noticed then that Athos had found a few useful things in the house. Two chipped cups, a jug, more rags.
"You don't even know what I was about to say …"
"That you should have told us about your wound, maybe." Athos said softly, leaning his shoulder against his young friend's in a brotherly gesture.
"And I shouldn't have come here to hide in this ruin… I'm sorry."
"And you shouldn't have tried to ruin it even more by burning it and you shouldn't have frightened me… us... to death … but … apologies accepted." Athos murmured squeezing his friend's knee. "My turn …I … knew something was wrong… I knew you were wounded... I didn't know where or how but I knew ...and I fled…"
"You what?" D'Artagnan asked bewildered. "When?"
Athos sighed and bent his legs to circle them with his arms. D'Artagnan noticed then that he had taken off his boots probably in order to walk silently across the room while he slept.
"When we … on the road … I told you that I had to prepare the … to warn the palace … But I think that … deep down, it was a pretext."
D'Artagnan felt him tremble so he leant a little more heavily against him. Athos continued.
"We have lost … we … we are all orphans… again … in a way." His voice broke slightly on the word orphan . "I have been selfish, I couldn't bear to ride beside his body, I had to…"
"To grieve alone…" D'Artagnan finished. "To hide your …"
"I have nothing to hide." Athos replied harshly.
D'Artagnan froze and slowly moved away from his friend but Athos gripped his wrist.
"Please, don't… You don't understand…"
"You think I don't understand this feeling ?" D'Artagnan asked a hint of bitterness in his voice.
"No, I mean …" Athos began, squeezing his friend's wrist even more forcefully. "I mean that … Oh, God, I can't find the words…"
D'Artagnan covered his fingers with his right hand, his breath hitching when the movement pulled on his wound. Athos swallowed convulsively and looked at the ceiling. D'Artagnan squeezed his fingers one last time before letting go and Athos used his now free hand to cover his eyes and frantically rub at them. His friend watched him with an increasing anxiety, wishing Porthos were here with his rough comforting words and gestures, or Aramis with his soft velvety voice and his understanding eyes. He wanted to help, to say something, but his own grief threatened once more to suffocate him. Oh! How he understood Athos! How he understood the feeling of loss, of emptiness, when in his mind, Tréville's face had his father's features and the memory of both their deaths hurt in the same way; when his heart told him that he could have saved them, both of them; when his heart told him that he had failed, even if a small part of his mind told him that he could have done nothing, this part of his mind which had been healed by his friends through the years he had spent with them.
"We are alone, you don't have to hide them from me …" He tried hesitantly.
"Hide what?" Athos snorted bitterly. "I have nothing to hide ... I wish I had …"
D'Artagnan shivered at the realisation. Athos wanted to grieve, wanted his body to expel all this sorrow, all this pain, all these memories.
"You are tired, you should sleep."
"I … just … "
"Please, lie down. There is enough room for two."
Athos stood up abruptly and went to the window, leaning heavily on the frame, his forehead hitting the broken pane, once, twice before he suddenly admitted...
"No … I can't."
With a grimace, d'Artagnan managed to stand up and he joined his friend, his right arm curled against his belly, his hand tucked in his belt. The thick layer of honey, a present from Aramis, had started to melt underneath the bandage and made each movement increasingly uncomfortable. Staying barely a foot behind Athos, he hesitated. He wasn't sure that, in his state, his captain would appreciate a physical contact so he just waited, a reassuring presence. Had Athos even heard him approach? He wasn't certain, until the man spoke.
"I can't sleep. I tried when you were asleep, but …"
"Try again, please, you look …"
D'Artagnan stopped, because he couldn't find the right adjective to describe Athos. He simply looked dead on his feet, but he couldn't use -or even think of- such an expression, but it was Athos' reaction which startled him and made him man turned around as if he had had no idea of his friend's presence until this moment. His wide clear eyes showed so much sadness that d'Artagnan felt his own sorrow come back with even more strength. It had always been here, of course, somewhere, but he had unconsciously put it aside, too overwhelmed by his physical pain, then, selfishly basking in the warmth of the friendship which had surrounded him, in spite of the obvious tension between his friends. His mind had been too tired to try to understand what was happening between Porthos and Aramis, too tired to try to understand Athos' suffering, but now, he had to reverse the roles. He had to try and help his friends, at least Athos, because he knew the other two well enough to assume that their apparent disagreement wouldn't last until morning. He raised his left hand towards Athos, but stopped mid air. Invading Athos' space wasn't a good move.
"If you can't sleep, then, rest. Just lie down or sit somewhere… well, not in the chair, it's too dangerous… but…"
"Go to bed." Athos cut him trying and -failing- to sound authoritarian.
D'Artagnan wished he could have crossed his arms over his chest to give more force to his next sentence.
"I will go back to bed as soon as you agree to lie down too. I want to go home and I need to rest before leaving this ruin, so…"
Athos stared, as rigid as a statue and as if they were made of stone, his eyes were empty and unseeing, as if his friend, standing so close to him, was no more than a veil of mist. D'Artagnan waited patiently, even if his wound hurt in spite of the whole pot of honey which leaked from underneath the bandage, even if his legs shook from exhaustion, even if his eyes burnt from… everything. Athos took a step backward and when he hit the wall behind him, he leant heavily against the dusty crumbling plaster. D'Artagnan took a step forward, gingerly, his dark eyes never leaving the pale irises.
"Tell me." He tried gently.
"I … I can't … I… don't know how .. I…"
His voice was barely audible. D'Artagnan took one more step towards hims. Athos flinched but couldn't recoil, he just lowered his gaze, waiting. He didn't have to wait too long. His friend put a hand under his elbow, gently and when Athos didn't escape, he guided him towards the bed.
"Really, Athos, I need to sit down for a moment. Let's talk on this … vestige of a bed."
He was surprised when Athos didn't resist, sat down beside him with an exhausted sigh and started talking, his words scattered like a handful of pebbles.
"I … just … can't … can't close ... my … my eyes." **
"But why ?"
"I ... " He stopped, frowning, thinking. "The images I see."
It was a whisper, a dry sob, an admission full of shame and despair. D'Artagnan stayed quiet for a while, then brushing his hand against his friend's arm, he murmured.
"I'm here."
To be continued ...
Notes: *avoir le bourdon : to brood/ to mope
bourdon=drone
**reference to my other story "He hasn't touched a drop."